I'm not an addict

A Study in Psychology Featuring Dogs

The Dog Whisperer* is not about dogs, but rather about the dysfunctional emotional lives of the average American, as projected by the husbands onto the wives onto the dogs.

*Just in passing: never once has a dachshund starred. Coincidence?

A Weight of Time

I've had a bunch of migraines lately, so apart from very slowly working through Pope Benedict's speeches from his visit to the U.S., I've done very little reading. This is a source of enormous grief to me, and leaves me with huge chunks of time with only three options available to me, and all of them have certain problems when done for hours on end each and every day. These are sleep, eat, and spend money.

Today I decided on the spend money option. I rented The Bourne Supremacy and The Bourne Ultimatum. I watched the former this afternoon while crocheting (my femininity could hardly have been happier with the entire situation, especially since I'd just finished painting my toenails.) I just want to say that Jason Bourne (the film version, not the book version) is God's gift to me.

Someday I want to be able to run, climb, and elude bad guys like he does. I leave driving off the list, since I already drive like him. At least, I, like Bourne, leave a trail of screaming wreckage behind me, and though I remain cool and collected the whole time, my passengers do not.

Cameras

I'm kind of ruthlessly single-minded, as well as being an inveterate introvert, so having a camera when people are around means that either pictures won't get taken, or people won't get talked to. And with scenery the situation is about the same (and not conversing with a good bit of landscape is a serious sin). But when I look at cool pictures like Gaffentine's, it makes me wish that the situation were otherwise. (Ahem, let's just assume that the only thing holding me back from producing great art is not happening to have a camera with me.)

Of course there's also something about the scenery out west. Hot cross buns do I ever miss mountains.

Happy Feet

We watched Happy Feet tonight. Frankly, it was more revealing than a barrel full of Rorschach tests. When a person sits down to tell a story about penguins with the moral "We should rethink our fisheries policies"* and it comes out as an anti-religious anti-classical music pro-rock'n'roll-and-specifically-R&B eco-fable (while relocating the desire for the mysterious to technology-superstitions, i.e. aliens), you get a pretty clear idea of what happened in the black box of their imagination. What's sad about this is that it forms the imaginations of all those watching it.

Thank God mine has already been irreparably formed by the golden age of The Far Side.†

*Not a shocking thesis. A twenty-minute monologue from John Flory on the subject still haunts me when I'm awake at 3 a.m. Apparently the regulations, such as they are, simply encourage rape and pillage tactics during the "open" periods for different fish. I can feel perfectly comfortable on my soapbox here, because I never eat seafood (this is said with great complacency.)

†See if you can re-create the links between this post and one of my all-time favorite examples of the "Good Idea Meter"‡ having gone wonky.

‡The "Good Idea Meter" reads either "Good Idea" or "Not Good Idea," but sometimes the needle's choice is unreliable. The chances of getting it right should be one in two, but sometimes they end up being much lower.

Free at last

Gluten-free, that is.

After saying that unlike Joni Mitchell, I did need the piece of paper to keep my love true, I went and shacked up with the diet as soon as the blood was out of my veins. Ten days later I got the results, which were negative. Mr. Gluten-free and I sat in the back of the bus and looked awkwardly at each other while the camera panned out.

So then this afternoon when I was faced with a number of delicious Trenton pizzas, one thing led to another, and I found myself with two slices of pizza inside me. At first it seemed like a truly brilliant idea, whose genius was only rivaled by the pure grace of execution. Then my brain got hep* to the situation, and hit me between the eyes with a super fantabulous migraine. It was the companionable, clingy kind. I spent the next few hours moving between my bed and the bathroom (where my gut, disagreeing with my will, was busily de-gluten-ing itself), but the migraine stood by me in both locales.

No, I don't have celiacs. Yes, I am gluten-intolerant. I'm actually incredibly happy, because this means I am not doomed to a life of being as sick as I've been recently. And I expect to be met in heaven by 1) Jesus 2) all the animals I've ever loved and 3) a truckload of freshly baked bread.

*This word always comes out kind of sly and sidelong when I say it, because I'm worried that people will assume that "layers of irony = 0", and this makes me act guilty. I have the same problem when I try to explain that God is three persons to people of simple worldviews. Really, I'm just trying not to talk about processions and mysteries, and then I feel like I'm trying to pull one over on them, so I usually end up saying something like "Okay, and God is—Whoa, look at the deer!—three persons."

The Meaning of Life

Who knew that the interwebz had the key to a happy and fulfilled life?

