on Basil The Wandering Fool

I noticed in my post on St. Xenia below, that one might be tempted to derive some significance from the fact that St. Xenia is called a "Holy Fool", and in her troparion is called a "Wanderer" and the fact that I recently changed my logon-name to "Basil The Wandering Fool," so let me clear up a few things:

Whereas in Protestant thought, all Christians are readily called "saints" (after all, Paul wrote to "the saints" didn't he?), on the other hand there is nothing more arrogant, nor more sinful, in Orthodox Tradition that for a person to consider themselves a saint. In fact, if someone is being considered for canonization as a recognized saint, it is certain they won't be if there is any suggestion that they thought of themselves as saintly. So, let me be clear, I am not calling myself "Basil The Wandering Fool" because of any even remote inclination toward holiness. I am far from holy. It is a coincidence that those two phrases "wandering" and "fool" have coincided in a troparion of the Church, for I have never noticed them presented that way before.

I made this recent change, because in the depths of my own heart, I know I am a wandering soul, and I know I am a fool. Sometimes I even fear that I'm one of those types of people mentioned in the Scripture:

These are the men who are hidden reefs in your love feasts when they feast with you without fear, caring for themselves; clouds without water, carried along by winds; autumn trees without fruit, doubly dead, uprooted; wild waves of the sea, casting up their own shame like foam; wandering stars, for whom the black darkness has been reserved forever.
- Jude 1:12-13

or the Holy Aposlte James:
If any of you lack wisdom, let him ask of God, that giveth to all liberally, and upbraideth not; and it shall be given him. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. But let him ask in faith, nothing wavering. For he that wavereth is like a wave of the sea driven with the wind and tossed. For let not that man think that he shall receive any thing of the Lord. A double minded man is unstable in all his ways.

- James 1:5-8

For I feel myself wandering, like one without water, through the deserts of my own heart, and I find myself multifaced, with a multitude of conflicting ideas and opinions. Am I unstable in all my ways? I pray not. I hope not. But I have what I hope to be a healthy fear that I am.

Let me explain: I have no hestiancy in my faith. My faith is boundless, my heart is full of the love of God, my mind is settled on the teaching of the Church. But my body does not do what my mind always wants it to do. My body leads me down many a broken and wretched path, and I find myself powerless to change that. No, worse, I do not even wish to change that, at least not everything.

So, I am calling myself a wanderer and a fool. I seek for wisdom not only from the Divine, but from every hidden corner of the earth - why? because I want to believe that God has not completely hidden his Wisdom from nature. I want to believe that God can be found and seen - in all His Beauty and all His Terror - in every corner of this earth.

And I go looking for Him there.

Lord have mercy on my soul.

Basil

St. Xenia of Petersburg

Today is the special day of the Blessed St. Xenia of Petersburg.

Lives of the Saints - Blessed Xenia of Petersburg

St. Xenia holds a special place in our lives, as being the patron saint of our daughter, Xenia.



The Holy Fools are an amazing type of saint, known for their strange portentous deeds. St. Xenia was known for many such things: wandering the streets of St. Petersburg in her husband's old clothes, sneaking into a Church being constructed to help move bricks (depicted in the icon above), making stange utterances that caused people to repent, or seek God more fervently.

I love that kind of stuff! It is the stuff that makes you think, and the sort of stuff that you remember for a long time to come. (I chose St. Basil the Holy Fool as my own saint, I love that stuff so much.)


Here is a pretty good web page on St. Xenia.


Enjoy!

In thee, O wandering stranger, Christ the Lord hath given us an ardent intercessor for our kind. For having received in thy life sufferings and grief and served God and men with love, thou didst acquire great boldness. Wherefore, we fervently hasten to thee in temptations and grief, crying out from the depths of our hearts: Put not our hope to shame, O Blessed Xenia.

Rasputin

Thanks to James for an opportunity to explore the strange labyrinth of history on this strange man.




(Rasputin - Old Imperial Stout an interesting and provocative beer - quite tasty)

Well I was wondering tonight about the character of this creature Rasputin. Was he a demented devil as portrayed by Disney?

Was he a simple monk who came to the aid of the Tsarina?

Was he a self serving imposter who tried to take the political reigns of Russia?

Is he the ultimate cause of 70 years of communist power in Russia?

I'm curious and I haven't exactly made up my own mind about this fellow.



Here's a web site that is PRO Rasputin.

And here is a web site that is a bit more negative about him, but not necessarily "against" him.

The sort of thing I'm wondering a little is: was he actually an ordained member of the clergy of the Orthodox Church? (A Reader? A Monk? otherwise?) Anyone know?

Cheers!
Basil

Where do stories come from?

When faced with this question, I began at once to think: they come from nowhere; they come from everywhere. They come, but they do not come deliberately. I fill myself with everything, and somehow the story comes at me out of nowhere.

