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November 2006 |
By Michael T. Dolan In its Latin root, "to converse" has a much broader scope than our current day take on it. Rather than merely “talking,” conversari means "to live with," "to keep company with," "to dwell upon," "to move to and fro," and "to turn oneself about." Taken in this light, conversation suddenly becomes much more meaningful. True conversation, then, in order for it to reflect its root origin, necessitates that lost art called listening. And by this I mean not only listening to others, but listening to the world around us, and listening to how our hearts and minds respond. In that sense, conversari is a very Augustinian word, and the word itself can be a lived spirituality. You see, Saint Augustine believed that it was through others that one came to know God. Through true conversation, one begins not only to see God in others, but through others begins to find God within oneself. This mutualism is true not only of people, but of all that surrounds us. Nature, art, music, books, spirits who have gone before us, and even life itself. Too often, though, we are deaf to this mutuality. The busyness of life blinds us to the true business of life – the journey of discovery known as conversari. It is a discovery of the Spirit, and it requires listening . . . • • • • • I sat with my daughter on the beach, gathering together millions of pieces of sand so that together they could form a magnificent castle. The beach was beginning to be deserted, with swimmers, sunbathers and the rest making their evening trek back to solid ground. A mother walked by with her young son. Spotting a great big hole in the ground, the boy began to run toward it. The hole, clearly a long day’s work for a child that afternoon, was abandoned for the night, ready to be molded into a fresh canvas at high tide. The mother stopped the boy, yelling, “No, my son, that isn’t yours!” The two continued on their way, the hole untouched and waiting for the water. How strange! Who owns the beach but its creator? More so, how can anyone claim rights to a hole? By its very nature it is emptiness. Can one own that which does not exist? • • • • • The neighborhood has long since gone to sleep. A novel kept me up past the others, and so it is well into the morning when I call it a night. I face the mirror, toothbrush in hand. Tapping and buzzing on the window screen call my attention. My bathroom light the only luminous presence in the night, beetles and other nighttime creatures had descended on the screen, desperately seeking the light. Rinsing my mouth, I took my hand and flicked my finger at the screen, sending the insects back into the darkness. Why? I wondered as I climbed into bed. They only sought the light. I fell asleep with a nagging question running through my head: How many times have I kept others from reaching their light? Indeed, how many times have I kept others from reaching the Light? • • • • • After saying prayers with my daughter, then telling her a short story with only the nightlight on, we spend a few quiet minutes rocking in a peaceful meditation before I place her in her crib for the night. On one such night I broke the silence, I suppose feeling especially grateful that day. I whispered to her, “Daddy loves Molly.” She repeated me, using her word of “me” – “mine”, saying “Daddy loves mine.” I went on: “Mommy loves Molly.” Again she repeated: “Mommy loves mine.” I told her that her little brother loves her: “Michael loves Molly.” She echoed: “Michael loves mine.” And then with her inseparable stuffed animal: “Ducky loves Molly.” “Ducky loves mine,” she repeated. I smiled and nodded in affirmation at my little girl. A silent minute went by and then she looked me in the eyes and proclaimed, “Molly loves mine!” I smiled at her wisdom. What a lesson to be taught – to love oneself! • • • • • Sunrises and sunsets get all the attention. And not that they shouldn’t – the burning sky deserves attention. Tonight, however, I glimpsed a “star-rise.” It was approaching dusk and the sun had disappeared over the horizon. Light still filled the sky, though it became a shade darker with each passing minute. My daughter climbed up on a bench, then onto the picnic table in the backyard. Then she laid down on her back, her eyes gazing skyward. I joined her, and there we laid on the hard wooden table, taking inventory of the sky. Bats flew overhead on their nightly insect feast. Light winds blew leaves at the top of the trees. A late bird racing back home before dark. But not a cloud in the sky. Blue as far as the eye could see. As minutes passed, the blue grew deeper and deeper. Slowly we began to see faint specs of light at the “end” of the sky. Ever so slowly, like a sunrise in a distant galaxy, the lights grew the slightest bit stronger. It was as if God had a dimmer switch, and turned on the stars with the most patient turn of the knob. Minute by minute the lights brightened. It was as if this mysterious veil of the sky was being lifted, only to reveal a magnificent star field. In fact, the stars have been there all along, watching down but overshadowed by the sun. It’s reassuring to know that the heavens are always there, if but we take the time to welcome them into our lives. • • • • • God spoke to me tonight through the moon. Listening to the waves crash on the ocean floor, I heard the voice of God talking. The moon’s gravity pulled the ocean skyward, continuing the eternal conversation of the surf. Tis the beauty of a conch shell, and what makes them so treasurered: they allow us to listen to the moon no matter where we may find ourselves. We need only pick it up . . . and listen. • • • • • Each