Faith, Works and Witness
It’s been some time, a long time, and even trying to write this now presents itself as an odd trial of sorts. The noise of the household engulfs me, and it’s only 6:30am, in a new smattering of early starts that bring some semblance of an old life back into view. Over the summer, I put a number of hours into a new aesthetic for Wristwatches and Radios, but I am of course, plagued by the fear of polishing up a car that’s never going to leave the garage. The routine of coming to this space, this way of thinking and reminding myself of the congruent lines of creativity, discipline and fatherhood, has been lost. The irony of writing about habit, structure, routine and works, only to let my own practice fade and fall away, is shameful in its own way, if forgivable in light of my family, which will always take precedence.
It always begs the question of course: Is it the challenge of fatherhood and family that keeps me from the work, or is it a simple lack of discipline, a dereliction of duty that has prevented me from taking the time and space to write new pieces, and finish up old projects that should well and truly have found closure by now. When I think back, I can trace how and where I became gleefully distracted by another piece, another form, stepping away from this for what I promised would be a couple of weeks. But always, I can be easily smitten by a given piece, or a notion, and fall headlong into into reckless abandon (as I’ve recommended more than once on W&R).
Right now, an angst ridden three year old is scattering toys across the playroom, flinging them out of the basket they belong in. I ask him to stop, from here, as I type, but I don’t rise to really stop him, to correct him, because the words are here and the page fills and it’s obscenely gratifying to my ilk, to see the lines trace across their terrain in this way. By beloved wife is emptying the dishwasher, preparing for the day in earnest, while I hide away for a scant twenty minutes, for the first time in a long time; but I keep having to ask myself, is it right? Is it a judicious use of my time, or a self-indulgent distraction from all that I really need to get done.
But this is the only way that I’ve ever accomplished any kind of work. Under duress, in stolen moments and secretive forays into the kind of toil that does nothing to address the works of the household, of which there are so many. Our parenting stretches out across so many more hours of the day, with our smallest rising early with us, and our eldest enjoying the joy and peace of unwinding together, reading aloud from The Secret Garden or The Magician’s Nephew. These beautiful moments, points of peace, unity and prayer, weave themselves throughout our lives, rendered possible by the patience and sanctity of my (long-suffering) wife. But I fall asleep about seven times a night before my head hits my pillow, and spend the rest of the evening shaking off the stupor of broken sleep and brief naps.
But I figure if I’m going to keep going with all of this, something needs to change. Something needs to give. Not that I am going to stop writing, because I already did, without intending too. Starting again in earnest is the more difficult task, the more honest, the more confronting task. Now four days have passed since I began this piece. The kids are all asleep. Tahlia is in the shower and I’m listening to Bud Powell. The television is off, in the midst of a Lenten sacrifice that keeps all screens off unless they’re dealing with nothing less than faith itself. And it’s always in Lent that I think, damn, yes, this is living. When I turn further and further away from other colour, light and noise that stretches beyond grace. There are beautiful, meaningful, truthful things to be found in it sometimes. I know that. But I also know that there are tender graces that will only come to me in the silence of their absence. I know it all too well, as much as I try to forget it.
And there it is again. Stumbling onto the way, without meaning to. Knowing that something more can be done, said, tried, all good and well. I think of Wristwatches and Radios, all cleaned up and gathering dust. But I know that if I’m going to lay down the words, and carve out the time from the scant moments of peace, that I need to do so more honestly than I have been. It has to be more, speak more, bear witness to an age that turns my stomach more than it ever has. I see a world more and more antithetical to faith. I see people mocked, sidelined, dismissed and denounced for their belief that God became man, was crucified and rose again. I think back to every reference to faith in this humble, little blog, and know that every time I relegate it to just another discipline, I do myself, and I do Him a disservice.
I know that I haven’t been completely honest with myself, with the world, with my reader, whenever I make vague reference to prayer, to meditation, to belief. I have attempted, clumsily perhaps, to maintain a relevance and public viability that makes only passing reference to my faith, ensuring that anyone who crosses paths with W&R may not be turned away by a system of living and believing that they may not share. I’ve wanted it to be a place, a work, that speaks to the inherent value of fatherhood, fidelity, culture and creativity. But I’m not truly honest, acknowledging that more than anything, it’s my vocation as a Discalced Carmelite that underpins my love of purposeful living, oriented to truth, beauty and goodness in all that we do, and all that surrounds us.
In September of 2014, and unbeknownst to me, three months before our twin boys were to be born at 27 weeks gestation, fighting for life, I made a definitive promise to the Secular Order of Discalced Carmelites. This took the same promise that I’d made three years earlier, a promise of poverty, chastity, obedience and adherence to the beatitudes, and made it a lifelong commitment. Every day, I pray the morning and evening prayers of The Divine Office; I tend to at least half an hour of silent prayer; I pray the rosary; I wear the brown scapular of Our Lady of Mt Carmel; I study the works of our Carmelite saints; and when life permits, I attend daily mass. This promise and this spirituality underpins my life and gives me the strength and the grace to be who I need to be, as a husband and father above all things.
Aside from that, this vocation, demands a rigour, a discipline and steadfastness that cannot help but bleed into other aspects of one’s life. In my own, it may be in writing and parenting. When I’m honest with myself, I know that I cannot separate Carmel, my spiritual vocation, from any other endeavour I pursue. As a Secular Carmelite, I am inherently ordered to marriage and family, to pursue what we call the ‘domestic church’ and the love, guidance and formation of children, when God graces us with the gift of life. From the outside looking in, having seven children amidst a utilitarian, secular world obsessed with the pursuit of comfort and leisure makes little sense; but in the context a loving, Catholic household open to life as a humble participation in God’s creation, it makes perfect sense. Once again, to offer up at least an hour a day in prayer and meditation can, I imagine, seem counter intuitive to the secular world. But in my life, my faith, my world, it is the means by which I am sustained - drinking from the stream by the wayside, as it were.
And therein lies the truth that I cannot, adequately, explain away the fundamental principles of who I am, the choices I’ve made and the life I pursue, without making clear that I am a son of the Church, who in this instance, in this medium, celebrates the fatherhood, fidelity, culture and creativity that grows out of a fruitful application of faith and love to both family and artistic labours. My intent is not to completely reorient the blog to be about the faith and faith alone. I will continue to write about the tilling, toiling and triumph of parental and creative vocations. But whatever I write, will be in the context of my life as a Carmelite Secular, a Catholic husband, and a faithful father, working in all humility to protect, form and defend my family in the spirit of St Joseph, a personal hero I share with the wider Church and fathers everywhere.
I recognise that now, more than ever, we need a range of voices that will speak openly and honestly about their faith, their witness, and their relationship with the world around them in light of their relationship with “He whom we know loves us.” The more that our fractured world demands that we hide our faith, our philosophy and the truths that underpin them, the more we need to speak openly and honestly about the need for integrity and a light that will overcome the darkness. The notion that we can separate our faith from our politics, our relationships and our worldly vocations is a lie. But it’s not our lie. It’s not my lie. Nor will I apologise for acknowledging it.
So welcome to a new beginning. Welcome to Wristwatches and Radios.