update from sparkleup

writing/sawtooth/limerent-object/53.md

@@ -1,26 +1,28 @@
 I had to stop, yesterday. I had to stop writing.
 
-I don't know why that memory left me in tears, paws shaking too much to write. I don't even know why I decided to commit that memory to this journal. I started this project with the goal of trying to suss out my thoughts and feelings surrounding Kay, and yet I keep writing about this. I keep writing about God or the Church or leaving Saint John's.
+I don't know why that memory left me in tears, paws shaking too much to write. I don't even know why I decided to commit that memory to this journal. I started this project with the goal of trying to suss out my thoughts and feelings surrounding Kay, and yet I keep writing about this. I keep writing about God or the Church or leaving Saint John's. I know that I said I would, yes, but it still somehow feels like a trespass.
 
 I walked around the block afterward, trying to calm down, breathe deeply, be present. I did all the things I tell my patients to do when they panic, and I suppose some of it worked. I was at least able to look at the ground, look at the sky, look at the grass and trees and buildings and not feel this unnamed emotion.
 
 If I had any doubt that Jeremy was right in suggesting journaling, I think it has been well and truly dashed by now.
 
-This feeling, then. It is somewhere between shame and guilt. It has that bitter-savory flavor to it. It makes my fur feel clumped and matted. Why have I changed so much since leaving Saint John's that I cannot talk with God as I used to? I do not feel forsaken by Him, I really don't. So why do I feel so much less in His sight than I did before?
+This feeling, then. It is somewhere between shame and guilt. It has that bitter-savory flavor to it. It makes my fur feel clumped and matted. Why have I changed so much since leaving Saint John's that I cannot talk with God as I used to? I do not feel forsaken by Him, I really don't. So why do I feel so much...less in His sight than I did before?
 
-Today, though, I am going for a hike. Kay has a meeting or something at the university and we always knew that it would not be just constant time together when we planned that, so I am taking advantage of her absence to get a bit of walking in by myself, here in a new setting.
+Today, though, I am going for a hike. Kay has a meeting or something at the university[^planaway], so I am taking advantage of her absence to get a bit of walking in by myself, here in a new setting.
+
+-----
 
 It turns out that the house I'm staying in isn't far from a patch of wilderness. I do not know why it is called the Military Reserve, but I am not going to turn down the chance at walking away from the city. Boise is so much taller, so much louder than Sawtooth, I feel hemmed in here.
 
 It wasn't quite close enough to walk, but at least there's ride shares.
 
-It's strange how easily I fell back into old habits. Per haps it was the writing I did last night, or perhaps it's the need to get away that drove me up into the hills, out on a walk, out to blister my feet and talk with God. It didn't seem to matter how unfamiliar the trail was. I just started walking through that scrub and brush, through all that brown and all that air, and not five minutes in did I feel my mind empty, as always it seemed to. The scrub around me, buffalo grass and sage and yarrow and bitter cherry, gained depth and clarity, stalks and crenelations arching up to me, up to God, assuming that is where the heavens live. The colors called out to me. The scents stung my nose, even the five-and-some feet up from my point of view. Bitter, aspirinic whiffs of yarrow. Stale shortcake grasses. Ungreen, but not unalive. The taste of dust lingering on my tongue, not enough to be gritty but enough to remind me that the earth was the earth and that I was separate from that. The air, the air itself pushed its way nosily through my fur, a breeze from the west, toppling down off the hills. The air and the hard-packed dirt of the trail beneath my feet knocking vibrations up through my shins. Soft padding, soft crunching, soft rustling; wind in fur, air wandering between tussocks; breathing slowing, calming. Rhythms on the scale of footsteps to seasons.
+It's strange how easily I fell back into old habits. Perhaps it was the writing I did last night, or perhaps it's the need to get away that drove me up into the hills, out on a walk, out to blister my feet and talk with God. It didn't seem to matter how unfamiliar the trail was. I just started walking through that scrub and brush, through all that brown and all that air, and not five minutes in did I feel my mind empty, as always it seemed to. The scrub around me, buffalo grass and sage and yarrow and bitter cherry, gained depth and clarity, stalks and crenelations arching up to me, up to God, assuming that is where the heavens live. The colors called out to me. The scents stung my nose, even the five-and-some feet up from my point of view. Bitter, aspirinic whiffs of yarrow. Stale shortcake grasses. Ungreen, but not unalive. The taste of dust lingering on my tongue, not enough to be gritty but enough to remind me that the earth was the earth and that I was separate from that. The air, the air itself pushed its way nosily through my fur, a breeze from the west, toppling down off the hills. The air and the hard-packed dirt of the trail beneath my feet knocking vibrations up through my shins. Soft padding, soft crunching, soft rustling; wind in fur, air wandering between tussocks; breathing slowing, calming. Rhythms on the scale from footsteps to seasons.
 
