When My Eyes Are Heavy

'My dearest Jesus, look with pity on me, your poor, weak child. My heart is cold, and my eyes are heavy; I really cannot pray, for I am so tired I can scarcely keep awake. 

You, too, were often weary during Your life on this poor earth of ours, so I know You understand just how I feel. Lord, if You will, You can keep me wide awake when I long to talk to You. 

You know I really do love You, and want You to set my heart aflame with a love so strong and tender, that even while my eyes close and my head droops and a drowsiness overpowers me, I shall find comfort in the thought that I am struggling and working for You.'

(from The Living Pyx of Jesus by A Religious, Pelligrini, 1941, pp.383-384)

But a Great Gain

'To persist 
in prayer without returns, 
this is not time lost, but a great gain. 
It is endeavour without thought of self  
and only for the glory of the Lord.'

St. Teresa of Avila

Painting: Nicola Consoni

In Dryness

The Power of Aridity

Revisiting My Dry Garden

Monasteries are not drought-proof.  When skies close up and rains no longer soak the ground, monastery fields and gardens are no less subject to dryness than are any other plots of land.

The monastery of the heart is not drought-proof, either.  Sometimes we feel as if our souls are barren, lifeless, parched.  There are days when our prayers seem to go nowhere, times when we feel that God Himself has left the universe to dry up and wither to dust.

If we’ve ever felt this way, we are not alone.  “I could neither pray nor read,” wrote St. Teresa of Avila about one such experience, “but there I remained, for hours and hours together, uneasy in mind and afflicted in spirit on account of the weight of my trouble, and of the fear that perhaps after all I was being tricked by the devil, and wondering what in the world I could do for my relief.  Not a gleam of hope seemed to shine upon me from either earth or heaven; except just this: that in the midst of all my fears and dangers I never forgot how Our Lord must be seeing the weight of all I endured….”

So:  we’re not alone in having such experiences.  But what do we do about them?

I have found that the saints help in this kind of challenge.   

"If you do nothing else the whole time of prayer than bring your heart back and put it beside Our Lord, although each time you do so it turns away from Him, your hour will be very well employed.” (St. Francis de Sales) 

"His will is, that entering into prayer, we should be prepared to suffer the pain of continual distractions, dryness and disgust, which may come upon us, and that we should remain as constant as if we had enjoyed much peace and consolation.  It is quite certain that our prayer will be none the less pleasing to God nor less useful to ourselves, for having been made with difficulty.” (St. Francis de Sales)

This is a repost from our archives. It is linked to Reconciled To You and Theology Is A Verb for 'It's Worth Revisiting Wednesday.'  

© N Shuman.  
thecloisteredheart.org       

Have Mercy On Me!

                   'There are times, bitter times, full of doubt and despair,
                   when we almost abandon the language of prayer.
                   When our lips and our hearts scarcely venture to frame
                   even His, our dear Master's own merciful Name.
                   When Mary, our Mother, seems deaf to our cry
                   and angels and saints seem too far and too high.
                   O! When God in His wisdom such moments shall send,

                   let one cry from our lips in His Presence ascend,       
                   a cry full of anguish, yet trust let it be -
                   O Thou Who has made me,
                   have mercy on me!'

by 'A Religious,' LISTENING TO THE INDWELLING PRESENCE, Pellegrini, Sydney, pp. 217-218

Painting: M Nesterov, The Nightingale is Singing 1918, in US public domain due to age

Holding Hope of Green

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.

But green is there. Life is there. Somewhere deep inside, safe from ice encrusted winter, life is there. Dormant, huddled, swaddled life. Plants need their seasons of dormancy as much as they need the warmth and sunlight of summer. When they seem totally barren, the sticks outside my window are in fact protecting life.

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

Hope for the New Year

'Never fear 
that your past faults 
and infidelities 
will prevent you reaching 
the degree of union 
that God intends for you; 
in an instant 
He can repair all that.'

