I want to write a post here today. A "snapshot" of what's happening in my cloister right now. But oh, I feel so lazy. Tired, mentally sluggish, and very, very lazy.
Which IS (when I think of it) a snapshot of what's happening in my cloister right now.
I just saw a thumbnail picture of one of our earlier garden posts, and thought "I could write about gardens!" My enthusiasm for that lasted about nine seconds.
The truth is: I feel lifeless today. Lifeless about writing, lifeless about praying, lifeless about thinking. My tiny burst of enthusiasm seems to have popped out, had a quick look around, and rushed back underground. The "cloister garden" feels bare, unproductive, stark.
Turning my attention to the window beside me, I see that I am surrounded by sticks. Skinny bare branches reach halfway up the glass. In summer we call that clump of dark gray lines a "bush." Today it seems a strange word for what I see before me, a lush green word from an unknown foreign tongue.
If I had not experienced seasons, if I hadn't watched this bush drop leaves and wither every autumn,
and then burst forth with tender shoots each spring, I cannot imagine holding hope of green ... ever again.
The appearance of lifelessness is far from the truth.
"O my Lord, I am in a dry land, all dried up and cracked by the violence of the north wind and the cold; but as You can see, I ask for nothing more. You will send me both dew and warmth when it pleases You." (St. Jane de Chantal)
Painting: Julius von Klever, 1906