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And he believed in the power of the lonely pilgrimage. He came to Catholicism by way of the monks.
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#Snow daze like a dog how to
He showed me by example how to reflect on my actions and how to question my own motivations. He spent a lot of time talking to me about seeing myself honestly. Those two parts of his mind informed each other. I find it difficult to separate his religious contemplation from his therapeutic practice-both rested on self-examination. And he refused to allow himself to be deluded.
#Snow daze like a dog free
To believe in a life free of sinfulness was self-delusion. Dad wouldn’t accept that a person can ever be wholly righteous, or that a person’s life of sins-which need remembering in order to inform your future actions-could be forgotten. To be “Saved” meant to be righteous (often self-righteous) and to be born again as a new person. Saved, which had been such a part of his childhood religion. He was never quick to forget his own mistakes, and he disliked the rigid dichotomy of Sinful vs. But the question of “sin” was certainly a part of the grueling intellectual process he had undertaken to leave behind his Southern Baptist roots. He had responded to the Church’s intellectual history, and its reverence for contemplation and meditation. “Because,” he replied, “it was the only religion as sinful as me.”
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“Why are we Catholic?” I asked my father, as soon as I was old enough to have grasped that such a thing was a choice. My parents, and especially my mother, were troubled by the Church where it intersected with politics-the incessant harping on abortion and homosexuality, the unsettled question of the role of women. I could say we weren’t a very religious family, but that wouldn’t be quite right. We were in darkness, the Priest intoned from the altar, but soon there would be light. The Advent readings hovered on the subject of preparation and readiness for the coming of God. The Advent wreath took its place on our dinner table and our weekly Mass took on an expectant solemnity, which impressed me even as a small child. We located the lamp oil and candles, and gathered them where they would be easily found in case of a power outage. Mom and Dad brought in wood from the pile outside, to keep ready by the stove. Each year, winter brought both to our isolated home in the forest. He was always teaching me about ritual, and about solitude. Like a monk pacing out rosary beads, his hands orchestrated each pass over the snow with the deliberate detachment of muscle memory. Most of all, the ritualistic rise and fall of the plow. I felt it too, on those few times I accompanied him-the perfect, warm isolation from behind the car windows, the wet-dog aroma as snow melted off our boots, our woolen coats and gloved hands. But that outward practicality only barely masked his impatience to get out into the weather.