I'm getting rid of all of my stuff.

At first, the thought was that I would simplify by getting rid of a few highly annoying items, things that are big, combersome, and meaningless to me. So, I made a list. It's hard to describe all your possessions in that way, expendible or essential. If you get nothing else out of this post, I would recommend making that list. You'll be amazed at the results.

Once I had my list in hand, I realized right away that it wasn't enough. I really want to cut down on the clutter, but the things I most want to shed were gifts or heirlooms, sure-in's for the essential list. Not a good start.

So I tried again, this time choosing to ignore the meaning of the item, and instead picking things purely by function. I kept my bed - I like a good night's sleep - the large metal rack, my laptop, my kindle, my keyboard, and my kitchen junk. Everything else is truely expendible. But I digress.

At the core of all of this is a simple assertion, that the accumulation of possesions is not only unnecessary, it's harmful to how I want to live. The reasons are simple. I'm nomadic, and as such, I move fairly often. The more stuff, the more expensive it is to move. Also, it requires me to find bigger and bigger apartments, to fit all my extra stuff. I haven't gotten any bigger - not too much, anyway - so it doesn't make a lot of sense why I need a bigger place. Thirdly, when my possessions clutter my life, there is a large psychological cost (there's a lot more that could be said on this point, but I'll save it for another time). And finally, I get wrapped up in these emotional attatchments to certain items because of their history. The result is a bit of a three-way Catch-22, where I'm unhappy that my apartment is too small for all my clutter, I'm unhappy that I have so much useless stuff, and I'm unhappy because I can't get rid of sentimental things and new ones keep appearing.

So once I decided that I was going to get rid of my stuff, the question became, how much should I keep. My religious aspirations aside, in living my life for the day-to-day, I put a value on what it was I really needed to keep me mentally, physically, and spiritually happy. The result was an overwhelming, "Less is more."

The best decision I made on this front in Alaska was to get rid of my internet access. I let that slide when I moved to Atlanta due to some pressures from distant friends, but the result has made it all the more clear that I can't be trusted to budget my time properly as long as I have this persistent connection. In a similar vein, there are lots of other habits I have around my apartment that lead to time-wasting, messiness, and generally bad living conditions. I'm going to need to take care of all of these.

The next step for me was to evaluate certain special collections or objects. What do I do with all my books, for instance? At first, I thought I would just do the same process of identifying the books I wanted to keep and shedding the rest, but I'm a pack rat. The behavior was passed down from my Dad, and it's alive and well in me. The only way to shed the books is all or nothing. The same goes for lots of other things: records, DVDs, CDs, etc. To go from having a lot to having a little, you must purge.

I won't lie. It's emotional. It's frightening to think of the amount of money I've poured into all these things, and to think that I'm going to give them away or sell them for next to nothing. In the end, I believe it's worth the cost to simplify. The lesson having been learned, I'll hope to avoid this same problem in the future.

So, to reiterate, I'm getting rid of all my stuff. If there are any of you out there who want something I have, please let me know. I'm terrible about shipping things, and it's an extra expense I'd like to avoid, but if you can pick things up and take them away, they're yours.

Here's a brief list of items that will be going: books, movies, music, game systems, clothes, instruments, accessories, computers and other hardware, random electronics, and much more. Give me a call if you want something.

Est autem fides sperandarum substantia rerum, argumentum non apparentium. - Faith is the hypostasis of things hoped for; the proof of things not seen.
    → Hebrews 11:1 - Translation from the encyclical "Saved In Hope (Spe Salvi)" by Pope Benedict XVI

Last night I read paragraph 7 of Pope Benedict's encyclical several times, catching new insights each time and repeatedly kicking myself for missing so much. People have called the current Pope bookish, but I don't think that quite covers it. A year or so ago, I picked up a few of his books written in his Cardinal days, one of which was Many Religions, One Covenant: Israel, the Church, and the World. I remember clearly that night which I read the chapter titled, "The Christian Faith and the Mystical Religions." Afterwards, putting the book down, I felt a great connection to the Pope through his acceptance and his support of a metaphysical study of God. I learned from that short chapter that the Pope is more than bookish, he is deeply mystical and philosophical.

