Literary types - and strange bedfellows

Two favourites of mine are remembered on liturgical calendars tomorrow. On the Franciscan schedule, one would find the feast of the Stigmata of Saint Francis - where the Church of England commemorates Hildegard of Bingen. I often consider adding essays to my Internet site (which deals with mediaeval topics, mostly religious, some literary), and I've thought about writing of Hildegard (and many others.) Yet it strikes me that there may be several reasons why I have added so few. First, I have no notion of whether anyone is finding my essays useful in the first place. As well, since my essays are not, per se>, scholarly treatments, but are more introductions to overall approaches to spirituality, the 'preparation' was beyond what one might think. I certainly am not a stranger to Hildegard's life and work, for example, but Julian, Francis, et al, I studied in great depth over many years. I came, in time, to feel I 'knew' them in a way that one cannot achieve from study alone.

Of course, much defies description. I am exceedingly wary of unusual phenomena such as stigmata. Yet it is beyond me to provide a logical explanation for why, having studied Francis' writings and those of his contemporaries for over thirty years, somehow it doesn't even seem strange to me that Francis bore the wounds of Christ.

I may get to Hildegard one of these days - she's a fascinating lady. Yet I'm smiling because, different though the two characters are who share the same feast day, they do have some common ground (and this even apart from being 'characters' in every sense.) They were poles apart in their approaches (beyond, of course, being inflamed with passion and love), but both were poets and musicians. I therefore will be excused for loose associations in my light-hearted musing on those of us who are literary and arty types, saintly or not.

Not everyone educated in the arts and humanities qualifies as 'literary' or 'arty' by my definition. I've known people who have extensive knowledge of those fields in a purely technical manner - musicologists who could expound on Beethoven's use of the augmented sixth chord but never enjoy a concert, or those who could analyse every couplet in Chaucer but not understand a one of the pilgrims to Canterbury. I'm referring to those of us who are romantic (even if we'd hate to admit this), creative, and have more vision than we know how to handle.

I have no gift for writing fiction or poetry, but I have a passion for literature, theatre, and the like that has always been a part of my life. My own talent and background was for music, but I am not lacking in my love for the other arts and do have some knowledge of these. Francis, for example, may have had no formal training (and I have to admit that Hildegard was the better poet), but his expansive, extreme, passionate modes of expression were so a part of him that they infiltrated all of his writings and recorded speech. Images of chivalry, knights and ladies, and the like were nothing unusual in his day, but he was using them, as naturally as breathing, to seek to set forth the inexpressible when he spoke of the divine or of virtue.

Of course, the very literary have to beware of a dark side. Those who can envision angelic choirs also will see the dragons. :) I've known people who love detective stories (not a genre I personally favour) who either see everything as an investigation or fear that someone walking for the bus is a stalker. A few women I've known who were mad about romance novels not only never broke free of the idea that, whenever they entered a room, someone was saying "who is that striking woman...?", but thought every man they met was ready to force himself on them. (Please note - if you are new to my blog and unfamiliar with my style, my 'wryness tag' is on throughout.)

I think all of us who've always loved books and art fall into envisioning everything (down to a casual conversation we had this morning) as if it were a passage from a book. We recall everything with descriptions, 'novel-like' dialogue, deep meanings that may not exist. Of course, since this is so a part of our nature that we aren't aware of it in the first place, we are equally blind to that, where novelists (who express great truth but created their characters...) know each character's motivation, circumstances, inward thoughts, and so forth, we rarely if ever know any of these things. Our embellishments can confuse us.

Certainly, Francis' romance with Lady Poverty (which actually is a very moving writing) can make one forget that he was desperately ill, blind, covered with lice, troubled with insomnia and fear, and ultimately, towards the end of his brief life, finally able to admit that the extreme physical austerity he imposed on himself contributed to his illness and death. Few of us will have Francis' intensity - but equally few of us will find it helpful to adopt his 'heroism.' (Francis really did think he could convert the sultan with 'the fragrant words of My Lord'... kids, don't try this at home...) If we're washing off the homeless and hope we are showing them the love of Christ (we can't know if we are or not - it may not even be in their minds), we mustn't then think ourselves failures when we admit we are worn to a frazzle - or are just as gullible as Francis (who passed out priceless silks to beggars) and are the last ones who can help the element who are 'con men' - whatever.