But apparently I have an unshakable belief in the internet being What I've Been Missing, since night after night I spend 45 minutes religiously* clicking through the same pages, motivated by a deep yearning after something undefinable.

Or perhaps not so mysterious.

I swear, I didn't intend to end up here. This post was supposed to be about foolishly wasting time in superficial interactions rather than meaningfully relating to people who live nearby or praying. But I suppose for me all roads lead to a Rome where a dachshund is pope.

*Coincidental word choice? I think not.

A friend wants to know

Has anyone seen a children's missal for the Vatican II Mass which is well-made and not cartoony?

This is totally not unreasonable

Does anyone else feel mildly rejected when they leave a comment, and the blog remains blank except for one line: "Your comment has been saved and will be visible after blog owner approval."

I feel like I laid my little food offering before the gods just to see them kick it over to the dog saying, "I'm sure that'll be great if the dog doesn't die from it."

Earthly things to yearn after

Wodehouse and Dickens

My favorite Dickens character is Mr. Samuel Weller (pronounced Samivel Veller) from The Pickwick Papers. My roommate and I were so taken with him that when we were gifted with the best little brown dachshund in the world, we named him Samivel.

Yesterday and today have been considerably brightened by the P.G. Wodehouse novel, Sam the Sudden. This Sam is also an energetic capable sort of man, and I've spent the novel hoping that he would sit down and write a "walentine." While waiting, I've laughed even harder than the time my little brother told me about the Craig's List Santa and the cooler of beer back home in Hillyard.

But the touching love scene (in which the heroine reveals that she wouldn't mind if the hero alienated a rich uncle by staying in England in order to court her) gives the meeting of my two favorites:

'What?' he croaked huskily.
'I said why—do—you—not, Samivel?' whispered Kay.

I ♥ Benedict

Texts of the Holy Father's talks and homilies for the U.S. visit.

On Discretion

[In the voice of God.]

The soul can therefore place neither laws nor limits to its love for me. But its love for its neighbor, on the contrary, is limited by certain conditions. The light of discretion (which proceeds from love) gives to the neighbor a conditioned love. Such a love, being ordered aright, does not cause the injury of sin to self in order to be useful to others. For, if one single sin were committed to save the whole world from hell, or to obtain one great virtue, the motive would not be a rightly ordered or discreet love, but rather indiscreet. For it is not lawful to perform even one act of great virtue and profit to others by means of the guilt of sin.

Holy discretion ordains that the soul should direct all its powers to my service with a manly zeal. It should love its neighbor with such devotion that it would lay down a thousand times, if it were possible, the life of its body for the salvation of souls. It should endure pains and torments so that its neighbor may have the life of grace, and give its temporal substance for the profit and relief of his body.

This is the supreme office of discretion, which proceeds from charity. So you see how discreetly every soul who wishes for grace should pay its debts. That is, it should love me with an infinite love and without measure. But it should love its neighbor with measure, with a restricted love, not doing itself the injury of sin in order to be useful to others.

This is St. Paul's counsel to you, when he says that charity ought to be concerned first with self, otherwise it will never be of perfect usefulness to others. And this is because, when perfection is not in the soul, everything the soul does for itself and for others is imperfect.

—St. Catherine of Sienna, Doctor of the Church

Today

I had hoped to go watch the Pope drive down 5th Avenue this afternoon, but Mr. Migraine said No.

Instead I am trying to heal my iPod, which accidentally lost the files for everything except Barron's Mastering German and The Complete Works of Bach.

At least there is still a German-theme to my day.

This cries out to be made into a joke...

From my decaf Espresso can (El Pico brand): "With all our fine Latin flavor!"

...but I don't have any Hispanic or classicist friends who are close enough not to be offended.

Late Have I Loved Thee

I posted on The Shins' song Young Pilgrims a bit ago, but Guy Crouchback took me to task for being too severe. And it's true, I was. There is a wistful yearning in the song, as though the band really wishes they could be one of the Faithful. Thinking it over, I realized that I don't have much patience for people who lack faith, having always had it myself. I temporarily chalked this up to my natural virtue, but the truth hit me in the middle of the coffee shop at Barnes and Noble yesterday.

Faith, hope and love are supernatural virtues, meaning that grace as well as habit is required for their formation. But we were created for union with God, which means we were intended to be always full to overflowing with these best of all attributes. Their loss is due to wounds, and these wounds cry out for healing.

How can one heal rifts through the very substance of one's being? Not through ratiocination. These wounds are healed through authentic experiences of beauty, goodness, and truth. Perhaps this is what St. Francis pointed to when he exhorted his followers to preach always, and only if they must, use words. The beauty and goodness of the life of the Christian are the best witnesses, and the best medicine. Words are only as strong as the meaning attached to them, and the wounded person has a false meaning attached to these words.