In the above quote from "Spe Salvi," he chooses carefully to leave the word "hypostasis" untranslated, commenting briefly on the trouble it has caused biblical exegetes over the years. Indeed, in comparing the translations of that same passage by Martin Luther and by Thomas Aquinas, we see two very different interpretations. It was fitting that he would choose such a contentious passage for the organizing statement of his second encyclical. Not only does he bring it the fruit of his years of study and inspection, but he draws out of it a wealth of meaning beyond the points brought up by biblical scholars of the past. His evaluations go beyond literal translations and comparisons of grammatical structures. For Pope Benedict, the topic of Faith is not a question of semantics, it's a question of metaphysics.

As I've mentioned previously, for St. Aquinas, the spiritual realm of faith as a virtue was a habitual and abiding disposition, granted to us through God's grace, and practiced through repetition and the power of our will. Martin Luther, on the other hand, who was admittedly never a big fan of the Letter to the Hebrews, read the words to say that faith was "standing firm in what one hopes, being convinced of what one does not see." (ibid.)

While both ideas are insightful and helpful towards spiritual understanding, they are quite different. Two differing lessons taken from the same sentence. What is it then, that makes up faith? Is it a habitual disposition, granted by grace? Is it the will's power to stand firm to things we hope? Benedict explains that they each have a part of the truth.

Hope, as he explains, implies the desire for something to come. It is a focus on the future. Obviously, it makes no sense for us to hope things will happen in the past. Our hopes are undeniably focused forward, but faith brings something more to the equation. "Hypostasis," a word meaning "substance" and so much more, leads the translation to suggest that faith is not a disposition of the subject, as Martin Luther suggests, nor is it simply a property of our disposition as Aquinas put forth. Faith is a wholly unique substance that replies to the concept of hope and provides a proof for things which we cannot see.

Faith, then, is a response to hope--granted by Grace, yes--that allows us to live our lives of hope today, rather than just for the future. We do not close our eyes to the world around us and say things like, "Judgement day will come, and God's plan will be completed, so we can just sit on our butts until it happens." We understand through faith that the things to come are already here, in part, through our faith. Christians understand that it is not the possessions we have in this profane life that define us, but the possessions we claim in our sacred lives, reflections of that everlasting life to come. It sounds simple when you word it that way, but metaphysically speaking, it is profound.

As I re-read this paragraph again and again, I get more and more out of it. That is quite a legacy for a bookish mystic, after-all.

For us who contemplate these figures, their way of acting and living is de facto a "proof" that the things to come, the promise of Christ, are not only a reality that we await, but a real presence: he is truly the "philosopher" and the "shepherd" who shows us what life is and where it is to be found.
    → Ibid.

I find the great thing in this world is not so much where we stand, as in what direction we are moving: To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it,--but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.
    → Oliver Wendell Holmes, Sr. - The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table (1858)

Long before hyper-modern forms of travel enabled us to escape to a new life or a new world in the blink of an eye, the overwhelming desire to leave, to travel, to explore, boiled the blood of many men. Passion du voyage, reislust, mehetnék, λαχτάρα για ταξίδια, страсть к путешествиям, wanderlust; the words carry the same feeling in every language, but I believe it is the German word 'fernweh' that speaks most linguistically true. As heimweh is the word for 'homesick', so fernweh, then, is that same longing feeling for another, unknown place. It is a farsickness.

Perhaps the why's of wanderlust aren't as important as they once were to me. I've come to know the feeling as a part of me. At times it is quiet, waiting, letting me enjoy a place or people. At times it grows restless and I know it's time to go. Even in those quiet times, though, I am aware of it like I am aware of the gasoline in my car. I know one day the tank will run dry and I must be ready. That readiness is something that's grown over time.

As a child, the choice to stay or go was never mine. I remember times when my parents' jobs would force us to pick up and head to a new city, and it was frightening. I didn't want to leave my friends, my home, my school. I don't know if the lust wasn't in me yet, if I hadn't come to understand it, or if I was blissfully ignorant because of my lack of control. Whatever the reason, those times ended with highschool.

