Mother Teresa's 18.250 dark nights of the soul

A new book of Mother Teresa's letters continues to cause a stir in the world of religion. It has now come to light that the saintly woman spent most of her life doubting the very existence of God.

It seems that this piece of information won't have much influence on the ongoing process of her canonization, although she is not likely to be officially made a saint as soon as it was initially thought. The Vatican commission in charge is apparently having trouble finding any solid evidence for a miracle that happened through her intercession, one among a number of requirements.

She is by no means the only Catholic saint (or saint-to-be) famous for her doubt and struggle with faith. Among more popular ones is a medieval mystic St John of the Cross. Some already make comparisons between Mother Teresa's collection of letters and St John's "Dark Night of the Soul."

Seems like a timely piece of work for this day and age.

More on this: an editorial from Mennonite Weekly Review and an excellent On Point (NPR) podcast.

Quarterly Book Reviews #5

Temperature in Belgrade has suddenly dropped almost twenty degrees. I didn't expect to be wearing my winter woolies at the beginning of September, but autumn being my favourite season, I'm hardly complaining. The unexpected change in weather also came as a signal for me to sit down and make the seasonal inventory of the books I read during summer.
FICTION
The Royal Physician's Visit by Per Olov Enquist

Struggle for absolute power and economic reforms in the twilight of feudalism, intertwined with Pietism, revolutionary French rationalism and the constant wrestling between self-restraint and unfettered sexuality, all on the court of the mad King Christian VII of Denmark.

Not having any knowledge of Swedish, apart from a personal appreciation for that great Swedish word smörgåsbord, I read Enquist in Tiina Nunnally's excellent English translation.

Great novel, a real page turner.


RELIGION/HISTORY
Portrait in Grey: A Short History of the Quakers by John Punshon

There is only a handful of books I've had the desire or patience to read more than once. This is one of them.

It is my favourite of all the Quaker histories I've read so far, primarily due to the author's ability to provide insight into complex historical processes and ideological influences that shaped the Society of Friends, from its wild 17th century beginnings to what it is today (i.e. the exact opposite of wild) - all that in a very clear and concise way.


FICTION
Due Preparations for the Plague by Janette Turner Hospital

I am not into this sort of books normally, airplanes hijacked, hostages taken, survivors questioning their government's involvement... Anxiety, paranoia and claustrophobia easily transfer from characters to the reader. I couldn't put it down, and when I eventually finished reading it, it was with an uneasy sense of relief.

Very post-9/11.

FICTION
Grasshopper by Barbara Vine

Being a recent convert to Barbara Vine's novels, I'm still quite enthusiastic about her storytelling. Macabre, full of twists and turns, albeit somewhat repetitive, it was just the right combination of anguish, personal tragedy and psychopathy, as any Barbara Vine novel ought to be.

Probably not her best, but still thoroughly enjoyable.

Tides and ebbs

Home at last. Although I have two more weeks of summer break left, everything already seems so over. The rest of it will probably be spent in going through the motions, in anticipation of the new school year.

Croatia was great. The weather was unpredictable as usual, with scorching heat one moment and strong, cold northern wind gushing forth from the high peaks of Mt. Velebit the other. I love it when the clouds begin to gather and suddenly all the tourists quickly evacuate from the beaches, as if a fast-approaching natural disaster is about to wipe out the entire human race. Nothing ever happens, as the blackness normally disperses in about quarter of an hour, by which time people don't bother coming back to the beaches. Lunchtime anyway. There are always a few people left though, sitting happily along the coast, watching the tide rise and the waves grow powered by the wind. I can tell this is not their first visit to the village. We are in the know when it comes to local weather patterns.

My two cousins are right in thinking that nothing ever changes there. The same people sell their produce on the stalls at the minuscule village market, the same woman sells drinks and sandwiches on the beach, the same things happen at the local village feast of St Mary of the Angels in early August. Everything is cyclical there, tides and ebbs, the winds, coming and going of tourists, feasts of saints... Years ago, before the war, there was a large camping area near the beach, with beautiful, tall poplar tress that provided much needed shelter from the sun for the campers, mostly large groups of young Poles and Czechs. Someone cut down all the poplars soon after the war. This year there stood only two tents erected in the area. Numinous spirits of the place have vanished. Changes are unwelcome and disturbing. I do not welcome them.

The last evening in Karin I was feeling rather melancholic, in one of those states of mind when I feel able to converse pretty much only with plants and animals. I went to the small salt water pond opposite our summer house to say goodbye to the crabs, something I've been doing since early childhood. I found the pond full of life, seagulls minding their own business on the left, a lone heron searching for food on the right, and hundreds of crabs running in all directions in the shallow water. One daring little crab crawled toward me, raising its delicate claws as if to greet me. We played a little, exchanged goodbyes and I knew I was ready to pack.

