Something about Mary

In my reading this morning, the 14th century monk who authored The Cloud of Unknowing addresses the tension between action and contemplation, between doing and being, between Martha -- taking care of the business of life -- and Mary -- sitting at the foot of the divine in worship and waiting.

In looking for an image that might illustrate this tension, I realized that most of us define who we are by what we do -- I am a hairdresser, or a fireman, or both; I am a gondolier, or a housewife; I am a writer, or a photographer, or an actor; a butcher, baker, candlestick maker, doctor, lawyer, or indian chief.

So to have defined myself as a contemplative photographer -- at least according to this monk -- is pretty much a contradiction in terms: a true contemplative would be immersed in contemplation, not out taking pictures. A true contemplative would be in prayer 24/7 (or "31", as they say in one popular TV show!) rather than attempting to eke out 20 minutes a day for contemplation.

And the fact is, I am -- despite this contemplative streak -- more active than contemplative. It's a struggle, always, to get myself to "just sit." That's one reason I do it first thing in the morning: I try to sneak in the time before the active me wakes up and gets going.

(and, just so you know, I failed this morning; the active me was fully awake by the time I went downstairs, thanks primarily to the time change and the end of daylight savings time.)

All of which may explain why I look at this Mary image, the blind, open-mouthed adoration, and the empty cup, and the Martha in me gets a little snarly; wants her to open her eyes, close her mouth, and get a life. There's just something about Mary that irritates me. It's odd: I know the contemplation feeds me, makes me healthier, and stronger; equips me to do whatever the day brings. Why then is it so hard to give myself permission to do that?

Perhaps the answer is that it is in the tension between the two impulses that growth happens: the one informs the other, and vice versa. And if the contemplative impulse to connect with the divine within and without forms the vertical axis in my life, and the compulsion to engage with the world forms the horizontal axis, then my job is to try not to stray too far from the intersection of the two.

Which, of course, is the lesson I had to learn all over again when my cat got sick last week: I had to give up both some contemplative time -- walking away from the retreat -- and some active time -- resigning from the play I was in -- in order to be fully present in the moment for Pippa. Which is to say, I guess -- it's all good; all part of the process.