In college I took drives, many drives. The need to get away grew stronger all the time and I didn't know what else to do. I packed up the car with snacks, if I had that much forethought, and started driving. The roads took me where they willed.

Once, I remember crossing the endlessly flat, barren terrain of Nebraska. A rail-road ran along side of my car. Slowly I passed by a train, only to stop and fill up my tank and watch the train pass me by again. I think that is when I understood.

Every now and then we throw an old schoolmate over the stern with a string of thought tied to him, and look--I am afraid with a kind of luxurious and sanctimonious compassion--to see the rate at which the string reels off, while he lies there bobbing up and down, poor fellow! and we are dashing along with the white foam and bright sparkle at our bows;--the ruffled bosom of prosperity and progress, with a sprig of diamonds stuck in it! But this is only the sentimental side of the matter; for grow we must, if we outgrow all that we love.

    → Ibid.

Over the years, I've grown better at moving on. I've learned how to pick up any stray roots I've lain, organize my life and possessions, plot a course and set sail. It's never been a sad thing, for me at least, to leave a place. I know I take so much from each stop on my journey, from each person I've met and story I've heard. The experiences fill me with joy and strengthen my faith, not only in God, but in human beings. It's allowed me the distinct opportunity to share in the lives of hundreds of fine people, some of whom I will not see again. Regardless, they are a part of me now.

At times I look back on those people and compare myself, judging whether I've made any real progress or not. Like Mr. Holmes says, "...we cannot help instituting comparisons between our present and former selves by the aid of those who were what we were, but are not what we are." It is not a point of pride, or a means of looking down on the others. The true comparison is against our former selves. When the wind changes, am I a better person than I was?

Wanderlust is not the why. It is not the how or even the what. It is a spark inside that calls for change, but it is the change itself that is the message. What do we want from our new place and people? Who does it serve? What can we do to make it better, make ourselves better? In all my travelling, that is the most important lesson I've learned. I know of no better way to prepare for the journey.

St. Thomas Aquinas understood virtues to be habitual or abiding dispositions that help us to realize the good in our decisions and actions. These habitual dispositions, acquired through repetition and an effort over time (and, at the same time, given to us by God through grace), make accomplishing the good easier, more immediate, requiring less internal deliberation and struggle.
    → Rev. Mark O'Keefe, OSB - Priestly Virtues: Reflections on the Moral Virtues in the Life of the Priest (2000)

At the suggestion of a close friend, I've been reading The Case for Faith: A Journalist Investigates the Toughest Objections to Christianity, by Lee Strobel. In one chapter, an interviewee makes an excellent point about people who have doubts that keep them from embracing their faith. The claim was that for many people, doubts are a way of justifying an underlying desire not to believe, because the cost associated with faith is so high.

Now, I should say right away that the statement was made in a setting of appropriate context and sounds much harsher taken on its own. I'll also say, as it is said in the book, that it is not necessarily the case for everyone. I wanted to bring it up, not as a way of creating argument, but as a way of shining some light on my own situation.

Personally, I used to find it very hard to accept my faith completely because of a few fundamental questions that still lingered in the back of my mind. These days, I see those lingering questions as being more and more helpful towards me solidly moving forward with my discernment, but it wasn't always so. For a very long time, the questions of faith were a barrier keeping me from everything, even from sitting in a church. But as I look back upon those times and truly evaluate what I was feeling, I have to agree with the book. I was scared to let go of my comfortable life, free from the demands that faith brings with it.

You see, Aquinas was right about virtues being a habitual state, but he also teaches the same about vice. My life, especially my teen years, had grown deeply in vice; so much so that the very foundation of my thought processes and even dreams were centered in them. I fell very low for a time, if not in a material sense, then certainly in a spiritual one. I was a habitually drawn to make the bad decision. It was easier and required less and less internal deliberation. And faith, poor self-effacing faith, was a powerful threat to that way of living.

