It would be so much easier—and, God knows, more pleasant and comfortable—to close my notebook and move over to the couch to read books that take me away from myself. Journaling when I'm in this frame of mind is rarely uplifting and often smacks of self-pity or self-absorption. But I wonder if there aren't bubblings beneath the surface, thoughts and fears I use reading to suppress, that might effervesce into the light if I take a moment, pay attention, and give them a chance.
My old friend darkness is edging in. Again. It always does as winter approaches, dragging both pain and sadness behind it. The other day I asked God, "How many times in my life am I supposed to go through this?"
Does writing about it make it worse?
Of course, the dark times are when I experience a greater need for God and cry out to Them most desperately and sincerely. So there's that.
Still, the child of God I want to be and the child I God I am are so very far apart. (Or is it the child of God I think I'm supposed to be and the child of God I am? I honestly don't know.)
I can't forget contemplation. By that I mean, I can't entirely shrug off the idea that contemplative is a very good way to live and a good way to be. But my interest seems distant, my desire a degree or two below lukewarm. I think it was Merton who said contemplation is a gift. Yeah. (I just looked it up.) He said contemplation is a gift, a theological grace, not a psychological trick that can be achieved through techniques. Well, I don't think I've been given this particular gift, at least not yet. The only thing I've experienced so far during my nightly (that would be 200 nights and counting) 10-minute sit is hope that the bell will ring soon.
Am I trying to put the blame for my own spiritual poverty on God? Or am I simply acknowledging the fact that these virtues—sincere delight in God and contemplation—are gifts only God can give? Again, I honestly don't know, but I always suspect my own heart.
Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds; and to him who knocks the door will be opened. Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for fish, will give him a snake? If you who are evil know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good things to those who ask Him!
Do I have faith enough to believe this? And if I do, will my asking, seeking, and knocking be sincere enough or my motives pure enough? (Merton's assertion that with God a little sincerity goes a long, long way gives me hope.) As it stands, I can only ask as who I am, right now, with whatever faith I have right now—not as who I might wish I could be. I'll have to leave heart changes up to God.
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