The Desert of the Real

The Catholic concept of "the desert" is one that fascinates me. I first heard it mentioned by Saint Therese of Liseux, in her spiritual autobiography, Story of a Soul. Beginning with the Desert Fathers, a few monks chose to separate themselves as hermits, ascetics who lived in wastes considered uninhabitable by their cloistered cohorts. Throughout the history of the Church, as life in a consecrated community became more worldly, various renewal efforts (spearheaded by such saints as Theresa of Avila) drew on this tradition of going to "the desert." To purify oneself spiritually, renounce worldly temptations, and subject oneself to the suffering that was unavoidable in such a deprived environment--was seen as a path to holiness.

St. Therese thought of her entrance into the Carmelite convent as "going to the desert."

Sometimes I think of my life in these terms. As a woman, I feel my identity springs from my vocation as a wife and mother. But while some might think that life as a lay person is less challenging and less spiritually rich than the monastery, I beg to differ. Our opportunities to grow in holiness are limited only by our capacity to endure suffering. And there is just as much suffering available in the life of the housewife as there is anywhere else. Dust and dirt, aches and pains, and countless little sacrifices make up the rocks and sand of my desert.

Many times during the day I tell myself to stop feeling so sorry for myself. I have everything I could possibly want, and yet I find myself wanting more. After doing heaps of laundry, I want more clothes. After dusting shelves of books, I want more entertainment. After forgetting about all the people I've promised to call, I feel lonely and complain that I have no friends. More than anything I feel the lack of time. I seem to have all the time in the world--sheesh, she's a stay-at-home-mom, what in the world does she do all day?--goes the refrain in my head. But I know that my time has severe limits on it. Every fifteen minutes I have to make decisions like, "Gosh, I'm really hungry, but if I water the roses NOW, I can get it done before the baby gets up and maybe I can grab something to eat while I nurse him." Or: "Man, I wish I could get my hair cut and look a little more up-to-date, but I've got so many things in my schedule, I can't possibly fit in a pleasure jaunt just for me." Or: "My writing is so neglected I should at least find half an hour to write SOMETHING, but if I were to do that, I'm giving up sleep that I need to NOT be a monster to my kids tomorrow."

The desert is suffering. It is the pain of loss--not necessarily loss of life or limb, or even the loss of comfort--but loss of the sense of limitlessness that our culture offers up and commercializes as if it were candy. Take a trip to Maui, it says. Try our new camera phone. Treat yourself to dinner. Live a little. Believe in yourself. Achieve your potential. You, you, you. It soothes us with an endless murmuring lullaby of self. My sacrifice, my penance, my path to holiness, as it were--consists in resisting the pull of that voice. Every time I can say no to it I achieve a spiritual victory. But I am often left feeling dry and somewhat deflated.

Then the little self-pity voice starts again. "You are giving up so much. You are such a good mother. Surely you'll achieve sainthood for this. Oh, don't worry about that little indulgence there. God will understand. You're only human. After all, how many people do you know who make all the little sacrifices you do? How many people are blessed with these insights? You ought to write them all down, you know. Then one day people will read what you wrote and quote it and you'll be acclaimed as a great mystic." Then I have to turn away from that voice, and so it goes...

That's the real reason I haven't been writing. The struggle is demoralizing. And I don't know if I could even "cut back" on the many things that seem necessary at any given moment. As soon as a thing appears to be unnecessary (or I discover time-savers and more efficient ways of doing things), I might try. But I think one of the consequences of original sin is not only pride and envy, but also a disordered sense of time. The truth is that there was NEVER a time that was less hectic, or more easy-going. In my life, or even in history, I think.

When I think about my life right now, there's a line in The Matrix that comes to my mind: "Welcome to the desert of the real." The movie is about discovering what's behind the illusion that our lives are composed of. I can agree with a lot of the movie's aspects, except the idea that a lot of soulless machines are behind it all. I believe, instead, that God is behind it, but sometimes the illusion is so compelling that many people can't imagine there is a God, much less that he cares about us as individuals.

My struggle is trying to pierce that illusion, even if only once a day.