Journey of the Mind , Introduction

There is only one way to tell this story and that is to start with a sense of disarray, for journeys of the internal type are never organized. The human mind is far too complex for us to organize it, and often, to even acknowledge it. There is a reason why behaviorist psychologists Watson and Skinner thought it better to call it science when we choose not to study the mind at all.  Perhaps following the wisdom of these men, but only less so for I have not had the rigor to look at pig slayings methodically for 365 days, I shall endeavor to tell the story of a journey which looked to go straight into the essence of my mind, with naïve allusions to scientific specificity and philosophical awareness.

While I can say much to explain the circumstances that triggered my inquiry to go this far, I would like to start rather by going straight into the moment that brought me to write this story at all. This moment is the center from which the story’s past, its present and future (which remains unknown to me) can begin to make sense to readers and to myself.

It was one night at the age of 18, at a time when I was breaking from an insecure, naïve, shy and moody teenager into becoming an arrogant, stubbornly confident and aggressive pseudo-intellectual, when my friend got fed up with my ceaseless inquiries for depth and meaning, and harshly showed me the mirror of my condescending arrogance.

It is at this moment, as I was breaking out of my shell to discover that none of my close friends wanted me to be fully myself that I first began to feel lonely and disconnected in a way I was sure no other teenager was feeling. But in all dramatic glory, I not only attributed these feelings to myself, but I also connected them to my inquiries about the absolute nature of concepts like justice, truth, harmony, goodness, beauty and love.

The first philosophical connections that I had received in untrained readings of Plato in Philosophy 101 had already given me a sense that the mystery of life was about something bigger than the minutia to which we are confronted with in the every-day life of a postmodern citizen.

In looking at the difference between universal and particular concepts, I made no balanced judgment and gave no credence to the details of the exterior world, but went straight for the glorious certainty offered by general statements which linked me to a depth of mystery that felt more profound and real than what the world was showing me through my external senses.

That night, disturbed and isolated, I walked down from my friend’s West Los Angeles apartment, feeling dismissed and unloved, and walked calmly to my car to take me through a parking lot journey of self-pity and dissatisfaction for being who I was. After both, hitting the wheel in anger, and cuddling it in search for love, I began to question more deeply the reason for my friend’s reaction to what I felt were my most honest inquiries.

I understood that the fire inside was driven by a deep childhood religious upbringing and memories of an introverted only-child thinker who received enough love to take his position for granted. I knew them to come from a good loving place and felt genuine in my belief that these general questions about the nature of concepts was more important than anything else that my world and reality was offering.

Only I could not understand why this made me a bad person.  All I was trying to do was dig through the questions that could enlighten mankind once and for all. Having calmed my ego into a wondrous journey, the kind that trances in thoughts beyond its current environments and into images long thought lost, I pictured a loving old man in a dying bed, with wrinkles that enhanced and not deterred his beauty. He was smiling, satisfied from his long years of work, and as I went inside his memory, I saw a beautiful, serene morning and a younger version of the old man, peacefully sweeping the streets. His heart spoke of gladness and as people passed around him, he was able to reflect the kindness of his heart which in turn got reflected back to him from his fellow street companions.

The neighborhood appointed to him by the City was full of investment bankers, doctors and other members of the capitalist bourgeoisie, but none of their standards of success seemed to fall onto him when they passed him by day by day. This man embodied the Platonic ideal of goodness, and he did not need material or intellectual prowess to be accepted into this community.

Back on my car, I did not know if this man existed but I did know that his ideal was not just a utopian belief, but an actual possibility of the human individual. I was recalling his essence from previous moments where I had been in touch with poor, but honest and happy men and women during my childhood in a third world country. It is then when I realized what made this men happy, and as I thought to myself the words to explain it more precisely, I decided to write them for ‘life is about feeling good and if you see this you will not feel inferior.’ Immediately, tears came running down my cheeks and a moment of reflection took me over as I stared at the small piece of white paper I had just written on.

I felt my world had just shifted into a realization of universal proportions. First, I was already exploring with the thought of me as a writer, and I had always had great aspiration for artists that made me think of them as mystics who had direct connection with the wonders of Existence. Only then did I realize that I had just written a sentence which came profoundly from my heart, and it was in this sentence that I recognized myself as a writer capable of bringing out such deep feelings from the core of his inner being and putting them back into our more tangible reality, into simple pen and paper.

But more importantly, I had connected into a reality that was explicitly unknown to me but subconsciously had always been there. It was as if I had suddenly realized that I was staring at color when all this time I had simply described it as white. There were shades, layers and tones to untangle. The world had become vibrant and exciting in another dimension, one that was capable of speaking back to me through my ceaseless questioning. I no longer had to rely on peers or family to appease the burning of my heart and the logic of my questions. Now all I had to do was reach inside and discover a world that was bigger than me. I decided to start driving back.