The happiest moment of my life was the moment when I realized that "good" is said of God, not because He happened to take that side of the opposition but could conceivably have taken the side of "evil," but because He is Good in the deepest and truest sense of the word, and it is not possible for Him to be evil: and that if it were possible, "good" would not really be good.

I needed to have my sense of "good" healed in order to love. A dear friend needed to see that beauty existed in order to start her journey toward faith. St. Augustine's conversion began with a struggle to understand good and evil (starting from being a Manichean) to believing in real goodness (Neo-Platonism) to finding true beauty in Christ (Confessions books 7-10).

It is heartbreaking to see loved ones struggling on without faith, hope, or love, and it would be so easy if a cleverly turned phrase were all that they needed to be made whole. In fact what they need is to be loved and accepted, always through prayer and if possible through companionship, while waiting for Love to come for them.

St Peter Chrysologus

I appeal to you by the mercy of God. (Romans 12:1)

Listen to the Lord's appeal: In me, I want you to see your own body, your members, your heart, your bones, your blood. You may fear what is divine, but why not love what is human? You may run away from me as the Lord, but why not run to me as your father? Perhaps you are filled with shame for causing my bitter passion. Do not be afraid. This cross inflicts a mortal injury, not on me, but on death. These nails no longer pain me, but only deepen your love for me. I do not cry out because of these wounds, but through them I draw you into my heart. My body was stretched on the cross as a symbol, not of how much I suffered, but of my all-embracing love. I count it no loss to shed my blood: it is the price I have paid for your ransom. Come, then, return to me and learn to know me as your father, who repays good for evil, love for injury, and boundless charity for piercing wounds.

[From today's Office of Readings.]

I Watch Online Videos Late at Night

But I'm not ready to admit I have a problem.

Hallmark

I went to Hallmark today. I always put it off because I feel like an idiot trying to pick out which card is least offensive to me (and I hope its destined recipient). This usually narrows down my focus to the "Belated" section, and then I usually just get the one with the cute dog on it. ("Why is a wiener dog threatening to pee behind my couch if I don't have a happy birthday? Is this what happens when you graduate from college?") At least there's a rhyme or reason to my selections (When Is a Dachshund Not Appropriate? *Rhetorical Question*), unlike my little brother who went through a phase of giving everyone Congrats-Girlfriend pregnancy cards, regardless of age or sex.

I also needed another box of Thank You cards, which is difficult because they can't say "Thank You" on them. (I read Miss Manners at an impressionable age.) But I want authentic Thank You cards because they're small and don't require me to think of much to say.* I had one contender in my hand when a woven pattern in pearlized off-whites caught my eye: "Ostentatiously unobtrusive—perfect!"

I just realized that it was probably intended for weddings, which will just enrich the sub-text for the recipients.

*People usually guess what's happening if you write in letters two inches tall.

I'm about ready to stop checking this blog—there are never any new posts.

Do it for Jesus

Our residents have been having trouble with selfishness. It's very easy to spoil the disabled, because it can feel cruel to deny them anything when they already suffer so much. And it can be difficult for them to do things for others since they can hardly do things for themselves. But all human beings need to give up the self for the sake of love, and it's denying the residents the basic dignity of humanity to imagine that they cannot sacrifice for Jesus and others.

I'd started my campaign by convincing J to offer the front seat to M for an outing, explaining that it was a wonderful way to show she loved M and also Jesus. J was obliging, fully ready to do something she'd get praised for, and sure she loves M, so why not? Then we got home and she stopped still, working things out: we're home, no one will be riding in the front seat again tonight, and she still hasn't ridden in it. In the full grip of the anti-climax she seemed to be saying, "You said this would be so great, so why does it suck?" So of course tears came next, and I realized that "You'll get your reward in forty years after you've died!" was not going to soothe the troubled waters. She gave up something tangible, and really only something else tangible was going to fit the bill.

But today at the Steubenville bookstore I found "Sacrifice Beads" in every color, so now everyone in our houses (including staff and some of the volunteers!) has their very own, with instructions on how to use them. In a shocking denouement of self-knowledge, I found that my own beads did not fly by as quickly as I was expecting. We'll need to return to the topic of dying to self and then getting to move a nifty bead incessantly over the next few weeks, but my hope is that in the end everyone will have some acquaintance with a short list of nice things they can do for others to show that they love Jesus.