So I asked myself, "Do I want to believe?" I asked, "Can I let myself believe?" And still, "Is belief worth it." A funny thing happened when I did that. I realized that by asking the question, I had admitted to myself that my faith existed already, that I was surpressing it, hiding away from the guilt. It wasn't pretty.

Even these days, as I know I've moved forward a great deal, I still see the sense of habitual vice in me. I'm a long way from the place where good decisions are easy and simple, but I have accepted that I want to be that way one day. Aquinas also said, if you lack a clear understanding of what should be done in a particular situation, look to the example of the virtuous person. Lucky for me, I have several of them as friends.

Last night I went shopping at the Perimeter Mall just north of Atlanta. I've been up in the area a few times, but I hadn't been inside the mall yet. Last night, a friend and I had too much food at Cheeseburger in Paradise before walking off our fattness around the swanky stores.

Most of the stores weren't very inviting; either selling kids clothes or personal electrolysis kits. We had a little fun in the EB Games, but as our game systems are mostly modded, we weren't really planning on buying anything.

Then we came to the Apple Store. It was a glorious, pearly haven of electronic goodness, bountiful in innovation and style. Behind the counter, the Apple Geniuses were hard at work training and explaining all the latest Mac concepts to the shoppers. Stepping inside, we could feel the excitement. Customers swarmed around iPod touches, MacBooks, new iMacs, and of course, the new MacBook Air.

It was our first time seeing the device in person. The commercials had been a big hit, showing how thing and elegant the design was, but I wasn't impressed. To me, thin meant fragile, stripped-down, even backwards. Then we touched it.

I knew I was wrong right away. As I lifted the unit, I was as impressed by how sturdy and solid it felt as I was by how little it weighed. Gone were the days where the screen wobbles as you walk the laptop around. The hinges held tightly as I closed and reopened it, noticing another nice surprise. Apple had also removed the annoying push-button to open the laptop. On my 12" PowerBook at home, that very switch has recently being giving me problems. On the Air, you just lift from the recessed notch and it's done.

With the outside examined, I wanted to put it to the real test. As I moved my hand to the touchpad, I paused. It had been enlargened to a big comfortable size. I could barely keep my excitement in. I'd been dying to try this out for a while. Opening safari, I went to the first webpage I could think of, this blog, and pinched my fingers together. Instantly, the text size shrunk. I spread my fingers out and the text grew. Multi-touch touch-pads may be the coolest thing since the hotdog was invented.

Plopping my thick fingers onto the keyboard, I was in for another surprise. The new keyboard design was fantastic! Rather than the shoddy loose keyboard faceplate of the old PowerBook models, the Air had a solid metal faceplate with large, unencumbered buttons rising up. No tapered sides or miniature footprint here; this keyboard was solid, easy to use, and comfortable.

I loved the keyboard so much, I wanted one right then and there. I couldn't afford the 1799$ pricetag of the Air, though, so I went the easy route. I picked up the Apple Wireless Keyboard for use on my PC at home.

Without going into too many details, let me just say it's amazing. The smallest footprint you can imagine, with the feel of a full-size keyboard. As I type this blog entry out on a big, clunky, monster of an HP keyboard, my fingers feel dirty. They crave the AWK even now.

Setup had a cost, though. While I'm certain that integrating with a Mac would have been simple, doing so with a PC had a few problems.

First, setting up the bluetooth connection was really problematic. I purchased the Kensington Bluetooth USB Adapter 2.0 from Best Buy on the way home. I followed the installation instructions, set up the Bluetooth device, and turned on the Keyboard. My Bluetooth configuration picked up the keyboard right away and knew exactly what it was, but when I went to handshake and share pass-key to connect, the problem was apparent. The screen told me to type in the PIN number on my keyboard and press Enter, but there was no PIN number on the screen. After some searching online, I found more information on this forum.