night before bed, my wife and I lay with our daughter and say prayers. We run through a litany of people and things that make up the two-year-old's day: her little brother, her grandparents, her stuffed animal "Ducky" (also known as "Mr. Ducks"), and so on. After a lifelong friend of mine passed away suddenly at the age of 31, a new prayer entered the rotation: "Prayers for Daddy's friend Tom." A week after the funeral, we find ourselves saying prayers at a vacation house down the shore. Laying in bed, as a nightlight fills the room with shadows, my wife and I begin the prayer: "Prayers for Pops and Grandmom." "Prayers for Grandpop and Grandmom." "Prayers for Michael Dude." "Prayers for Daddy's friend Tom." "Tom up there," interupts our daughter, pointing to the ceiling. My wife and I exchange looks, asking with our eyes if the other had somehow made this allusion to heaven to our daughter since Tom's passing. Neither of us had. She's just two, after all, and her idea of God is the baby Jesus in the "car seat" (as she calls the manger) in a children's prayer book. "What did you say," I ask. "Tom up there," she repeats, again pointing skyward. Tears flow, though for the first time not in sadness. Angels are indeed messengers, even if they are but two-years-old. Tom had spoken. • • • • • Fiery leaves signal the dawn of all middles, a waning bell curve between the activity of summer and the dormancy of winter. Autumn – the midpoint of all that lives and all that dies. I stand in the sun’s light and feel the warmth of summer months in the midst of fall. Stepping aside, however, into the oak tree’s shadow, and the chill of winter rushes me forward a few months. So too is it when the clouds pass between the earth and the sun. Nature centering itself – the apex of autumn! The clouds pass by and the sun beats down on the picnic blanket, seeming to know that its days of blazing are fading away as its daily work shift grows shorter and shorter. The last remaining yellow jacket of the season wanders in and out of the soda can. It too is at nature’s crossroads. Gone are the days when its yellow and black brethren busied themselves with scenting the world. Yet not all have fallen to the clutches of coldness. This one remaining survivor at my feet perseveres, hoping to conquer the cold and to buzz its wings all winter long in defiance of the very nature that has all but decimated its race. Or so it hopes. And so there it remains, always on the lookout
for that autumn picnicker, hoping to extend its already overdue
life by getting drunk on a Coke – its much more nourishing
flowers all fruitless, wilting to whence they came and in so doing
providing nourishment for future generations. The leaves begin
to join the flowers, giving life – through death –
to the soil and the seeds it will bear. Such selfless beings, autumn’s martyrs. • • • • • The squirrel sat on the lawn across the street, staring at the two-year-old girl hollering over to it. “Acorns! More acorns here!” She gestured at our lawn, which was littered with the droppings of the two tall oaks that towered over my daughter. She continued the chant. “Acorns! More acorns here!” She called not because she wanted to see the squirrel closer, but rather because she wanted the squirrel to have all that it needed. It was as if to say, “Look, a lawn full of acorns. Come partake in heaven!” Most of us offer such invitations because there is something in it for us. Others, the pure of heart, offer such invitations for the joy it brings – to others . . . and thus to themselves. • • • • • I stand in the middle of the yard, an enormous pile of leaves to my side. I lean on my rake and look at the great expanse of yard still to be cleared. Breathing in the smell of burning decay, I
look up at the shedding trees and wonder at this annual autumn
leaf-letting. Each year the leaves fall and each year I am here
to quickly rake them up. • • • • • Working in a small office in the suburbs, the pace tends to be slow – busy, but slow – which makes the occasional meeting in Center City a bit like watching a movie as others race by me and through me. I find the building and attempt to open the doors. They are locked. Looking up, I see people being spit in and out of the revolving door in the center. I walk toward it and await my turn. Jumping in pace with the door like a skier onto a lift, I find myself rushed through the silent glass prison. I look to my left and barely have enough time to catch the shadow of the person next to me heading the other way in his own solitary chamber. Before I know what is happening I am out the door and forced to keep on walking. I cannot create gridlock for a parade of suits keeps in time with the door. It spits them out with the swoosh of efficiency. Such an engineering feat – a door that is perpetually closed! • • • • • Walking to the back door of our house, my then one-year-old daughter is distracted by activity at her feet. Still struggling to pronounce the word, she shouts the word for “bug.” “BUH! BUH! BUH!” Raising her legs, she begins to playfully stomp on the ants at her feet. It was just yesterday that bugs were a source of wonderment and laughter. Today they are beings to be killed. They say children learn by example. I must watch my steps. • • • • • The local convenience stores have all installed fancy touch screen computers that allow customers to place their order without even uttering a word. Late at night, I am the only person standing in front of the deli and its technological testimony to efficiency. The young man behind the counter stands there silently, waiting for my fingers to beep away my desired sandwich until a purchase order spits out of the printer in