Usually I try to keep my prayer as lighthearted as possible, and I thought that the prayer I made this morning would fall into that category: access to a Door of Mercy and a prayer for the Holy Souls of that place..... I find that place an exceptionally sad place, there is an atmosphere there I've never felt in another Catholic Church, not even in those desecrated during war. I thought this prayer may help. Perhaps it has, I'm now so drained....
But perhaps it is just me. Perhaps the tiredness is my constant battle with myself and my ideals. Perhaps it is both. Perhaps it is something else. Prayer can be very irresponsible, it just happens and we never quite know its reasons or its consequences, a fleeting prayer for a near stranger could have done this to me. Indeed, one never approaches prayer for others from the position of one's own perfection and understanding. Charity is wrought in our imperfections and that is what fits us for Heaven, perfect charity is made in imperfect, ignorant people......
I have also put an end to a 25 year old hurt. Back then I didn't know my own strength and I cornered someone intellectually and morally and left them with virtually no dignity and no room to back away. And subconsciously at least, I've been basking in my own righteousness ever since. It was time to make peace, it was time for us both to smile and get on with our very different lives.... I'm staggered it has taken so long, though perhaps this one needed time... And the release; letting go of the past, the complete freedom we now both have, that too is probably extremely draining. I seem to be spending a lot of time now 'mending stuff and ironing out creases'.
Time for some Louis MacNeice and time for bed....
from Autumn Journal XXIV
Sleep, my body, sleep, my ghost,
Sleep, my parents and grand-parents,
And all those I have loved the most:
One man's coffin is another's cradle.
Sleep, my past and all my sins,
In distant snow or dried roses
Under the moon for nights' cocoon will open
When day begins.
Sleep, my fathers, in your graves
On upland bogland under heather:
What the wind scatters the wind saves,
A sapling springs in a new country.
Time is a country, the present moment
A spotlight roving round the scene:
We need not chase the spotlight,
The future is the bride of what has been.
Sleep my fancies and my wishes,
Sleep a little and wake strong,
The same but different and take my blessing-
And sleep, my various and conflicting
Selves I have so long endured,
Sleep in Asclepius' temple
And wake cured.
The Spiritual Wombat takes a nap.