Being 'a worm' worked for Francis - I doubt it is to be generally recommended, because, for many of us, this romantic notion leads not to holiness but to discouragement. His version of humility didn't overlook that humility is truth - but was flavoured by a highly extreme image of his own weakness and sinfulness. Nor does heroism suit most of us. (In my era, we took a highly important part of Christian commitment - wanting social justice, for example - but distorted it by thinking we not only could produce a 'heaven on earth' but that we needed to do whatever the current version of 'taking the discipline' is because we were responsible for the world and couldn't admit to our limitations.) Admitting one's limitations is not 'giving up' - it's probably the first taste one has of healthy, genuine humility.

Of course, what 'novels' one spins in one's head will greatly differ according to one's goals, temperament, and so forth. Beware if one has high ideals - and I, the cynic (burnt idealist), know this all too well. Perhaps I developed such an affection for literature of the Middle Ages later because, for all that it can have huge elements of romance, it equally shows a great deal of the genuine human condition. That cannot be said for some later literature, especially that aimed at the young and at women later. Victorian romance is far more dangerous than the earthy (and Catholic - therefore not glorifying our natures or family 'values' unduly) versions from the mediaeval period. Self-sacrifice as being angelic - tuberculosis patients being fascinating because the optimism characteristic of that horrid disease made them appealing waifs who never complained despite horrid suffering - children as the souls of innocence (well, I never believed that one - but lots of people still do) - poverty (especially that of the lady bountiful who deprives herself on principle) as a way to perfection - don't we all remember such images?

When I was a teenager, I recall a much older lady whom I knew, who lived in a romance novel. (Most of her memories were of having been such a raving beauty that she had only to walk down a street to have some famous man try to pick her up - though she did underline that she never went with any of them. Her timing was a bit off - I knew that, at the time of our story, some of these famous fellows would have been about 8 years old, though I had the good taste not to say so.) I'm rather reserved and very innocent, but I also have a Mediterranean comfortableness with the human condition, and, though I never was anything approaching immodest, I was quite pleased with my womanly figure, which I gather the other lady thought was odd, since I think I was supposed to be making every effort to hide having the shape God gave women. I well remember her saying, with an inflection and unearthly facial expression that was undoubtedly supposed to be wise and charming (though it was condescending and could have given the impression she'd been sniffing glue), "You're a ... bud. A new... beautiful little bud..." Now, I this 'bud' had no intention of sacrificing maiden flower (nor, I sigh to admit, was there anyone interested in relieving me of same... I'd have at least liked the romantic gesture of saying no), but, at that dramatic chestnut of hers, there was an incident unique in the annals of my life. For a brief moment, I wanted to bonk the entire neighbourhood!

As we spin the mental novels, we romantics (especially the religious ones) can envision that every authority figure who treats people like dirt has their best interests at heart - whether they are spurring us to virtue, achievement, or motivation. (The truth is that most of them are shits.) We can turn everything into a major epic, in which we 'star' - and become vulnerable or self absorbed in the process. I may not be able to define, let alone live, the essential self-forgetfulness to which I recently referred in my post regarding Simone Weil, but I can admit that it is not achieved by falling in love... and my entire spiritual life has been a love affair with God! (Yes, it worked for Teresa of Avila, but she was far more of a realist and of a highly flirtatious nature.) I mean nothing prurient by that statement! I'm speaking of being caught up in romantic images, which may have its charm but ultimately is a problem because God is beyond us and casting him in the role of a beau limits our vision all the more.

I'm reading over this post, and it's so disassociated that it occurs to me that I dislike the content... but I'll publish it anyhow, just to keep fit...