In the end, the solutions they presented helped lead me to my own solution, even if they didn't work as stated. I downloaded an old version of the Wildcomm Drivers (v. 1.4.2.10), as they suggested at one point in the forum. The order in which I installed things was important. After a few errors, I uninstalled everything and did the following. I installed the old Wildcomm Drivers. Then when it asked me to plug in my Bluetooth device, I plugged in the USB adapter. It popped up asking for a driver. At that point, I had Windows search the driver CD for the correct driver. When it finished installing, the Wildcomm install also finished. After a reboot, I turned on the Keyboard and told Windows to supply the PIN itself. Voila!

If that wasn't crazy enough, I had a new problem. The FN button wouldn't work. That made it very difficult to perform a CTRL-ALT-Delete. After a few more forums, I found the solution via the utility, AutoHotKey. I started with someone's prefabricated "Apple Wireless Keyboard" script, and edited it to make the eject button into a delete button, which was my preference. Now not only can I CTRL-ALT-Delete, but the keyboards media keys work with Winamp too!

All in all, I'd say the keyboard is downright fantastic. If you don't mind messing with firmware and drivers a bit, or installing and scripting some fancy hot-keys, this keyboard might be a good fit for you too.

In the summer of 2004, after a long relationship had ended, I wrote a secret journal that chronicled my depression and anxieties. In a move typical of that time, I published the journal online under a new name without any connection to my regular journal or network of friends. It was partially catharsis and partially a half-hearted attempt to form a new connection.

For me, the hardest thing about ending a long relationship is not the physical separation or loss of intamacy, but the loss of a confidant and counselor. It is that special person above all others who you turn to with problems and complaints, joys and victories, and above all, heartache. So it is quite inevitaable that when that greatest loss comes, the sword is felt as strongly when striking as when it is pulled away, revealing the hole in its stead.

My first post addressed the confusion and lonliness I was feeling then. It was a pain that was unsharable, but not because there was any uniqueness to it. Most of my friends have felt it before and would certainly have sympathized with me, offering comfort and companionship. That very reaction, though, was why the feelings were unsharable for me. As I put it in that first post, "just let the damned compassion die away and give me someone who will wallow with me and tell me that they 'empathize' instead of 'sympathize'. It can't be that hard to find a person who would rather cry with me than console me."

Of course, that was only the half-truth that I could cry out in the pain of the moment. In truth, the real reason I didn't want a comforting friend was because of what it would mean for the relationship that had ended. To turn to another friend in that moment, away from the loving confidence of her in whom I had trusted for years, was as sure a sign of the end of things as anything could be. It was as simple as that. I wasn't ready to let it go.

So the fifteen entries went by, each darker than the last, each one seeking some new me on the other side of grief. In the two months I wrote, new friends and commentors gathered. I shared with them, the strangers, what I couldn't share with my friends. I poured out detail after detail, condemnation and prostration, and in the end I was empty. The pain was there, floating with me as fresh as ever, but the dispair had moved on.

There was no goodbye message in my last post. It, just like the others, was an empassioned tirade on the falicies of my actions and the entirety of sexuality in my being. But, in the last few words, there was a hint of a new beginning, or at least a new resolution as I continued the ongoing journey I had begun long before.

(The Last Post of that Journal)

In those few months I lived a secret life. I survived on the empathy of strangers and the bitter resentment of my own weaknesses. In those last moments, I fittingly closed a dark chapter in my life with dark, harsh words. It was not a time I am proud of, but it did bring me to some helpful discoveries.

A very dear friend once told me that I am an excellent friend, but a terrible boyfriend. It was never so true as it was with that one relationship. I had all the possibilities one could hope for, and none of the integrity to fight for it. Looking at those times and my other relationships that have fallen for similar reasons, it is hard to dispute the truth.

Some of us are called to lives of companionship, of marriage and family. Some of us are called to remain single, unattached, and free for service.

Were I able to treat those intimate relationships with the same love and affection that I have for my close friends, my calling would be far more difficult. Perhaps it is just another example of how God calls us to good things even through our faults.

This summer I'll be going on another Jesuit retreat at the Ignatius House, here in Atlanta. My first trip, last fall, was a spectacular experience with insights and discoveries too numerous to name here. I tried writing about it a few times, but rather than letting that stream of consciousness flow unchecked upon the internet, I decided to put all those thoughts into a paper journal. My personal struggles aside, the retreat itself could use a bit of explaination.

