In the Desert

I'm reading this book.

I could probably start 99.9999 (repeating)% of my blog posts with that sentence.  :o)

Anyway, it is called In the Sanctuary of Women: A Companion for Reflection and Prayer by Jan L. Richardson.

It is a good read, but it's not a "knock it off in an afternoon" kind of book.  It's one of those where I read a few pages, and then go back and read them again.  It's full of green highlighter and lots of notes in the margins.

It's a combination of history, theological reflection, and storytelling.  And peppered throughout the book are Ms. Richardson's poems and prayers.

Maybe that's what makes it hard to read.  The poetry.

I'm a prose kind of girl.

Unless it's Dr. Seuss or Shel Silverstein, most poetry is over my head.

But I came across this one when I was reading yesterday.  As I read, I thought, "This woman has a hidden camera trained on my life."

Because this is exactly how I feel these days.


Dreaming in the Desert

It must be at least
eighty degrees already this morning.
Spring has barely begun,
which bodes ill
for the summer to come.
I can already feel my energy leaking out into the heat;
air conditioning barely stems
the lethargy that steals in and
pins me to my bed
most of the morning,
lulls me into reading
the next page of a book,
and the next
and the next
as I linger over breakfast
and then,
shortly after,
lunch.

I have read the desert mothers
and fathers
and so I know this is what
they called acedia:
weariness, listlessness,
lack of care.

Abba Evagrius called it
the noonday demon.

Amma Synclectica said
it was a sprit that must be cast out
mainly with prayer and psalmody.

And so I keep to my psalms
morning and night,
a thread in the fabric
of my fluid days,
though it will feel,
as summer oozes forward,
more and more like trying to stitch water together.

What would they have done,
I wonder,
thosoe ammas and abbas
blazing in the desert,
if they had known of
mint juleps and
wraparound porches,
ice cream and
swimming pools?

What would they have made
of ceiling fans
while cool jazz plays,
of Southern tea,
of chocolate shakes?

If the desert folk
had dreamed these things,
as I do
in these draining days,
would they
have uttered exorcisms,
chanted prayers for deliverance,

or
with the wisdom burned into them
by sun and desert sand,
would they have
for a moment
licked their lips,
closed their eyes,
and breathed
on low and longing
sigh?


Blessing

In the desert,
in the draining days
as wearying nights,
may delight find its way to you.