The Fragrance of a Rose

The Hermitage

March 30, 2019

As I was reading sayings from Anthony deMello’s book, “One Minute Meditations” one of the stories caught my attention...in paraphrase, the disciples asked the Master to describe God to them. He, in return, asked something to the effect, “Do you know the fragrance of a rose?” All answered, “yes.”

“Describe it in words.”

More and more that seems my challenge as I sit down to write about my reflections. For one thing, my meditations seem to me to be like a beautiful dragonfly darting across the surface of a pond filled with deeply hidden treasures, leaving little pools of ripples in its wake...ripples which only affect the surface, are ephemeral, and disappear almost before the dragonfly touches down again, flitting toward its unknown destination.

For example, today I started thinking about what I mentioned in The Bird Feeder reflections...the differences between solitude, aloneness and loneliness. It seemed profitable for a few minutes and I gained a little more insight into my meditations on the subject. But just as fleetingly I realized that this morning was leading me in a totally unexpected direction.

Andrea died in June of 2017, and as the anniversary gets closer I find myself pondering what our lives together really meant.

I’m now physically alone, living by myself in The Hermitage, but I’m not in a state of aloneness and I’m certainly not lonely (all though I do continue to miss her.)

And it was at this point that the warp occurred...

Without her, who am I ...i mean really. (Just realized this part of the meditation was triggered by another deMello story.)

Wait...no...that’s not the question. It seems much more to be who was SHE to me?

And what is her legacy...the precious gifts she bequeathed to me from 53 years of marriage?

• I’m surrounded by objects that elicit her presence…

• The funky chicken collection on the living room bookcase

• The chotchkies (?sp) on the windowsill in the bathroom

• The statue of clasped hands that sits on the front windowsill along with the little vases of paper Mexican flowers that she loved

And then there are the five framed pictures of her…

• The formal picture of her in her white turtleneck sweater wearing one of her favorite crosses

• The portrait of her as a teenager that her aunt did

• A picture of her as a young woman --

• The picture on the shelf in the office of her holding up her walleye.

Reminders of things she loved surround it...

The scraggly twig with a sharp point that Tanner carved and proudly gave to her when she gave him his first knife --

The collars Chloe and Molly wore --

The clock from the desk in her counseling office --

Cards she gave me on various anniversaries of our marriage --

The plastic cube on the living room bookshelf. One side shows that same picture of her with the walleye

All of these things are her, but yet none of them are “her.”

I sat and looked at the books I kept when I retired. At the time I had two offices, one was a working office - often a mess - and the other was my counseling office, full of peace and quiet (at least for me.) They both had floor to ceiling bookcases.

I gave most of the books away. As I recall about 15-20 book boxes or so, and now what I have left is essentially enough books to partially fill two shelves, sharing space with other memorabilia.

reflect on my choices of which books I’ve kept...a few of her favorites and more of mine.

I’m drawn to the three thick volumes of the writings of St. Theresa that I bought in seminary. I don’t even remember now where I purchased them. Although they are fairly rare, they couldn’t have cost much because in those early days we had neither pot nor window. I haven’t opened them in at least 30 years. The pages inside could be blank now for all I know.

So why do I keep them???

And suddenly everything comes into focus...the books me of the powerful impact St. Theresa’s spirituality had on my life when I was struggling to make sense of a theology that was “ivory castle bound” and had absolutely no practical application, that I could see, to the daily problems I would face as a parish priest.

Theresa was real. She lived in a real world. She changed the course of history...all because of her “Interior Castle.”

From out of the past her writings bridged the ages to give me hope.

So what does all of the above have to do with Andrea?

And what does she, or Theresa, or my books have to do with my present?...with my future?

And where is God (whom I haven’t even mentioned) in all of this?

Describe for me in words, the fragrance of a rose.

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Thanks for journeying with me.

Till then…Blessings and peace