 Even writing this, even sitting on a fence rail at the trail head, I can feel it still.
 
 And through it all, the Lord. Through each and every step, dancing along every brittle stem and blade of grass, surrounding every grain <!-- is this the right word? --> of dust in a blanket of the utmost attention. His voice traveled along the breeze, His breath was the bitter yarrow and shortcake grass. And all of it I could feel and all of it I could hear and all of it washed over and through me and I bathed in it. "His light like wine", I wrote yesterday, and that wine filled me today, and I can still taste it. 
 
-There are no conclusions from God. There are no intercessions that I, a servant, could possibly ask of him. What would He do? Would He tell me what to say to Kay? All He has for me is grace and forgiveness. There is so much more than any other individual could ever offer me.
+There are no conclusions from God. There are no favors that I, a servant, could possibly ask of him. What would He do? Would He tell me what to say to Kay? All He has for me is grace and forgiveness. That is so much more than any other individual could ever offer me.
 
 All the same, I listened for hope, for guidance, for the discernment than hasn't left me since I left St John's.
 
@@ -28,6 +30,8 @@ To ask that grace, that breath, that light like wine what it is to do is the wro
 
 To say that He has no plan for me, no path, however, isn't correct either. He does, and that's why I talk with Him. It's perhaps less than Catholic of me, or at least of a more mystical bent than ought to be expected of me. I'm no Beghard, no Eckhart.
 
-All I know is that words fail me, and that sometimes the Ground does not.
+All I know is that sometimes words fail me, and that the Ground does not.
 
 I don't know if that path leads toward Kay. I just can't see that far ahead on it. I don't know if it leads me any further into the Church. That's around some corner I can't comprehend. I don't know anything, it seems, but I needed this. I needed time with myself. I needed this walking conversation, this inside-out hesychasm. I needed out of Boise and away from Kay, away from the scent of her, away from the way she presses against my chest from the inside. I need
+
+[^planaway]: And we always knew that it would not be just constant time together when we planned that.

writing/sawtooth/limerent-object/lo-discernment-3.md

@@ -2,9 +2,9 @@ I know that I stopped writing of a sudden yesterday. I ran out of words, and did
 
 I got my notebook out to see if I could finish what I started, but I couldn't. It's just not there anymore.
 
-Instead, I just dived back into memories. I remember first of all the way I cupped my fingers over the bridge of my muzzle and pulled down gently while pushing my snout up. The isometric stretch served to highlight every bit of tension within my neck, and as I held the pressure, I closed my eyes, counting the knotted muscles. Pressed, pushed, and held until I could feel the lactic acid burn deep in the tissue, and then released. With my targets thus marked, I ducked my muzzle down and slid my paws back, fingers kneading along sore spots.
+Instead, I just dived back into memories. Of that night, I remember first of all the way I cupped my fingers over the bridge of my muzzle and pulled down gently while pushing my snout up. The isometric stretch served to highlight every bit of tension within my neck, and as I held the pressure, I closed my eyes, counting the knotted muscles. Pressed, pushed, and held until I could feel the lactic acid burn deep in the tissue, and then released. With my targets thus marked, I ducked my muzzle down and slid my paws back, fingers kneading along sore spots.
 
