Giving Things Up and Getting Old

Lent is the most ambivalent part of the liturgical calendar. Each year I give up things to bring me closer to God, which is good, and each time I end the lent season I am usually more eager to resume whatever I gave up than I was to give it up. Nevertheless, lent is valuable, just as making one’s bed is, because it teaches us to do things (even perfunctory ones) for their own sake rather than our own. Last year I gave up listening to personal music. For over a month I read, wrote and prayed in silence. Well, that was the hope; living in dorms precludes any chance of silence. It was a valuable thing to do though, as it helped me see (as I had suspected) that I, as well as many others, are afraid of silence. Perhaps it’s because I’m anxious of what the quiet whispering voice of God will say or that in the silence I see myself, uncoloured and unobstructed. The voices that are heard in the silence speak more poignantly than the din which so often drowns them out.

This year I decided to divest myself of two personal pleasures: alcohol and my pipe (an honourable habit I picked up in Oxford). I try to treat these as I would anything else: with sensibility and propriety. It’s not unusual to hear me quoting Pascal on the subject, “Too much wine, too little wine: too much and you can’t find truth, too little the same thing.” Having said that, I fault no one who abstains, but I respectfully abstain from abstaining. When it comes to alcohol, I am concerned with quality as well as virtuous consumption. What I avoid is drunkenness and dependency. Case in point: champagne accompanies special occasions well, but it would not be well to have to have it in order for an occasion to be special. So I gave up all alcohol and my pipe (which I use once a week and no more), and have decided to do so every lent for the rest of my life. It’s been great. Things retain their value when they aren’t over indulged in. I also hoped my wallet would retain more of its money as a result, but it seems that like always, one habit replaces another: books instead of beer. Every dollar saved from not buying pints has equated in another penguin classic bought. In my freshman year I recall spending so much on books that when I ran out of money on my food card, with two weeks still left in the term, I had to forgo a number of meals because I had already spent what capital I had on good books. I would sit in my room, next to my overflowing book shelf, thinking that though I had plenty of food for thought, I had little food to eat.

On things other than lent, this semester I have been spending my Sunday evenings at the local senior citizen’s home, and to great surprise, have had a lot of fun doing it. Like lent though, I have ambivalent feelings regarding it. Sometimes I leave in a fit of laughter because old people can be a riot. Just last week I heard an elderly women (emphasis on elderly) elaborate on the merits of her lover and another woman whose moustache bettered half the guys growing theirs at TWU under the aegis of ‘moustache march’. During the prior week, in response to a variety of questions such as ‘what’s your favourite food, holiday destination, memory and occupation?’ a seasoned old dame memorably responded ‘my dog in Manitoba’ to all the above. There are other times however when I depart on a more pensive note. Their age reminds me that everything which blooms will one day wilt. I am not worried about growing old, nor I am concerned about dying young (and probably not as concerned about either as much as I should be), instead I am wary of doing very little with very much. Just as no man is to be an island unto himself, so nothing I have is to remain my own. Though tempests may disorient, it is on tranquil seas that one goes no where, and so I feel it necessary to keep a purpose ever before me. I have no desire for an idle life. Rest is important, and can be moral, but idleness is immoral. When I see the elderly, I am not afraid of how little time is left, for as Seneca points out, “It is not that we have a short time to live, but that we waste a lot of it.” I simply think and pray that I will use it well. It also prompts me to acknowledge that each day could not only be my last, but is also an extravagant gift from God. Saint Francis of Assisi gets it right when he wrote that, “this is the day which the Lord has made; let is exult and rejoice in it!” As each new day’s sun rises so the risen Son grants us the gift of making good our life and death. Rather than existential dread there is extravagant joy. That’s at least how St. Francis saw it, that’s how I would like to see it, that isn’t how I see it 8am every Friday morning waking up for class. I’m still young enough that anything before 930 am gives me at least a modicum of existential dread.

Till next time,

Pax