The night was especially dark, but my thoughts were not fixated on the cars on the road or the street signs leading me home. My auto-pilot had taken over and I was once again lost in thought. It was not the exciting sputter that creates new ongoing layers of thought that form new ideas and sentences that can be turned into a book. Rather, it was a slow, mellow and contemplative vibe that was dark and mysterious but did not need to be inquired about. You could say it was complete acceptance of goodness as a Platonic ideal and submission to goodness and all that it entails without bothering to figure out how you can determine its existence.

A couple of minutes before getting home, my car’s interior became more luminous, and a light from within seemed to fall from above my head and reflected itself all around my body. Then, from out of my mind, an internal being presented himself as Being itself. My thoughts were on God, whom I had not thought about feeling as real since my very early teenage years, and in that road, I felt a Presence. Goodness was not just an isolated attribute in a transcendental dimension but a piece of God´s totality and a testament of His existence. Tears started to trickle down  again and a shiver down my spine informed me that my life was now turning into a new chapter.

My Introduction to Latin Mass

I am a cradle Catholic born in 1981. Since August of 2008 I have been exclusively attending the Tridentine Mass. In the 5 years prior to this date I had attended Tridentine Mass only a handful of times, and no other time at all before that.

What I will try to relate here is my personal relationship with the Tridentine Mass and how I have become enamored with it. Subsequent blog posts will explore how it has strengthened my Faith and contributed to my spiritual growth in Hope and Charity.

The first few times I went to Tridentine Mass I must admit I did not understand much, or feel much for that matter. I was actually a little lost and too busy trying to find out what was going on to really let it show me. Once I embraced it, meaning I knew I was going to let it teach me faithfully and without expectations, I began to see different sides of it.

It is with this spirit of wonder that I began to develop a personal and intimate connection with the Tridentine Mass, little by little, like a puzzle at the end of which there are tons of surprises, and in this case, an infinite supply of spiritual graces.

Slowly, with both the Low and the High Mass I started learning little things that produced great love in my heart.

One of the first things with which I connected, is at the beginning of the Mass, when the Priest confesses his own sins in the Confiteor. Not only does he recite it, but throughout the prayer, you can also see him bowing before the Altar and slowly moving left and right as he confesses his sins. After he finishes this prayer, the Servers pray for him beginning with, ‘May almighty God have mercy upon thee’ …

Then it’s the Servers’ turn to do the same prayer, and we the laity are to see this as our part and to follow closely in our hearts. In the part of the mea culpa, as the Servers strike their breasts, we are also invited to gently strike our breast three times. The rubrics also inform us that at this time that we are to dispose ourselves toward true contrition. The subtlety with which the three small strikes are done by each person makes it so personal, as if we are alone before God. This may be a small physical interaction, but in essence it requires full concentration to follow it.

After observing this for a few Masses, it began to feel very natural, and after a while longer I was able to begin to recite the prayer in Latin by heart.

Nowadays, even without a Missal or any auditory cues, I can recognize the movement of the Priests and the Servers, and my heart has been trained to pray for the Priest at the time in which he bows down, and express contrition at the time in which the Servers do. And even though my physical participation is small, each little strike is so meaningful, and I look forward to this subtle but symbolic movement every Sunday.

This to me is the wonder of the Latin Mass. Rather than less participation from the laity, there is more. It demands me to be spiritually present and to be paying close attention to every word, every movement. It demands a synchronicity that must be genuine, one that can easily be avoided without anybody else noticing, ensuring therefore that each action is real when it does take place. I will relate another similar example to that of my experience with the Confiteor.

Everywhere in the Missal as it goes through the Mass one can see there are little Crosses indicating that at the moment a certain phrase is said by the Priest, one is to do the Sign of the Cross. It requires me to be alert for them, not mechanistically, but following the words (I don’t even have to know their meaning in English, just the Latin will do!) and I have come to realize that a majority of them are said around a particular time when the name of the Lord has been mentioned in a special way.

As I go through Mass, if I ever zone out or lose sight of the prayer, all it takes is a subtle Sign of the Cross for me to once again focus on God. Sometimes the Priest does not necessarily say things out loud or I cannot hear him – nonetheless, by his motions and by the time in the Mass, I know that I must do the Sign of the Cross. This is again the wonderful synchronicity that the Mass demands.

The subtleties are everywhere. In the 10 months I have been attending the Mass I have not stopped discovering. Every Sunday a new subtlety is opened or an old one deepened. But it is not about the discovery itself, it is the depth in which they take me that is fascinating. Each new subtlety is but another key into the Mystical Body of Christ. Rather than an emotionally charged experience, the Mass is a quiet pacification of the spirit – a deepening of contrition, reverence, prayer and exaltation of Christ.

What I have come to find out is that, The Tridentine Mass, like the philosophical and theological tradition of the Church, uses a perfect architecture; its artistic and spiritual elevation being so high that at first it seems distant, but once embraced, it is as close and intimate as the most rural of villages. Like a fine wine, it opens up its sweetness after it breathes fresh air. Likewise, the Mass after we let it settle in our soul, breathes fresh air into us, and as we feel the cool breeze we suddenly hear the river of everlasting water coming from the distance.