front of him. “Hi,” I say. No response. After paying for the sandwich, I return to the deli to pick it up. “Thanks,” I say. Again, silence. The sustenance of the sandwich is of little comfort when the sustenance of human interaction is missing. I leave the store, my soul growling in hunger. • • • • • Each week in my mailbox I am deluged with circulars, credit card applications, and assorted flyers that make their way directly to the recycle bin without passing go. As I deposit the papers in the brown paper bag, I inevitably pause when two lonely faces call out to me from the “Have you seen us?” mailer. I read their names, study their ages, and ponder for a moment where these sad stray souls are. What is their story? What family members are left at home coping with their loss in the agony of pretending to have hope? I run my thumb over the two faces, making the sign of the cross, saying a hopeful prayer that God keeps them safe and that he brings them home, wherever home may be. God arrives in the mailbox, calling us to seize the opportunity of prayer. • • • • • Darkness swallows the neighborhood, save for the covering of snow on the ground and the glow of moonlight. Snow has silenced the streets, though not for long. Soon enough the trucks and their angry plows will be about, salting the life out of snowy peacefulness. It is in this frightening interruption to human schedules that the streets are free, and I take to them. Swoosh-swoosh, swoosh-swoosh. So go the skis, and so go I. It may not be cross-county, but cross-suburbia is OK, too. As I glide down the street, all is quiet for the moment. Meteorologists flash from every TV screen in the neighborhood, the radio starts its cattle call of school closings, and people begin to panic about the nearly empty gallon of milk in the fridge. I hear none of it, for I am alone with my God. Swoosh-swoosh, go the skis. The wintry window of snowy communion is fleeting, though, for within the hour I sense that we are no longer alone. Car ignitions are turned, and engines begin to idle. Windshields are scraped, allowing for a quick escape from the driveway the following morning. Shovels grind away on sidewalks. Snow blowers burst to life. And then it comes. Turning the corner, its high beams cast my elongated shadow ahead of me on the street. I need not turn to look. I know what is coming. Salt on the earth. I hurry on, with the beast at my back. Swoosh-swoosh. • • • • • It was a grey December afternoon when I heard the engines in the distance. Within minutes they were at the bottom of our street, getting louder with the approach. I hollered to my daughter in the other room, calling to her: “Come quick! Come quick! Santa on a fire engine!” She came scampering through the threshold with a questioning look on her face. “Look,” I said. “Santa!” I opened the front door to reveal an ambulance and three fire trucks, all with lights a-flashing, sirens a-wailing, and horns a-blasting. My daughter’s eyes filled with fear at the sound, and she reached up to be held. Looking away from a waving Santa, her body shivered in my arms. Two nights later the scene repeated itself as we were visiting friends in another neighborhood. Apparently, it was Santa’s turn to ride the fire truck here, and with the door open, my daughter again reached for the comfort of a parent’s arms and shivered in fear. For the next few weeks, any time my daughter saw Santa Claus – be it in a coloring book, on TV, or at a store, she gave a statement that she uttered more as a question: “No noise. No noise.” It was her way of asking for reassurance that a parade of decibel-piercing sirens wasn’t soon to follow. It was months before the fear dissipated, as she became anxious at all sounds – airplanes, trolleys, garbage trucks, motorcycles, and more. Perhaps the quiet of the humble manger is a better introduction to Christmas than Santa, sirens, and screaming horns. • • • • • The crowds stream into the church on Christmas day. Still twenty minutes before Mass is to start and already the pews are filled. Quickly the aisles are filled with those forced to stand. Latecomers are forced to pile into the vestibule; still others are forced to participate in the celebration in the cold. Sitting in the pew waiting for Mass to begin, I hear congregants grumble about the “twice-a-yearers,” the folks who supposedly grace the steps of the church only on Christmas and Easter. “Good thing we got here early to get a seat – the twice-a-yearers are out today.” “Where will these people be next week?” “It’s so hot and crowded in here. Why do these people even bother coming?” “Look at all those people who don’t even have church envelopes.” “I don’t even recognize half these people.” “People are still coming – communion is gonna take forever.” I confess to having been among the grumblers on occasion. Mass has not even started and already bitterness and judgment fill the church. Soon enough, though, the words of the Gospel are spoken. They tell the story of the birth of Christ. The unmarried woman who said yes to God when the angel Gabriel announced she was with child. The carpenter who took this soon-to-be mother as his wife. The lowly stable where the Son of God was born. Did Mary judge God’s will for her? Did Joseph judge Mary and her impending child? Did the shepherds judge the stable as a place unfitting the arrival of the Savior? No, they did not judge. Rather, they had faith. And with faith comes the arrival of Christ. • • • • • Tis indeed ironic that true conversation involves so much listening and reflection. When you converse with life, you turn yourself about. And yes, that's what it's all about. |
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