-Not for the first time, I wished that I could simply disappear within the written word. Wished that I could relinquish the very idea of physical sensation and surround myself in successive layers of scripture, commentaries, notes. Wished, most of all, that I could wrap himself in the warmth of his faith.
+Not for the first time, I wished that I could simply disappear within the written word. Wished that I could relinquish the very idea of physical sensation and surround myself in successive layers of scripture, commentaries, notes. Wished, most of all, that I could wrap myself in the warmth of his faith.
 
 If, at the end of time, faith and hope are to fade, there would be a final sense of completion, but until then, my faith was a comfort.
 
@@ -20,11 +20,11 @@ I had five minutes until the library closed, which, I figured, was enough time f
 
 The Minnesota night hung heavy around me on that walk back. The air seemed as loath to relinquish the heat of day as the year was to give in to autumn, but now it was nearly eleven, and the long hours of evening had managed to pull away some of the warmth. Mosquitoes drifted lazily beneath the trees, leading me to keep my ears canted back, lest they take interest.
 
-Saint John's University was a lopsided circle nestled at the north edge of a narrow isthmus between two lakes, a marble set over a gap it couldn't hope to pass through. It would be easy enough for me to essentially walk straight north to the apartments along the road that bisected the campus, but I preferred to put off walking along a road as long as possible. The noise --- even if the noise was only in the lights around me --- was too much.
+Saint John's University was a lopsided circle nestled at the north edge of a narrow isthmus between two lakes, a marble set over a gap it couldn't hope to pass through. It would be easy enough for me to walk straight north to the apartments along the road that bisected the campus, but I preferred to put off walking along a road as long as possible. The noise --- even if the noise was only in the lights around me --- was too much.
 
 Instead, I headed east from the library, walking bowered sidewalks for as long as I could. Past the utilities building, past the bookstore, until I hit the quad, that almost-rectangle of grass and trees and sidewalks pinned in the middle of campus. Only then did I turn north, walking through close-cut grass instead of along the sidewalks.
 
-Here, at last, I could look up and see the stars.
+There, at last, I could look up and see the stars.
 
 My steps were slow, contemplative. It wasn't a meander; my walk still had purpose. Instead, it was a putting-off of the inevitable. The inevitable time when I would rejoin walking along the road. The inevitable moment of stepping into my dimly-lit apartment. A delaying of engaging with the real, physical world as long as possible.
 
@@ -32,19 +32,19 @@ Here, at last, I could look up and see the stars, could drink in God's majesty,
 
 I could walk and I could pray.
 
-> Come, Holy Spirit, Divine Creator, true source of light and fountain of wisdom! Pour forth your brilliance upon my dense intellect...
+> *Come, Holy Spirit, Divine Creator, true source of light and fountain of wisdom! Pour forth your brilliance upon my dense intellect...*
 
 It was here --- here in the open, and back in the library --- that was where I was most comfortable. Most myself.
 
 Dee, the awkward coyote. Dee, who forgot to smile sometimes, who always seemed to say the wrong thing. Dee, with his nose forever in a book, forever in *the* book, reading and re-reading to tease ever-deeper meaning from scriptures he'd read a dozen times before.
 
-> ...dissipate the darkness which covers me, that of sin and ignorance. Grant me a penetrating mind to understand...
+> *...dissipate the darkness which covers me, that of sin and ignorance. Grant me a penetrating mind to understand...*
 
-Was that not why I was there, here at a seminary? To study and learn? To glean more from the word of God? To live in an ever more Christlike fashion? To help the downtrodden and the poor?
+Was that not why I was there at a seminary? To study and learn? To glean more from the word of God? To live in an ever more Christlike fashion?
 
 Could I not best learn how to do so there? Was that not why I was there?
 
-> ...a retentive memory, method and ease in learning, the lucidity to comprehend, and abundant grace...abundant grace in expressing myself...
+> *...a retentive memory, method and ease in learning, the lucidity to comprehend, and abundant grace...abundant grace in expressing myself...*
 
 I couldn't do it. I couldn't go back to my room just yet. All it held was my bed, my books, my aging laptop. Too-yellow lights, fourth-hand furniture, chipped paint.