Accepting the chalice of our existence

Posted on September 16, 2023 by doradueck

Some time ago, a friend passed on a quote from the German Catholic priest Johann Baptist Metz (1928-2019), who stated that “Our self-acceptance is the basis of the Christian creed.” He described it as “accepting the chalice of our existence” and for some reason, this image struck me and has stuck with me.

I grew up in a low church environment, so chalice was not a familiar term or object, but there was the cup of the Eucharist and the cup Jesus spoke about when in Gethsemane he prayed, “if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet, not as I will, but as you will,” by which he meant his approaching death. The word chalice, with its roots in both drinking cup and cup of a flower, has a more evocative sound and larger scope for me than cup. When I think of the chalice of my existence it means the whole business of being me, not only whatever pain there’s been, but everything of past, present, and future. The tasks at hand, the particular aloneness of new widowhood, the particular losses and joys in aging, my relationships, my work.

Metz went on to say:

You shall lovingly accept the humanity entrusted to you! You shall be obedient to your destiny! You shall not continually try to escape it! You shall be true to yourself! You shall embrace yourself!

One afternoon during my writing retreat at St. Peter’s Abbey this summer, our small band of writers needed a break so we drove into nearby Humboldt to check out the thrift store. There was nothing I needed and the book section, except for dozens of Danielle Steele novels, was sparse. As I wandered around, waiting for the others, a chalice in white and blue (perhaps my favourite colour) caught my eye. It’s clearly mass-manufactured, certainly nothing uniquely handcrafted, but just the day before I had mentioned the “chalice of our existence” quote to one of my new friends, and here was a chalice, humble and ordinary, for the grand and entirely affordable price of $2. I knew it was for me!

Now it stands in my kitchen, reminding me in those moments when I’m tempted to dissatisfaction, of accepting all that belongs. And now and then, I drink something out of it too, either bracing or sweet.

Paths forward

Posted on July 29, 2023 by doradueck

My week at a writing retreat at St. Peter’s Abbey, Muenster, Saskatchewan ended yesterday, but I have to say, I wasn’t ready to leave. I had finished the writing that I came to do, so it wasn’t that I needed more time for that, but perhaps one more day — to read in the College library, listen to the bells, join in Abbey prayers, walk? But, in the words of the cliche, all good things must come to an end. And there’s always the road ahead.

Is there anything more enticing than a roadway between trees? Any kind of path, in fact, that pulls into distance, into the future?

And so I followed the highway to Saskatoon, away from the roadways and nearby rail line of the Abbey, and now I’m at my sister’s house, where the bed is decidedly more comfortable than the somewhat monkish one in the Scholastica building. Another sister lives in Warman, so I’m spending the weekend here, and so far it’s been lovely to catch up with both of them. There will be more of that catching up and seeing nieces and nephews and babies before I set out Monday for Calgary, where I’ll stay at my brother’s place, and then, D.V., my trusty steed, aka my red Escape (currently covered in prairie dust, though my brother-in-law has graciously offered to wash it this afternoon), will be turned westward and home.

Trusting that all will be well until then, let me thank you who came along via these posts. May whatever path you’re on open beautifully before you today!

Nails trimmed, ready to work

Posted on July 21, 2023 by doradueck

Clothes hung or put into drawers, desk arranged, nails trimmed (I need skin on the keys, not click). I’ve reached the writing retreat part of my road trip adventure and am settled into my monk-like room in the Scholastica building of St. Peter’s Abbey, Muenster, Saskatchewan, ready for a week of (self-directed) work. I drove from Dauphin this morning, past one glowing yellow canola field after the other, and here and there a Ukrainian church (though I neglected to note which towns they were in).

The days between the conference and commemoration of the Russlaender migration on the weekend and today were interesting. Monday I did a bit of a mini-pilgrimage to houses we lived in during our years in Winnipeg. I placed a small stone, from a collection of Helmut’s, at each to mark remembrance and gratitude. On Tuesday Bonnie and I enjoyed brunch at Pine Ridge Hollow and for supper I joined my niece Daniela and her family in Steinbach. I spent two nights and the day between with my cousin Barb, also in Steinbach. Robins entertained us as we ate on her patio, but mostly we sat in her sun room and read from the diaries of our late Aunt Margaret Harder. She was a teacher, also very involved in Elmwood MB Church (the first woman to preach there, etc.), and left about 20 notebooks from some 20 years, basically a page per day. She was a wonderful aunt to her nieces and nephews, and Barb and I were both inspired by entering her past world in this way and noting her ongoing and intentional expressions of thanks. That evening two other cousins and their daughters joined us for rhubarb dessert and catching up all round.

photo by Rena Rauch

When I left Steinbach on Thursday I felt so “full” — in a good way — of my history and heritage that I wondered how to shift from that into the work of fiction this week. It occurred to me that my friend Rena in Dauphin would be a gift for exactly that, for she is part neither of my family nor the Russlaender story, but someone I met through a writing event in Winnipeg some years ago. She had refreshments waiting on a table under the trees, and it was a perfect transition as we conversed about our projects.

And now I’m here, in this quiet red brick and pine-treed place, and I’m really really really looking forward to the next seven days! I’ll check in again at the end of it.