Revisioning the World Outside

Two eggnog lattes from Allegro's, two days in a row, and something weird is happening in my head and in my closet. I've started digging: specifically, at my old college binders. I once lamented that when college finally ended, all that I would really have to show for it would be these flimsy little folders- now that I've rediscovered them, however, they seem quite adequate, in fact a little overwhelming if truth be told.

So many wild, obsessive feelings I charged through, belting my findings to anyone who would stand still. I wrote a piece of creative nonfiction almost every semester, a tedious blow-by-blow commentary of my world of faith and life, all my doubts about religion and my woundedness re: old boyfriends, well-meaning professors, the godhead, etc, etc...

And journals! Five my sophomore year alone! And I only started December first. Which is today, four years ago. Amazing.

As I skim through it all, I can't help but wonder what has changed. Of course, I'm still spilling my guts and sloughing through my faith and feelings. I have become a teensy bit less religious, but I have also become a teensy bit less engaged also, so its quite hard to know for sure.

In October of my senior year, 2007, I visited a monastery and had to write a paper about it. My eyes were immediately drawn to that particular piece simply because of my recent (and bizarre?!?!) longing to join up as quickly as possible. But, surprise. I write:

"In many ways, the monastic life is drastically uncomfortable for a young female student like me. I am fascinated by their historic emergence, and intrigued by the ascetic lifestyle, but I am also bothered and muddled with unbidden visceral response: confusion, envy, resentment, and also a curious desire to belong. I have found existence on the outside to be troublesome, often rocky, always chaotic, but richly rewarding and graceful above and over all things: authentic at the very least. The cloistered life of the monks, however, feels safe, too safe and my skin prickles each time I hear them talking about their calling to 'come apart' from the world, to change their names, to exchange their goods and to don the cloaks and habits that mark their separation."

This passage makes me feel about myself the way one might feel about an elderly family member who keeps forgetting your name. Dear old thing, you might think and pat her sweetly on the head. What business did I have summing up "life on the outside" as if there is a homogeneous non-monk experience? No wonder I found life "troublesome, chaotic, but richly rewarding and... authentic..." I lived in a tiny college town, for crying out loud, in southern IL in a cornfield. I never drank; I hardly knew anyone who did. 90% of the people I interacted with on a daily basis believed the same basic things I did about the world. And I was skeptical of the monastery!! As if my place wasn't just as safe!

And now, in this big crazy (is it even that big?) city, alone as a fish in an aquarium, I can't help but ask, what the devil is so bad about being safe? Bring on the cloisters! Bring on the bells!

I used to weigh the merits of a life lived within the rhythms of prayers. Sure, its good for you to attend morning, afternoon and evening prayer, I thought to myself. It keeps you safe from the tendency to forget about God or forget about those who are in need. It reminds you of what you believe in; it reminds you of things you should do. But now something very different tugs at my subconscious and causes me to long for prayer with my entire being. What I didn't understand in college is that life is not safe- but not because you might die or get so sad that you curse God or break the law. Life is unsafe because all you really have to do is try and pay the bills and get some food and sleep. You can so easily stumble from place to place, seek your comfort, and watch the years pound on and on and on. Hobbies, skills, people to meet at parties, these are all wonderful things. But we are more than comfort-seekers as human beings; we are meaning-makers also.

I'm not necessarily talking about our specific Christian religious stuff: there is a God, and that's how the world was made, etc. I'm referring to the most foundational of meanings, for example: the sun at this particular position means its morning; this morning means its Sunday; this Sunday is Easter Sunday. Without order of some sort, I've learned firsthand that morning can be noon- it can be 4AM. Thursday can be 'your Sunday,' and Easter is just another day to bump up our orders at the grocery store. I'm not trying to say that Christianity is the only means through which to make meaning of our time or that working at the store is not a noble, fine profession. But I have discovered that these are the central issues at work when I miss prayer or the rhythms of my life throughout college. And I love and miss Christianity for this same very odd reason: because it saves you from floating, working just to pay (and sometimes not pay) your loans, electricity and rent, and then coming home to crash until work requires you show up again.

I want to act as if I believe work is valuable in and of itself, whether I'm on the track or cleaning shelves or coaching with Girls on the Run. So I'm reconsidering how I see her now. I'm thinking about grad school, and I'm not putting away those old flimsy folders just yet...