The Ignatius House runs silent, reflective retreats on weekends throughout the year. Some of those weekends are themed, where every few hours a priest will give a brief talk about the faith as it relates to both the chosen theme and St. Ignatius' Spritual Exercises. The talks last thirty minutes or so, and then everyone is let loose to wander the grounds, both inside and out, in search of peaceful reflection on the topics. Sometimes that peace comes sitting in a fluffy chair in the library, while other times it strikes you suddenly in the middle of a trail leading down to the river. One thing I'm fairly confident about, though, is that it did strike all of us that were there.

Before the retreat kicks off, there is an informal gathering where people introduce themselves and share tidbits of their lives over cookies. It's a friendly meeting, but you can tell that most everyone is anxious to get on with the silence and enter their own mini-worlds. When the bell rang that signaled the beginning, there was a palpable weight that lifted and at the same time settled over everything. I remember clearly the reaction of a Methodist woman who was very unsure of the whole enterprise when that tiny ringing began. Her eyes widened and searched around the room, then, seeing everyone's eyes turning inward, she smiled a broad grin and closed hers.

I've described the first day's silence as a weight, like a foreign presence that sits on top of everything. You are keenly aware of it, careful not to disturb it, and anxious of the hows, whens, and whats of everything around you. The first few hours, my head raced with things I wanted to say, or ask, or mumble. I mentally ordered them, filed away for safe keeping until later when we could speak to each other again. It was daunting, thinking of how much I had to remember for the whole weekend. I even toyed with the idea of writing down all my thoughts and questions for later. And then we had our first lecture.

The topic was very apt, about Jesus' love for us, and welcoming of us. It was an excellent introduction to the weekend filled with as many questions as it was pleasantries. By the time the old Jesuit had finished his little talk, I had forgotten my questions from earlier. In their place was a warm fuzzy feeling, like I wasn't really there, in that place, in that chair, in the midst of strangers. I was on the first steps of a long journey and there was no one on the road but myself. I went to sleep early that night, dreamed heavily, and woke late. In the morning, things had changed already.

Besides the nagging questions of faith I was having, and the amazing clarity and speed at which I was addressing them, there were other things floating through my mind; like a metacognative awareness of my own learning, and a recognition of the spirituality of the place as a whole, outside of the realm of the people, statues, and paths carved all around. I found a leaf hanging ten feet below a branch from a single thread of a spider's web. Plucking it free, I placed it into my journal with a smile. So much meaning comes from such little places when the silence is upon you.

That second day, the silence was a part of me. The stranger that had oppresessed my speech yesterday had settled into me in the night. When the third day came, and the bell rang again signalling the end of the silence, it was a long breath before anyone bothered to speak up. When the words came out, they were quiet, like they didn't want to break that tenative thread that held each of us in that place. We could feel ourselves suspended by a thread.

On the drive home, I left the radio turned off. I took long winding roads and several purposful wrong turns. I was scared that silence would be gone the instant I was back in my old world again.

This summer, I'll be taking a week-long retreat instead of the short weekend one. Instead of lectures every few hours, this retreat is individually guided, meaning I'll meet with my spritual director once a day and spend the rest of the time in silent meditation. My fear this time is not that I wont want to leave, but that I wont be able to.

My discernment is not an endless process. It leads somewhere tangible. Some day or another I'll take that step, and places like the Ignatius House make me feel that the moment is very close indeed.

Typography has one plain duty before it and that is to convey information in writing. No argument or consideration can absolve typography from this duty. A printed work which cannot be read becomes a product without purpose.
    → Emil Ruder - Typography: A Manual of Design (1981)

To convey information in writing, that is the one plain duty, and the one most easily forgotten. It's the art that overwhelms us and distracts us from our responsibilities. It's the art that tempts our pride with possibilities of greatness, or happiness, or uniqueness. In the end, our simplest duties are forgotten and we are left feeling lost. The line, the shape, the curve, balance and contrast, division and surface: the possibilities are endless and distant. Each of us feels the limitations of our tools. We complain that they hold us back, that we aren't free to express ourselves, but we know that we are only part of a vast machine. We are a small part, putting our stamp where we can, marking our names here or there. The tools are our guides, to keep us close to the task at hand. The message would be lost in possibilities even faster were we free of those few remaining constraints.