I am enamored with the Mass. What was once a responsibility, it is now my repose – my strength. My heart beats in a special way when I think about the Mass. It beats quietly and graciously. I am being pacified and my will is slowly giving in. The Rite is teaching me, slowly and deeply what the Sacrifice is. And that is a topic which deserves another post.

A longing with many thoughts

I long to express something vast, big and magnificent. I have always longed to express what is true, the highest and most magnificent reality which we can think of. This longing is like a burning and unquenchable desire which I cannot stop or dry down or die out. And neither would I want to, for the longing is so strong and feels so right – guiding me slowly towards a deeper path, which becomes less and less afraid of new doors, even though it does become more and more afraid of God, and of offending Him. For who is God, and how can one being a mere human, possibly define Him?

God, being as being – esse qua esse – in itself, absolutely.

I long to distinguish the true God from all other gods so that I can experience Love in the highest order. He is Knowable through faith and reason, or so at least is the instinct of a good heart, as I define the state of my soul when it is oriented towards knowing God, a heart willing to purge itself of all that is ugly within our species (not superficially and materially but in regards to sin). When a heart is aiming to the saintly – even if it is in torment, even if it is in sin – if the heart is looking, every day, with great longing, to purge itself from all bad things in order to love God, then it is a good heart. A good heart searches and never gives up. It doesn’t look for relief, unless the relief is from God. It finds relief accidentally and temporarily through the material and the vain (that not directly of God), and then it is embarrassed to find relief in the material. Because when it is not searching it is not with God, and when it is not with God it is not entirely safe from being bad. And being bad means being away from God. Which in itself is the greatest possible sadness. It is however very hard to long for God the Father the abstract and the Almighty with tremendous intensity in every moment, especially when bombarded with not only a material, but a superficially material reality every day. The good heart is noble, but the good heart is weak.

But my longing keeps me thinking: Who is God? Everything. God is everything, but not everything is God – God is only one – the ONLY Being who just IS, is EVERYTHING, not everything individually, but everything at once. How can one know this is true, and not a mere syllogism – or a rational, abstract logic with no practical merit? Because Truth is grounded not only in Reason but also in Faith – both intertwined in utter perfection as the only possibility of perfection itself. It is both an entirely rational process capable of systematic discovery and a slow awakening of the good heart.

I have learned that the journey to God is a journey that starts with a desire – a thirst for virtue and for God, which is not to be confused with a thirst to be god, or to make man god, or to aggrandize god.

God comes when our souls are docile and ready for Him, in silence- with peace and without any struggle from within – with no longing from the creature, for the creature has found, at least temporarily by Grace, his peace. I long to be completely united with God.

It all starts with a longing, and so I long. Then I believe. Then I hope. And then I love. May God have mercy on us.

muddy confusion

I am lost and confused, walking through the swamps of the earth under an eternally dark night and in desperate search for light.

From all sides of the swamp I am surrounded by a sea of people, throwing themselves in the muddy waters, incessantly looking for dirt – eating and basking in it without shame. Many of them are playing with the critters, as if cute puppies – they smile at them and caress them. Panic strikes me each time a critter comes close to me but then again I am often paralyzed by them – somewhat attracted to them, finding in horror that I too often find pleasure in them.

Often I see other somnambulists like me, not quite awake from the muddy nightmare, but in movement – in the search for a way out. They too are repulsed by the critters at least enough to want to escape from them.

Today there are tears streaming out of my eyes. From afar I can see the luminous Mansions leading way to the Interior Castle. I still remember the times when Grace has put me close to these Holy Doors. Often, and especially when the critters have been sufficiently away from me for days, I am a man of courage walking diligently for the doors, hoping that the guards will let me in to its beautiful halls.

Oh, the sorrow that is to know these open spaces full of light where wisdom thrives and the confusion of our minds clears away. If only I could fly into these halls, but too often I see hungry and greedy men run to its doors, and the all-too-familiar haste takes them somewhere else altogether, to an alternative place where critters sit in disguise with riches.

Occasionally a man with a shining bright light will come out of the depths of such a phantom place, and sits around our muddy campground, far away from the Holy Fort where the Mansions lie. When these men come out, their appearance of light confuses many, but whenever I complain that these houses and these lights are not connected to the Fort, desperate men who come from rubbing themselves in the mud implore me to cease my preaching.

How can I not refuse such reasonable request when it gives men so much hope? For I too must confess that I have gone to these alternative houses many times. Oh, sometimes in my sorrow I even find myself staring at a luminous house, which I mistake for one of the Mansions, but on a closer look I see that it’s yet another plain house, which will give me the all-too-familiar jolt of lightning to fly me away and take me to a world of delights, only to drop me back down and remind me that the delights they offered me are just hazy dreams and illusions, far from the heaven they so hard try to emulate, but close enough that hopeful but lost men like me can fall for them.

Only the mansions have permanence. Only they are eternal. But how can I reach the eternal when I am so lost? Dazed and sleepy I go back to pleasurable thoughts of the flesh, suffocated from the turmoil that is all around me.