A Nest of Dryness

I began this blog to document my spiritual journey, consecrated to the Sacred Heart.  Starting with zeal, I find myself already sputtering out and going flat.  I had promised to set myself apart for holy use, to give my life to divine purpose.  And now… ho-hum, befuddled.  I’m just not feeling it.  So go all devotions, commitments to creativity and vows of love.  Losing the sweetness of the spark, dim dullness creeping in, I am tempted to just wander away aimlessly and grope about for some cheaper thrill.  Temptation lives in desert spots.  But I will not be moved.  I will not lose heart.  For I know that this path is the way of great saints, artists, lovers… the path of holiness.

Being human, I am bound to be an earthly creature dependent upon this spinning sphere orbiting its sun.  The pattern of my life is the ebb and flow of tides, the growth cycle of deciduous trees, the hibernation of bears.  The way is not to mourn the ebbs, the winters, or the dormition, but, rather, to feast in the seasons of plenty, gathering up the knowledge and memory of abundance in my heart so as to keep the ember of hope from going out, even when the fire is gone.  And so, I am now dutifully preparing a nest of dryness for the kindling of my delight.

Maranatha.

Dormant; not forsaken.

Anticipating; not forgetting, not forlorn.

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My mother lights the candles in the growing circle of the Advent wreath and I await rebirth.  Maranatha.  In the midst of dark December, in the midst of dung and hay, come Lord Jesus, come.