‘We must free ourselves absolutely of this anxious desire to be at one with other souls, however virtuous or wise they may be; just as we must never expect them to see things through our eyes. We must follow our own light as though we were alone in the world, save as regards charity to others. In purely private matters, we must never be deflected from our own path.’(Abbé de Tourville. Letters of Direction.)
I know I have not reached the end of my unravelling process, but the various strands are now lying in loose bundles with no tight knots to be seen. I have returned to a more relaxed and receptive state of peace, if not what I would recognize as tranquillity. But I must tread warily. Nothing has changed apart from the way I feel, and that, alone, must not be taken as counting for much. I find myself perched giddily, but not necessarily precariously, right at the very edge of things again. My options have been brought more clearly into focus, and yet they are essentially exactly the same as a few weeks ago. I either decide to follow the leading with which I have been struggling, or I do not. Taking a final decision will change things; that is inevitable. But changes brought about by making the decision will have no worthwhile outcome unless the decision is followed through; and in that fact lies the potential for a continuation of the turmoil that is preventing me from getting off the road and safely away from that which may eventually flatten me. Like the rabbit, I am still in the wrong place, and sometime soon the traffic lights at the edge of town are going to change to green again.
If I decide not to follow: not to risk losing the hope of that for which I hope, all I have to do is dismiss all these thoughts, delete all these words, and not print and send, or post any of this in my usual place at The Very Edge, or anywhere else. Easy! – until I come to act on the decision. I can destroy all that I have written, but does that move me on if I am unable to shed all that remains within me? – all that led to the writing in the first place? Such questions take me right back to a time when Prudence told me she could not help thinking that my writing, about whatever was going on within me at the time, was not helping: that it was aggravating and perpetuating the problem I was trying to resolve. If she knew what I was doing now, I know what her advice would be; and I know she would be right. In fact, that thought itself has immediately helped me. (Your past provision still retains power in me. Thank you Lord.)
If I imagine that she was fully aware of my feelings and leadings, my hopes and fears, and all that is written here, and that I was talking about it with her now, I know that I would follow her advice. She would tell me that the written words still do not matter (and that I should not have started on them). What I should have done at the beginning, and what I should still do, as soon as the opportunity arises, is open my mouth and say to the people involved, whatever it is that I need to say. The trouble is (how do I dare still think those words?), that having imagined that powerfully helpful conversation, I also hear her saying, “What are you afraid of? You know Wisdom and Hope; how can you fear anything from them?”, and then, as she asks, “What’s troubling you?”, I am back at the start, having been reminded that I just don’t know!
Unless, as was in my mind when I included verses from Ephesians 6 somewhere in these posts, - unless I am being restrained by something which really does want to nail my feet to the ground: something which will do whatever it can to prevent me walking along whatever path I am meant to follow: something which has already succeeded, not least by tying me in knots, and keeping me occupied by trying to write myself out of my bindings.
Perhaps those thoughts alone are enough to tell me that while I should follow the course Prudence would have set for me, I should also go ahead with posting all of this now that it is written – not only for what it might speak back to me at some time in the future, but as a form of armour against the silencing that could otherwise claim another small victory if I did not give some sort of voice to these thoughts and feelings.
If I am involved in a battle of some sort, other than with myself, then this too must point to the correctness of any honest approach I make towards the door that Hope appears to have opened for me.
All my past thoughts on companionship, fellowship, being part of something, and needing each other, together with my awareness that I have not always followed my own advice, are placed here, along with a readiness, and a fortitude which is ready to break away from its self-doubting, and from its liminal flat-lining in a confrontation with whatever spiritual enemy dares to challenge me. They are placed here, between two quotes from the Abbé de Tourville’s ‘ Letters of Direction’, which may seem, to some, as diluting the value and the necessity of any call to fellowship and community, but which, for me, are significant reminders both of where I have been for many years, and of where I am also meant to be.
I am well-schooled in standing alone, and perhaps because of it, I can find it difficult to step into the very welcome that I hope for. But the two are not meant to be exclusive; we are called to be at home in both, with each giving us elements of our spiritual life which cannot be gleaned from the other. We bring from each to enrich our understanding and effectiveness when in the other. If we fail to do so, then we shall inevitably remain ‘profoundly incomplete’.
When next I find myself writing here, I hope I shall have moved on in some way: in whatever way God wills. I shall post all that I have written, and, however briefly and sketchily, I shall do my best to speak directly to Hope or Wisdom. My start-point will have to be a more complete answer to the probing question from weeks ago. But this whole experience has raised one other concern which also involves my speaking openly. They do not know about my writing here, and will therefore not know that these words exist. I know of only two local people who know both me and my ‘blogging self’, and they are not members of our parish. I have always said that if people find me here by chance and tell others, then so be it; but I have always wanted to remain unknown and of no consequence for the reasons given in my profile. I now find my original intentions under threat, and I am already finding it difficult to justify keeping to myself these written words which are irreversibly associated with Hope and Wisdom. I have let others know when I have referred to them here, and I know that I should now tell them. Avoiding that decision altogether by not posting this, is to turn down the chance of donning some of the armour provided, and would place me right back into the hands of the same restraining powers.
I suppose I could sheepishly revert to my original intention, which had been to write to them, using all this as a less personal form of the letter I failed to complete and never sent. Perhaps I shall hurdle more than one of my barriers by simply giving them a link to these pages, hopefully with a little more than a passing, “I don’t know if you might be interested, but ...”
I am uncomfortable with not knowing where that might lead me.
Why did I suggest hurdling? At my age any such attempt would undoubtedly result in me falling flat on my face; but then, in the company of the right people (as Prudence taught me) that need not be a fearful thought.
‘We must never allow ourselves to believe that our soul is linked to any other soul in such a way that we rely solely on that external influence, on a direction external to ourselves. God wants to teach us to stand alone, without having to lean too heavily even on the instruments He provides. ... He teaches us by a series of intermediaries all of whom are transitory and all of whom, when considered separately, are profoundly incomplete.’ (Abbé de Tourville. Letters of Direction.)
