Thirsting for Solitude

There is too much noise.  I step outside of myself, looking at myself in a somewhat objective way and I observe that I am fiddling with my iPhone.  Check the email.  Check the Facebook.  Check the email again.  Google some film or actor: “oh, so, that is who they were in a relationship with!  I had no idea that Beverly D’Angelo has children with Al Pacino!  Interior question: Does she really?  Is Wikipedia correct?”

Sigh.  I am doing it again. 

Step away from the iPhone!

But it’s so easy!  You touch one app and suddenly you are in a different world.  I consider going back to my good old flip-phone, which has no internet connection, where writing text messages is an arduous task, and the phone is smaller and more practical to carry.  But that wouldn’t solve the problem.  Then, I would simply carry the computer with me or keep turning it on and off in order to check (once again!) email inbox, which holds nothing except a reminder that there is hardly any substantial communication.

Word “discipline” enters my mind.  I must get disciplined!  My habits must change this instant!  This, of course, is impossible.  It is like an alcoholic who says “I quit drinking, once and for all” but in reality, the bottle always awaits. 

You are falling into the pit of useless and meaningless technology.  The stuff, which is supposed to be a tool has become in my hands a labyrinth of information.  This is all taking up precious space in my brain.  My “mind machinery” is experiencing some difficulties.  The mind’s eye sees but the transition from that to the mechanism of the gears is interrupted.  There is nobody that is tending to the maintenance of the turning gears, and if there is a worker up there, he is taking way too many breaks.

I am locked out of my own mind.  The information is unbearable and so the memories and the essence(s) of human existence are buried somewhere.  It is like a castle with many rooms and they are all closed and maybe even locked and yet I am unable to open the doors.  I have forgotten how to walk up to the door and turn the knob. 

I have never craved the silence so much the way I do now.  I have even stopped listening to music and the only musical sounds that are pleasing and which seem to create less jumble are Gregorian chants. 

I go into my study and look through the books.  I immediately see the books that I am using for classes currently.  There is Freud and Heidegger and some weirdo gender studies stuff.  No, no, too much “deconstruction,” too much “disorder.”  I run my fingers through the books – some are smooth and new, others old and the pages are barely holding together. 

Ah, here is one: Merton’s Thoughts in Solitude.  It’s an old copy, published in 1961, pages are yellowed.  I bought it at a used books sale at the Seminary I am attending.  It bears a stamp “Novitiate.”  It cost me 25 cents.  I have always found Merton to be a trustworthy companion.  Maybe he will remind me about the process or habit of discipline. 

I don’t want to falter and I don’t want to keep myself falsely awake by the information on my iPhone, found in apps that are twittering and moving and happily dancing.  Merton writes:

“We are like pilots of fogbound steamers, peering into the gloom in front of us, listening for the sounds of other ships, and we can only reach our harbor if we keep alert.  The spiritual life is, then, first of all a matter of keeping awake.”

I breathe out.  I breathe out because I feel that Merton’s words have nourished and rejuvenated my being.  My mind is relieved too and there is also a possibility that I may remember how to open one door of many rooms in the castle.  I think of all the water fountains spread out throughout Sarajevo, walking in the city and going through the small streets, tired from the journey, thirsting.  And then comes the relief – the water hits my hands.  I cup them and make the space slowly for the Bosnian elixir (al-Iksir in Arabic) which cures and elevates every part of my being.  In the distance of my mind, there is the gloom of war.  I hear the call to prayer.