The cat back home didn't seem to recognize me this time. Maybe she is giving me the silent treatment. Or perhaps my cat-sitting cousins who chose to skip Karin this year were too good to her and now I've fallen into disfavour.

Everything seems to come in cycles. Even the tides and ebbs of feline approval.

Back from Montenegro

I got back from Montenegro yesterday, finishing stage 1 of my summer holidays. It was good to be there in great company and with over a week of nothing else to do but swim, sunbathe and enjoy Mediterranean cuisine.

Not everything was great though. It was excruciatingly hot, as in most of the region. I don't think I have ever swum in a sea that warm. Nights were most frustrating, leading up to morning grumpiness and frequent daydreaming about a return to the comforts of my air-conditioned home. Now that I'm back, however, I miss all of it. It's always like that for me.

It was good to see that the cat hasn't forgotten all about me. It was the first time I left the city leaving her without my ever-watchful presence for over a week. She didn't seem to mind, which is great. Now I can get rid of some of the guilt for abandoning her next time I go somewhere.

Which will be in a couple of days, actually. Stage 2 begins this Sunday, when I'm leaving for another two-week journey to Croatia. Life can be really good at times.

End of school year!

I taught my last class this school year on Friday and, as much as I like my job, I am soooo looking forward to waking up on Monday morning, only to realize that I won't have to go to work - not until September!

I've already done some long overdue decluttering in my place over the weekend. I've thrown out piles of old notebooks, lesson plans, newsletters and magazines. Suffice it to say that I'm in a much calmer, although not entirely balanced state of mind right now...

Quarterly Book Reviews #4

LITERATURE
Strange Things: The Malevolent North in Canadian Literature by Margaret Atwood
Originally presented at Clarendon Lectures in English Literature, in this book Atwood analyzes a number of novels, poems and folk stories that might be cconsidered distinctly Canadian. She eloquently uses Franklin's expedition, Grey Owl and Wendigo as examples of historical, psychological and mythical undercurrents that give Canadian Lit a unique flavour.

Also noteworthy, the book contains excellent bibliography for anyone courageous enough to step into the fascinating world of the malevolent North on one's own. Through fiction, at least.

RELIGION
Son of Man: The Mystical Path to Christ by Andrew Harvey

More like four books in one. Part One (The Historical Jesus) is a lucid and progressive approach to Jesus as a man, teacher and revolutionary, not unlike Jesus as interpreted by other liberal Christian thinkers and theologians. Part Two (The Mystical Christ) relies a bit too heavily on the Gnostic gospels, which the author tends to treat as more authoritative than the canonical ones. In Part Three (Christ and the Sacred Feminine) the focus is shifted almost entirely on Mary, her mystic motherhood and divine femininity. Part Four is a collection of practices and meditations on the mystical Christ.

What the book lacks is a sort of bridge between the historical Jesus and the mystical Christ. Those who are prone to think of Jesus in more rational terms (as Harvey portrays him in Part One) are not very likely to endorse the rather advanced neognostic hyper-mysticism espoused by the author in other parts of the book.

RELIGION
Which Witch Is Which? compiled & edited by Patricia Telesco

A collection of articles about various neo-pagan traditions, written by the practitioners themselves. Each article contains contact adress(es) and suggestions for further reading about a particular group, coven or tradition. It's a Who's Who of neo-paganism; very easy to use, highly practical, especially for those who have just begun exploring this rather heterogeneous cluster of different spiritual traditions and practices.

FICTION
Augustus by Allan Massie
A historical novel in the form of reconstructed memoirs of Augustus, the first in the long line of Roman emperors. The good thing about it is that Massie clearly knows historical facts and also knows how to use them for the purpose of fine and exciting story-telling. The bad thing about it is that in the attempt to make history alive he goes a bit too far. For instance, you will find Maecenas calling Augustus "Duckie" and similar horrors which often result when authors insist on using modern language or jargon in historical novels. (Sorry, I'm just not a big fan of that.)

In short, the novel is good enough to make other Massie's books in the series (Tiberius, Calligula) worth checking out, but it is not quite in the same league with, say, Graves' famous I, Claudius.

In the absence of more intelligent things to write about

I had a haircut this morning. It never fails to brighten me up. And it seems to be linked, in some esoteric way, with an instant urge to workout and flex some muscles. Which is exactly what I did as soon as I got home, but that's beside the point (the whole fitness "routine" will only last a week or so, anyway).

What I did mean to write about is the sheer horror of realizing that my hair looked like a grey cat's fur. At least that's exactly what it looked like lying there on the floor, before they brushed it away. I just stared at it for a few moments, wondering whether that really was my hair, growing out of my head. And how could I have walked around all these weeks with that wretched thing on my head?

I'm so glad I'm back to my more presentable self now (or as my mother would delightfully put it, like-you-just-got-out-of-prison look).