Seven Devils

A hole wants filling.

That’s the lesson of Luke 11:24-26.

There are holes in my autumn life that did not exist during the long, slow days of summer, which found their fulfillment in hiking and poetry and concerts underneath the stars. I work best when I have vast expanses of time, time untethered to appointments that require showing up and speaking up and pretending to be glad about it. I work best when I have spontaneity, plans  rather than commitments, options and opportunities rather than obligations.

Mindless consumption: of food, television, the internet. A hole wants filling.

I’ve been thinking about the discipline of the daily, which is a topic I return to from time to time. Christianity offered me — demanded of me — certain rituals that I have not replaced. What takes the place of daily devotional reading, meditation, and prayer? I know myself to be intelligent and brave … but too often the only evidence is internal. What have I produced that I can point to? What have I built? What am I building? And then … is that really the way I want to measure my life?

“What do I want my life to look like?” I ask myself, and picture that house in the woods in the San Juan Islands, filled with sunlight and literature, surrounded by green and that feeling you get —  that feeling I used to get — when Sabbath is coming, and it’s time to rest, to be a human being rather than a human doing.

“What do I want today to look like?” I ask myself, and make the excuse, as I turn on the television, that it’s a useless question. Whatever I want my day to look like, it won’t look like that, because I have committed to showing up and speaking up and pretending to be glad about it.

Valentine is half-napping in the sun. She would like today to look like a long walk with me-its-momma, and some quality time off-leash, mud puddles to roll in, something to chase, and then supper, and more napping. I could make that happen for her. I have just enough time.

 

 

The Rule

Which comes first, the practice, or the rule? I was reading a good book by an Australian author. A really good book, dark and painful and lovely. But a hundred pages into the 400+ page tome, she introduced a brand new character — what felt like a brand new story — in first person, no less. And she lost me, just|like|that.

Where did this rule come from? The thing I value most in stories is character, and a consistent point of view. Plot, while important (obvio) is low on the list. So when an author changes it up on me,  I tend to lose interest in the tale altogether, and I reach for something else entirely.