Dom Marmion












Painting: Richard Edward Miller, The Shadow, 
in US public domain due to age

My Dry Garden

Monasteries are not drought-proof.  When skies close up and rains no longer soak the ground, monastery fields and gardens are no less subject to dryness than are any other plots of land. 

The monastery of the heart is not drought-proof, either.  Sometimes we feel as if our souls are barren, lifeless, parched.  There are days when our prayers seem to go nowhere, times when we feel that God Himself has left the universe to dry up and wither to dust. 

If we’ve ever felt this way, we are not alone.  “I could neither pray nor read,” wrote St. Teresa of Avila about one such experience, “but there I remained, for hours and hours together, uneasy in mind and afflicted in spirit on account of the weight of my trouble, and of the fear that perhaps after all I was being tricked by the devil, and wondering what in the world I could do for my relief.  Not a gleam of hope seemed to shine upon me from either earth or heaven; except just this: that in the midst of all my fears and dangers I never forgot how Our Lord must be seeing the weight of all I endured….”  

So:  we’re not alone in having such experiences.  But what do we do about them?

I have found that the saints help in this kind of challenge.   

"If you do nothing else the whole time of prayer than bring your heart back and put it beside Our Lord, although each time you do so it turns away from Him, your hour will be very well employed.” (St. Francis de Sales) 

“One single act done with aridity of spirit is worth more than many done with feelings of devotion.”  (St. Francis de Sales)  

"His will is, that entering into prayer, we should be prepared to suffer the pain of continual distractions, dryness and disgust, which may come upon us, and that we should remain as constant as if we had enjoyed much peace and consolation.  It is quite certain that our prayer will be none the less pleasing to God nor less useful to ourselves, for having been made with difficulty.” (St. Francis de Sales)

Text herein is a re-post. © 2012 Nancy Shuman. 


Painting of desert:  Carl Eytel, 1914

Paining of dead flower:  Manuel Ocaranza (detail) 



To look at 'My Watered Garden,' click this line 

 

Just Show Up

I have been wondering what it must be like for a nun, committed to regular prayer in her choir stall, on those days when she just doesn't want to show up.

Surely there are such days.  Being made of the same flesh as every other human being, certainly nuns and monks face times when they feel low, under the weather, distracted, or just not in the mood to pray right now.  Like the rest of us, they can sometimes feel dry; disconnected.  

"It's encouraging that even this imperfect, distracted, dutiful prayer is valuable to the Lord and allows Him to work in our lives,"  writes Ralph Martin.  "As St. Teresa of Avila puts it:  'after I had made this effort, I found myself left with greater quiet and delight than sometimes when I had the desire to pray.'  Teresa witnesses to the fact that even if we are not fully attentive in our prayer, little by little, even imperfect prayer will change us.  Simply 'showing up'  for prayer time evidences our desire to be with the Lord.  Even though sometimes it seems that we are more there physically than spiritually, our desire allows Him to draw us closer.  Even if our prayer doesn't seem to be bearing fruit on the level of our conscious intellect, it may very well bear fruit on the level of strengthening our will."  (Ralph Martin, The Fulfillment of All Desire, Emmaus Road Publishing, Steubenville, 2006, p. 284)

"Even if our prayer doesn't seem to be bearing fruit on the level of our conscious intellect, it may very well bear fruit on the level of strengthening our will." 

Our friend Jane's will was surely strengthened by the following experience, which she wrote of in a 1997 letter:  "I was feeling very discouraged with myself for not feeling a greater love for Jesus.  Theoretically I knew the 'feeling' is a gift from Him and not an indication of our actual love.  But still I was concerned that I just didn't love Him enough. Then I came across something St. Gertrude had written about experiencing the same fear.  She complained to Him that her heart was just a 'block of ice.'  That struck me especially as how I felt exactly -  a frozen block of ice.  In my case, just a little chip.  I couldn't get that idea out of my mind.  It gradually became clear to me that this world is really a dry, burning desert in which Jesus searches unendingly for souls.  I implored Him, since I was just a block of ice, to pick me up and press me to His lips.  When the fire of His love melted me, to please drink the water formed by it... in that way, I would be able to refresh Him and quench His thirst.  That thought filled me with such joy, I went around all day rejoicing that I was indeed a block of ice, for as long as I am totally at His disposal, I can refresh Him.  Now when I recognize that He is keeping consolations from me, I just smile to myself - knowing that as long as I trust Him patiently, my piece of ice will bring Him greater joy by my submission to His will.'  (Jane)

"Little by little, even imperfect prayer will change us."   