Several days ago I watched the movie Edward Scissorhands. A perfect analogy came to me in the watching of that movie. The question: "where do stories come from?" has its perfect parallel in the question: "where does snow come from?" Those of you who have seen the movie will recognize the comparison at once.

Stories are born magically within, but not without work. Stories are the gems I mine from the depths of my soul, but in order to form them, everything I do and see, everything I think and feel, everything that hits me in this life and everything that surrounds me is compacted within my heart. It is compressed and buried beneath the tons and tons of rubble, the earth that by sheer weight turns coal into diamonds.

The birth of the story then has two origins: (1) I bury the coal with tons and tons of "stuff" - with everything I read, do and see - all the thoughts and ideas I pile up in my soul. Then (2) I dig for it in the mines of my own heart, and I find it there completely transformed.

I cannot explain this transformation any more than I could explain the origin of the snow. It just happens. But it is not coincidental. I must work for it. I must explore the catacombs of my own soul. I must dig, and dig, and dig. Then the gems I find are nothing more than raw hard stone. It is then that the real work begins. I must chisel at them. I must cut these stones into something recognizable by the world. For a raw diamond, a raw emerald, ruby, or sapphire, is nothing but compressed earth. It is in the shaping and chiseling of the stone that the transformation becomes complete.

A story is something that is carefully and skillfully crafted from the treasures buried in my soul. First I must learn the tools of the trade, namely, I must read everything I can get my hands on. And I try to. I have worked hard for a number of years reading novels in every genre and a great deal of literary fiction besides. I go to lectures, meetings, conferences, and gatherings of other writers to learn from them about the craft. All of that, however, is merely a part of the sculpting of the stone, the cutting of the diamond. The story itself is already buried inside me through years of contemplation, and observation of the world around me.

To Blog or Not To Blog?

(need I say: "that is the question?")

Well, having worked through some of the considerations of a writer's journal, I think that this blog shall not become my writer's journal. Why?

Having read several folks comments in my writing class, along with the instructor's advice, it makes sense that a writer's journal is something private - something a person feels that they can say anything that pops into their head, anything that they need to say: without having to consider that i might come to public scrutiny.

However, that having been said, I still find there are some possibilities. For one thing, it has been noted that a writer's journal should be some place the writer can stick anything. It has been suggested that even cutting out interesting things from the newspaper and taping them, glueing them into the journal is not unheard of.

Therefore, I think what I shall do is: type stuff here that I believe CAN withstand public scrutiny, and then print a copy of it and tape it into my writer's journal.

This, then, will rather become more of a public expression of my "writer's journal." That will get me blogging more often, and work itself into my assignment at school.

~basil

Why don't I blog...

I was thinking about this: "Why don't I hardly ever blog?"

Some of my friends blog furiously. Take James for example. Blogs nearly every day, rain or shine.

As for me, I’ve got three different blogs started. This one I blog on the most. DreamDreamer I blog on about 1/10th as often as I blog here. Then HolyGeorgia I’ve only blogged once.

I keep thinking about blogging: Oh, I think. I don’t really care for the “theme” of my main blog. I should start another blog that is “the writer’s journey” and do all my literary journalism on the blog itself.

But then I would have Four Blogs, and would probably not keep up with any of them any better.

To remedy the situation, I’ve considered becoming less “thematic” – making this blog right here my “writer’s journey” and blogging my literary thoughts, impressions and feelings right here.

The phrase comes to mind: “Your life is an open book.” Well, yes, I guess it would be if I blogged my every thought.

But, on the other hand, if I blogged my every thought, I believe the blog would be indecent.

Then I’ve considered morphing DreamDreamer into a fictional “literary journal” of a fictional writer that I can incarnate from a safe distance. That way I could give him all my unclean and absurd thoughts, and say it is all just fiction.

But then how would I characterize this fictitious personage, this writer who is struggling for some sense of accomplishment in his art? Would he be just like me, or would I make him somehow different? And really, that is the Big Question. If he is like me, but only a dim reflection in a dirty mirror: is he not still me?

When he lifts his right hand, I lift my left. When he winks at me with his right eye, I wink back with my left. I tug on my beard and he tugs on his beard. I adjust my glasses, taking them off to clean off the spots, and he vanishes in a blur.

That’s the other me there, that blurry one. And if the blurry underside of my subconscious is an open book, am I not also an open book too?

Being “open” and making bare your soul to the world is a form of nudity that I am not comfortable with. In fact, I think I would sooner walk down the street naked, sooner streak across the field at a base ball game, than lay bare my soul to the world. Yet when I write, even fiction, is that not exactly what I am doing?

I haven’t decided what I’m going to do about it yet, but one thing is sure: I’m going to make more of an effort to blog. I have an assignment in my college class this quarter to begin literary journaling. I am going to see if I can some how integrate the assignment with blogging.

So, more is coming soon!

Basil

My Star



Enough said...

Basil