Design is like the stars. The beauty is undeniable, but the distance is vast. A glint of light, barely understood, further than we can imagine from our beings, but with a poetry that pulls at us from all sides. The gravity can be felt in our dreams.

Oh why is heaven built so far,
    Oh why is earth set so remote?
I cannot reach the nearest star
    That hangs afloat.

I would not care to reach the moon,
    One round monotonous of change;
Yet even she repeats her tune
    Beyond my range.

I never watch the scatter'd fire
    Of stars, or sun's far-trailing train,
But all my heart is one desire,
    And all in vain:

For I am bound with fleshly bands,
    Joy, beauty, lie beyond my scope;
I strain my heart, I stretch my hands,
    And catch at hope.
    → Christina Rossetti - De Profundis (1890)

As our ships strive endlessly forward into darkness, we spare a passing thought that our engines may sparkle like stars for those we left behind.

Somewhere between the steel framed bedracks, flourescent lights and linoleum tile, I lost my sense of self. It wasn't a permenant thing. I remembered who I was just as quickly. In that Navy compartment, after doing jumping jacks for so long that the pain no longer felt like pain, all of me dulled away. It was a lot like meditations I'd done before, but also totally different. The heat steamed from our bodies, and we watched in confusion as our sweat condensed on the ceiling above us and began to rain. Rain from inside! It was miraculous, but I couldn't enjoy it then. Only later, when I had a sense of who and where I was did I find it beautiful.

In that brief moment when I ceased to be me, when I was empty and void as much physically as mentally, something changed in me. Some deep question that I had thought I would never answer was answered. It was like I found some tiny piece of a puzzle so large, I'd never be able to see it all at once. But just having the one piece proved there was a puzzle. And so, before I did jumping jacks, I was Agnostic, and after I did them, I was Catholic again.

It's a simple way to put it. It suggests that all in one moment, I was converted from not believing to believing; in the blink of an eye, I found God. That's not the way of it at all, though. In fact, my division already called me Reverend long before those jumping jacks. I led the nightly prayer just after lights out. I was the one people confided in.

So what changed, then? I didn't find God in that moment. I didn't recognize or necessariliy believe in the divinity of Christ, yet. I had always been interested in religions, especially in gnosticism, and metaphysics. This was different, though. Something changed the Sacred from an aspect of my intellectual desire, manifested through the numinous, and experienced through hierophany to a totally inhabited presence around and with me. And most importantly, I felt it very strongly.

It was strong enough, in fact, that I felt the need to explain to my old friends as soon as I talked to them. I told them I considered myself Christian again, setting it up before them like a sign they could either accept or walk away from. Despite all of my previous observations on converts and the rediculous over-zealous acceptance and implementation of their new faiths, I walked right into the same trappings. I am a little embarrased now about that time, but I think it's necessary for some people.

So this strong presence was upon me, and somehow I knew it was God, and I knew what the message was. It was as clear as day, but totally unexpressible in words. I was called to something, I had a vocation. I didn't know what it meant, precisely, and even now I still see only tiny pieces of the puzzle. I assume it will always be like that.

Part of me always expected that the Saints felt something overwhelming and precise when they had their revelatory moments. Something in them should have snapped and seperated the one day sinner to the new day saint. I always thought that was how things happened, quick and absolute, like in Bible stories. But even those stories didn't happen overnight. Long years of oral tradition may have made them seem that way, but things always seem to have taken their time.