Thanks be to God, this is true.  As long as we just show up.   

Painting of nun: Paul E. Harney
Painting of women in church:  Wilhelm Leibl, 1882   



To return to the 'Monastic Adventure in Sequence' post, click here 

If You Want to Leave in the Middle of Prayer...

                              'Take no notice of that feeling you get

                              of wanting to leave off in the middle of your prayer, 

                              but praise the Lord for the desire you have to pray.  

                              That, you may be sure, comes from your will 

                              which loves to be with God.  

                              It is just melancholy that oppresses you 

                              and gives you the feeling of constraint.
           
                             Try occasionally, 

                             when you feel yourself oppressed in that way, 

                             to go to some place where you can see the sky, 

                             and walk up and down a little... 

                             It is essential that the soul be led gently.' 

                                St. Teresa of Avila

                             Painting:  George Hitchcock, Calypso

             

Dry Because...

'My spirit has 
become dry 
because 
it forgets 
to feed 
on You.'

St. John of the Cross







Painting:  Zurbarán, St John of the Cross

This Mental Gloom Will Pass

"Let us not be turned from prayer because of dearth of feeling, or even because the mind is weighed down by discouragement and distressed by the thought of utter unworthiness.  This mental gloom will pass.  It is something over which we hold no control; the less attention we give it the better."

(from In Love with the Divine Outcast, by a Religious, Pellegrini, Australia, 1934, p. 123)


Painting: Winslow Homer, Woman at the Window, 1872 (detail)
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Again I Begin

While praying recently for a fresh wind of prayer, I ran across the following.  I've edited it slightly, for I first scribbled this in a journal over twenty years ago.  Twenty years!  Before iPads, Kindles, Twitter, Pinterest, smart phones, dumb phones, texting, mobile apps.  Back then, people went to dinners disconnected, engaging in conversation with no concerns about a purse ringing just as salads arrived.   Yet even then, I was aware of how hard it was to tune in to the gentle presence of God.  

'We can hardly hear anything in this world of ceaseless distraction.  Our ancestors, even our recent ones, would be simply overwhelmed by the barrage of noises that surround us in this busy world, in this busy western world.  We are bombarded by entertainment, images, music, sounds, distractions we carry with us wherever we go. 

Perhaps we find our own thoughts too disturbing, so we drown them out with ceaseless chatter.  Maybe inactivity reminds us too clearly that we were created to fill our time with God, so we flee from the reminders by cramming our days full of mindless clutter

I know this because I am so this way, busily fluttering amid distractions that keep me blissfully unaware.

If only we could see it!  If only we could see the drama in which we're engaged!  If only we could peer, eyes unveiled, into the truth for just a minute.  I can't believe that such acute awareness would not utterly change our lives...'

Over twenty years later, I am still struggling to quiet down and 'listen.'  Funny.  I thought I'd be settled into a real routine by now.  Not so.

Perhaps because routine has never been easy for me?  Possibly.  Maybe because distractions are becoming daily more present and ever more convenient for all of us?  Surely.

And, if I'm honest, probably because some part of me would rather look at glitter than into scripture.  It's a tough thing to consider, an even tougher thing to admit.  But it is at least partially true.  After all, a bit of online glitz will not remind me that I need to take time to pray for situations on the world stage.  Or perhaps that I can even, if I give Him time and space, encounter the loving presence of God.

Encountering the Presence of God.  Imagine!  I can do this very thing in prayer, even in the silence of my heart.  I know how this works; I've done it for years:  I can sit down and pray, giving God time and space and attention.  I can take another look at Lectio Divina.

