Something Called Acedia and Goodbye My Howard. (And the heck with proofreading.)

Oh, oh, oh. What to write, what to write, what to write.

My last post was April 25th. And here we are at June 25th. For someone who supposedly has a gift for writing, I sure have not been prolific in any way, shape, or form for over two years--actually almost three years. Totally depressing. I think I have written only two or three poems in three years. That's sad. I must admit that I have never recovered from my PhD coursework. And this is starting to really worry me. Something happened to me and I don't know what. It's like some part of my brain has shut down. Not to mention my memory seems shot too. I keep waiting for myself to get back to the "normal" I was before coursework hell, but I have finally realized that there is no normal for me to go back to. It is lost forever. Bye bye "normal" Mary Alice. Yes, she must be put to rest. She must have a proper send off. I have to slay this demon and watch it descend to the underworld. The funeral will be at 9am this Monday.

The best writing teacher in my masters writing program told me when I told him that I wanted to go on for my PhD, "What? Why? You're a real writer. You should be writing. They will suck all the creativity right out of ya'! Don't let 'em kill ya'! They will destroy you!" He was a crusty 83 year-old man who was always a professional writer and never really a teacher. I'm beginning to think he was right. Wisdom sometimes disguises itself in the form of crusty old men. I'm dead. I'm just doing it walking.

I'm reading a book that might shed some light on my lack of creativity and energy. It's called Acedia and Me, A Marriage, Monks, and a Writer's Life by Kathleen Norris. I'm only on page 68, so I still have a lot to learn from this book. But the concept of acedia is interesting. And I do think I have a touch of it. A restlessness that for as long as I can remember has always been inside me. Like there is something else out there. Like I'm just not in the right place. Like things that don't bore other people bore me. Like I'm waiting for my real life to begin. Like who the hell am I? Like why even as a two year old when I would look up at clouds I knew someone stole me and placed me far away down here where I don't like it?

Now, from what I'm reading so far, I don't have this acedia affliction nearly as deeply as Norris has it, but I definitely can relate to the idea. I think acedia afflicts creative people. I probably inherited this tendancy from my tortured artist father and my frustrated wannabe drama queen mother. And like quite a few of the artists/poets/writers that Norris talks about, my father also committed suicide. These tortured souls experience darkness of the soul and of the creative spirt. But they themselves do not understand that this is actually normal for many people. So many of them drink or self medicate in self destructive ways. And they fool themselves into thinking they have to be this way in order to create. But don't anybody out there worry, I'm not that tortured. Don't start calling me asking me If I'm about to do something drastic. Once during a prolific period I shared my poems with friends. At the time I tended to write angst poetry. It's my favorite way to write. Next thing I knew I was getting phone calls, "Are you alright?" "Are things Ok? My husband and I are worried about you." "Do you need anything?" "Are you depressed?" I responded with laughter, "I'm fine. I'm the happiest depressed person around." Geez. One thing I have never been accused of is being depressed. But it's normal to feel the feelings folks. It's when you run away from them and hide that you get really lost. People who put on a happy face 24/7, even when it's just them and the night, just have to be on really good meds.

Norris says that today most people call this feeling depression, but acedia really isn't clinical depression. It's more like spiritual sloth or being unable to care. Does anyone even know what sloth is today? I grew up with a mother who liked that word and actually used it. I don't even know if you could find a kid today who has ever heard of it. Anyway, Norris examines how monks going back to the fouth century discussed acedia. They called it the noon day demon. Praying and working would be going along just great and then bang--around noon time to early afternoon--nothing except soul weariness. They were unable to function much. They couldn't even pray. hmmm...

Anyway, the last few years have been difficult for many reasons. And that is how I feel. I feel soul weary. I'm drained.

Oh well, what are you going to do?

On another note, in past blog postings I have written a lot about my homeless buddy, Howard. I don't think I'll be writing much about him anymore. He has gone missing and I am missing him terribly. For years he has been making me feel extra beats of happiness when I turned the corner to find him waving at me with his big floppy hands from way down the end of the street. I have asked everyone about him. The last he was seen he was shaking terribly and no one has seen him since. I often wanted to take a picture of him but I felt that might be intruding on his privacy. Now I wish I had hid in corner and snapped a pic of him. He probably would not have even minded. When I was away at school for that one long year, I missed Howard. I was so happy to see him again on his corner. Now the corner is so lonely. Just about everyday on my way to Mass I expect to see him as I take a left turn, but no Howard. Ugh. I just hope if he died he went quickly and if he did not die that he is being taken well care of.


There's a line in this song that always makes me think of Howard.

If you haven't got a dollar, not a penny to your name, someone's gonna miss you when you gone.





And here is one of the few poems I have written in years. July of 2008. Geez. I don;t even remember writing it, and after reading the content, maybe I really do suffer from acedia.

The Watered Seed

Maybe you’re just breezing by
A fleeting moment of release
A brush against my soul’s skin
A taste of sweet abandonment

Will you linger a while?
Long enough to break the skin
And root a firmly planted spirit
Grow up in me a worthy soul

A soul with strong branches
And bendable leaves
Foliage that never withers
A pasture that’s always green

My soul needs a bit more tilling
It requires complete cultivation
Unburying old fears, dirt free
So much hope in a tiny seed

How much more can you give?
How many more breaths do you have?
To breathe long life into this soul
To make it bloom as it ought to

Many masters bring false freedoms
Followers crossing barren fields
Seedlings birthing nothing tough
Trees with no roots to take hold

Where do their paths lead?
Do you breathe on them there?
Do they brush your breeze away?
Do they ever rest in your sunshine?

My freedom is in the yielding
The way a seed submits
To its planter’s understanding
Counting on his springs of faith

Drinking from your well of life
Will make this seed crawl
On its knees, out of the dirt
and back to the dirt, on its knees


Mary Alice Moore July 8, 2008