As an example, though not Biblical, Saint Ignatius Loyola was a soldier in the army when on May 20th, 1521, in the citadel of Pampeluna, a cannon ball passed between his legs, crushing the bone and muscle. While he was recovering from his wounds (a process that nearly killed him) he read the stories of Christ. After a long time, the true message was finally revealed to him and he realized that he had been living for the things of this world, but he was being called to live for the eternal. From the story, it sounds like there and then he was a changed and holy person, destined to become a saint, but that's only the beginning. Just like me, Ignatius found his calling while he was injured in the military, and just like me, he had no idea what to do with the knowledge when he left. He travelled to Jeruselem and back again and to all manner of places for six years before he decided to seek formal education. During those years, he starved himself next to death in hope of finding revelation of God's intentions for him. He ran wherever he felt called and did whatever he could. In the end, time and prayer brought understanding. Later, St. Ignatius would organize that time of careful reflection and self examination into his Book of the Spiritual Exercises.

If God causes you to suffer much, it is a sign that He has great designs for you, and that He certainly intends to make you a saint. And if you wish to become a great saint, entreat Him yourself to give you much opportunity for suffering; for there is no wood better to kindle the fire of holy love than the wood of the cross, which Christ used for His own great sacrifice of boundless charity.
    → Saint Ignatius Loyola - The testament of Ignatius Loyola, being sundry acts of our Father Ignatius, under God, the first founder of the Society of Jesus, taken down from the Saint's own lips by Luis Gonzales (1900)

A long time ago someone called me predictable in my unpredictability. Not long after the Atlanta trip and interview, I found myself directing a couple of guys around my apartment as they packed up all my belongings. Now I live in my fifteenth location.

It's refreshing to be back in the South again. There are some quirks of speech and personality here that I find a little annoying, but on the whole the place is a sunshine filled break from my last rural stop. Alaska was definitely my favorite place to live so far, touting both an incredible wilderness, local culture, and a few diners, but there is something to be said for being connected to the rest of the world. It's nice to know that my best friends are only a drive away, rather than an all day flight.

My job here is also great. I learned a whole lot working at Pango Media about web design and development, and also about the process of working in a small consultancy with quick turn-around times and tight budgets. The experience at a large firm like Moxie Interactive is the exact opposite. I am protected from the wrath and flightiness of clients by my art directors and project managers. My tasks are well documented, and I have a support structure of peers and colleagues whose knowledge of flash and interactive design is on par with my own. When a problem arises, it's good to know I have someone to turn to.

In the grand scheme of my educational pursuits, Georgia looks like it's going to be a great resource, too. The path towards the first Tomasino doctorate seems to have revealed itself in two distinct options. I'm still debating which to take, or whether doing both is an option. I think it will probably involve a long talk with my family for some guidance in the near future.

That being said, my direction towards the Church has never been stronger. I've done some private writing for myself to flush out some ideas and issues I've been tossing around in my head. I feel much clearer these days than ever before. It's hard to believe that I've been discerning for seven years now. The time has just flown by, but I suppose all those years were necessary to take me from where I was to where I am now. It took a very long time before I could have a conversation about it with my parents or even Kristin. There are still friends that I haven't told directly, though I'm pretty sure nobody is really in the dark anymore.

Looking back, when I first felt a call, I thought I could follow it in my own way. It was silly, really, to think that I was in charge of any of it, but that is my way. Mankind's original and greatest sin is pride, and it is very strong in me. Little by little, I've come to the realization that I'm called to more than I want to give, but that's the way of God's call. I am not God, and it's not my will that is the most important thing. A few years ago, when I went to the seminary, I thought that I could follow the path of a diocesan priest where I could continue to make some money, save up, do some freelance work, maybe secure myself a comfortable living. But God gave me a wanderlust that is more powerful than even my own pride. He knew that I couldn't stay in one place long enough to join a diocese. He knew that the itch would prevent me from halfway following his call. The tingling I feel will take me all the way. I know holy orders are in my future, and now after seven years of trying to figure out just how I am going to deal with it, I can say with some measure of self-assuredness that it doesn't matter. My part in the whole thing is so tiny, so insignificant, that in the end it doesn't matter at all. God has set a path for me, and I'm going to follow it, whether I like it or not.

I have a whole lot more to say about all that, but I think I'll wait for another post.