My housemate has a bad chest infection in this terrific heat and humidity. I nag at her to see the doctor, stay in bed, take antibiotics, slow down. She is a trained nurse and ignores me.
I had another complex, beautiful but frightening dream about my dead father. Bereavement works like a musical sonata, full of surprises and recurring themes and lots of pain.
A while back, Lou posted a magnificent essay by film critic Roger Ebert in which he spoke about his recovery from alcoholism and membership of AA. I wondered at him breaking anonymity — but a recent article in Esquire revealed he knew he could not ever drink again, was as good as dead. He had had his jaw removed as part of cancer treatment. An elderly Catholic nun I knew once told me: ‘Judgment precludes understanding,’ and she was right.
A small pretty calico cat is teasing my dogs by jumping onto the window sill and making throaty miouwing noises to wake the dogs. Both dogs are enraged and cannot think of anything beyond barking at or chasing this interloper. They are incapable of detachment. I am also caught up in this drama and planning ways of discouraging the cat in a loving manner. The house is bedlam.
My neighbour is fasting for Lent and leans over the garden wall with an ecstatic look in her eyes to quote from the French theologian Jean de Caussade. I wish she would have a slice of toast and honey.
You seek for God, beloved soul, and he is everywhere, everything speaks of him, everything offers him to you, he walks beside you, he surrounds you and is within you. He lives with you and yet you try to find him. You seek your own idea of God, although you have him in his reality. You seek perfection and you meet it in all that happens to you. All you suffer, all you do, all your inclinations are mysteries under which God gives himself to you while you are vainly straining after high-flown fancies.