Why on earth am I waiting?  Maybe if I ask Him, and maybe if I sit long enough to hear His still, small Voice, Our Lord will answer this very question.

I pick up my Bible. I open it.

Again I begin.

All text in this post © 2013 Nancy Shuman.  All Rights Reserved.
thecloisteredheart.org      

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Wandering. Restless. Trusting.

Sometimes I feel as if my prayer is going nowhere.  Or that I, myself, am going nowhere.  It's not that I've moved beyond the boundaries of God's will.  It's more that I feel my prayer is going nowhere within those boundaries. It seems as if I'm stuck in one spot, spinning my spiritual wheels, having lost the sense of following God, my mind continually bombarded with distractions, distractions,  distractions....

At such times (and I am presently in one), I sit to pray and feel I am "doing" nothing.  I go to Mass and struggle not to fidget through the readings.  My mouth prays words from a psalm while my mind is on a thousand things.   My emotions are flat, worried, disoriented, restless, sad.  

Today I found help .. and a definite sense of companionship ... from Brother Lawrence.   

"You aren't the only one to be distracted from the presence of God," he writes in his eighth letter.  "I understand completely.  Our minds are so flighty.  But remember that our God-given will governs all of our strength.... 

"I think the remedy for the problem is to confess our faults to God and humble ourselves before Him.  It isn't necessary to be too verbose in prayer, because lengthy prayers encourage wandering thoughts.  Simply present yourself to God as if you were a poor man knocking on the door of a rich man, and fix your attention on His presence. 

"If your mind wanders at times, don't be upset, because being upset will only distract you more.  Allow your will to recall your attention gently to God.  Such perseverance will please Him. (Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God)

"Allow your WILL to recall your attention to God."  By an act of my will, this day I decide to trust God to recall my attention.  My mind may (will) wander.  Any "sense" of following God may not be present.  But today I renew my decision.  I ask for grace to make use of the many aspirations I've found helpful in the past, and I go forward to practice God's presence.  I shall trust that He IS leading.

I'll let you know how it goes.  

"And know that I am with You always..."  (Matthew 28:20)

the long dry winter

Monasteries are not drought-proof.  When skies close up and rains no longer soak the ground, monastery fields and gardens are no less subject to dryness than are any other plots of land. 

The monastery of the heart is not drought-proof, either.  Sometimes we feel as if our souls are barren, lifeless, parched.  There are days when our prayers seem to go nowhere, times when we feel that God Himself has left the universe to dry up and wither to dust.

If we’ve ever felt this way, we are not alone.  “I could neither pray nor read,” wrote St. Teresa of Avila about one such experience, “but there I remained, for hours and hours together, uneasy in mind and afflicted in spirit on account of the weight of my trouble, and of the fear that perhaps after all I was being tricked by the devil, and wondering what in the world I could do for my relief.  Not a gleam of hope seemed to shine upon me from either earth or heaven; except just this: that in the midst of all my fears and dangers I never forgot how Our Lord must be seeing the weight of all I endured….”  

So:  we’re not alone in having such experiences.  But what do we do about them?

I have found that the saints help me, in this kind of challenge, to find "the view through the grille."  

“If you do nothing else the whole time of prayer than bring your heart back and put it beside Our Lord, although each time you do so it turns away from Him, your hour will be very well employed.” (St. Francis de Sales)

“One single act done with aridity of spirit is worth more than many done with feelings of devotion.”  (St. Francis de Sales) 

“Let your prayer be very simple.  For the tax collector and the prodigal son just one word was enough to reconcile them with God.”  (St. John Climacus)

“His will is, that entering into prayer, we should be prepared to suffer the pain of continual distractions, dryness and disgust, which may come upon us, and that we should remain as constant as if we had enjoyed much peace and consolation.  It is quite certain that our prayer will be none the less pleasing to God nor less useful to ourselves, for having been made with difficulty.” (St. Francis de Sales)

Text not in quotes © 2012 Nancy Shuman.  All Rights Reserved.
thecloisteredheart.org