P
raise be to God in the highest, and on Earth, peace to men of good will.
I often think of prayer as akin to setting out on a journey, perhaps out into the open sea. Preparing for a journey is always a hassle, and a thousand excuses appear to put off the trip. When I kneel down to properly attempt to pray, there is always a period of turbulence in my soul, as I assemble what thoughts may be needed, ready the vessel, stumble through breakers and try to accustom myself to the rocking of the boat. And that is where the vast majority of my prayer ends -- in the preparatory stage, just barely leaving the shore, before turning back around and returning to my earthbound life and distractions. It isn't that there's no value in this kind of prayer; we should be living in a rhythm that contains a lot of quick, "shallow" prayer, just to remind us of who we are, and to Whom we owe our lives.
But there's a whole ocean out there, and its water is very different from that which laps the shore. Tonight, I broke out past the rocks and mist for the first time in a very long time -- maybe years. I don't know if it's a good idea to describe the sensations, visions, and sentiments of one's prayer life, since prayer is a relationship, not a technique. But I've often wished for some concrete description from others of what prayer is like for them, and is one reason that I treasure St. Teresa of Avila so much.
At first, my mind was much the same as it always is; chattering, flitting from one train of thought to another, occasionally remembering to bless Our Lady, or beg forgiveness of the Lord. This state can last for some five to ten minutes at least, which is why most of my prayer ends here. But eventually a different sensation started to dominate my spirit. It's a bit hard to describe, but started with the thought that I would give every part of myself to Jesus. Everything that I wanted to do, every power that I had, every infirmity or temptation I was privy to, I wanted to devote to the Son of God. This had a brief focusing effect on my consciousness, in which I wasn't so scattered, and felt genuine love in my soul, however meager, for God. I started to experience visual distortions while looking at my altar, and my mental state was definitely heightened relative to my normal functioning.
Quickly after this came the Fire. This sensation, I think, may be particular to me, as a result of my light Tourette's Syndrome. It feels as though every muscle in my body wants to flex at once, like every part of me is filled with a very physical desire, which I tried to direct towards union with my Creator. This sensation, while not truly painful, is incredibly intense, and not within my control. I have felt it several times during prayer, principally when I was a new convert and praying regularly and for extended intervals, living by myself. It's been years since I have felt it, and I had started to wonder whether it would ever return. It was around here that I started to lose track of time. It was somewhat difficult to think clearly, but I was begging my Lord and Lady to protect me from the devil; I've read enough saints to know that prayer and meditation can be very dangerous for novices, and I do not want to exult in these sensations out of some spiritual pride, and invite diabolic influence. I did my best to focus on asking forgiveness and protection, while keeping the flame of love alive.
At some point, I realized that all was peaceful around me. The Fire had died down, and I was able to think very clearly and straightforwardly, like I am usually able to, but there was a great peace in my heart that even thinking about now fills me with desire. I felt undistracted, not wishing to think much about anything other than God. I should mention, that throughout this entire experience, occasionally the meta-thought occurred to me of how I would explain what was happening to me, and exulting in having a "spiritual experience". I did my best, not entirely successfully, to ignore these thoughts.
This state of peace felt like I had truly made it away from the shore, and it was where the metaphor of the sea first occurred to me. I felt as though I could keep going, further and further, out toward God, and that if I went far enough, I could ask anything of Him. I felt very divorced from my body, which by this time had been in a more or less stable position for a long time, and my legs were like a fused block of iron below me. I remember thinking that it was so easy to stay where I was, that I no longer had any real desire to return to my life, but knew that I eventually would, and wondered what would be the eventual trigger that drew me back. It turned out to be hearing my wife and son waking from their nap.
I have trepidations about posting this. It felt like "real prayer", and even writing that out feels like spiritual pride. I do not know whether my experiences were salutary, or an elaborate trick that my mind has figured out how to play on itself. I try to approach the spiritual life with as much humility as I can, assuming that I am the lease enlightened person on the block, blessed beyond all measure of desert. I don't know if this was a gift from God, but I hope that somewhere within, I can accept some graces to improve my sorry state, and treat my fellow man and my God with the love I am called to give. Most of all, I hope I am able to say "yes" to prayer more often, and turn more regularly to my Savior, whether or not I receive these and similar gifts of meditation.