I had the flu but don't worry, now I'm back and writing long rambling posts about Jesus again!

Hark, the season of Lent is upon us!

This is the time when a lot of people try to give up chocolate and fail miserably, when all the icons and crosses and fancy things at my church have to be covered up as though they are porn or something, when Reese's Peanut Butter EGGS hit the check-out stand at Walgreens and I nearly cry in my pious avoidance of them.

Lent is also a time where I often exclaim, with a great deal of snark, "I hope Jesus appreciates this!"

Is that out of line?

Anyway. I actually have very fond feelings for Lent, as it is a time when we are instructed to be aware, reflective, and very much alive in preparation for the season of Easter, which lasts a few weeks and is basically an Episcopalian's idea of the ultimate party: tons of singing, lots of incense, and reeeeeally long prayers.

I know, it's pretty tempting.

One of the details of my expedition in Chile that I really miss is how constantly aware I was. I had very few comforts of my familiar USA-Life close at hand: my friends, food, TV shows, cafes, shops, church, shampoo brands to which I was so accustomed, so that nearly every act throughout the day was a small adventure--an undertaking into the unknown. Every day felt heavy with thoughts, triumphs, reflections; I journaled madly and wrote emails abundantly, each one going on and on and on (sorry guys) about my feelings, my growth, my challenges.

Lately, my days have plodded along, pleasantly enough, but with such little care or reflection given to my heart and soul. Whenever anyone asks "What's new?" I reply "Nothing," but I've been replying in such a manner since last May, and surely something has been new since then. When I consider that I have worked both my cheesy part-time jobs since late last spring--jobs I intended to keep only for the summer--I am startled, and slightly disgusted. While I have enjoyed both of them for various and odd reasons, I get annoyed with myself for not having done much of anything else in that time. I haven't even finished the last season of Gilmore Girls for crying out sakes.

I have seen so little growth during this year, so few journal entries, so little to show for the 45 hours of work a week except for this little apartment with bad plumbing and bugs, a few manicures of bright pink, and the purchase of my first coffee maker.

Thomas Moore wrote that people have seasons, just like the year has seasons: we experience times of death, rebirth, cold, and hot. I think of my near-year in Chile as a season of spring--of spilling open and rushing up from the dirt to poke my nose out from the earth and smell the orchard and the sun, of new possibilities and new fruit with strange names and new ideas and laying the old ones to rest.

This season, this year, has felt very autumnal, with moments of breathless beauty and true elation, but with much stillness, silence, and surrender. And my favorite pumpkin mug.

It seems that every summer I boast to make the noble decision to EAT SEASONALLY, to ignore spring's strawberries and instead look to Michigan's brave farmers to provide me with the bounty of July: tomatoes and greens and those magnificent peaches with their luxurious texture of natural velvet. Of course, this decision, which I proceed to tell everyone about as I haughtily refuse avocados on my burrito and which I explain at length in very self-righteous blog entries, lasts up until about, oh, October, when I realize that the rest of the year will be very heavy on the turnips. Then I humbly return to writing blog entries about Jesus and Frenchmen so as to divert my readers' attention from my failure.

You have all been duped.

That said, what good is it to be attentive to the yearly seasons when I am not even being attentive to my SOUL's seasons? Can "eating seasonally" also mean that, during the periods of my life when I am wounded and lethargic I allow myself soy lattes the size of a small island, and excessively large breakfasts shared with a sage friend?

I am giving myself excuses to eat more pancakes; I realize this.

I don't think "eating seasonally" limits me to eating asparagus only in May, but also nourishing myself appropriately in whatever time of life I find myself to be passing through. I find that in the times I am depressed or uninspired, I neglect proper care and nourishment for my earthly vessel in many ways. Instead of good books and conversation, I nourish my heart with episodes of "Room Raiders" and Us Magazine.

Not that I would ever encourage myself or anyone else in any circumstance to abstain from MTV, but I can probably be a touch more conscious of how I tend to my broken spirit--perhaps feeding it with arts and true catharsis through theatre and music and French movies about the ocean, rather than mindless diversion.

Now let's talk about the Church seasons. (NOW I have your attention!) The Catholic churches--Roman, Anglican, and Orthodox--place an intense and very attentive emphasis on the seasons of the Church: Advent, Epiphany, Lent, Easter, Pentecost (which is still a complete mystery to me except I know you're supposed to wear red?), the very boring Ordinary Time, and what have you.

Each period instructs the soul in preparation for Easter, the crux of the year, the most important and joyful time in the Church calendar, and each period tends to the heart and educates the spirit in discipline, mourning, stillness, activity, and jubilance.

I relish the process of it all, the unending procession of seasons that creates the calendar. It was brought to my attention recently that Jesus did not "convert" his disciples; he formed and shaped them and then sent them out into the world to continue their discipleship. I don't think that a day or an experience can separate a non-Christian to becoming a Christian, and even if that's the case, I don't give it much importance. Just as a season is not a one-day or even one-month event, I so strongly believe that the Christian life is one of constant development and continuing story--with doubts, resurgences, progress, regress, death, and rebirth. The Church Calendar totally confirms this so I'm not making it up.

[And let it be known, I am just as disgusting and sinful AND joyful of a person now as I was when I was not going to church regularly; now I just can't go to brunch on Sundays anymore, which, when I think about it, makes me reconsider my chosen path.]

During this Lent, I think I am in even deeper need of awareness and awake-ness than usual. Not only because I work in a bakery and need a serious fast from the endless intake of sweets, but because it is alarming to me that I haven't taken time to reflect for such a long while. I am going to start putting on face moisturizer in the morning, which is supposed to remind me to be caring for my body and its parts, even though I look more like Owen Wilson and less like Beyonce than I'd like; I'm going to listen to my iPod much less, as it has become a very easy way to distract and distance myself from what is actually happening in my life at the moment; I am going to try to not talk about my hatred for customers so much...TRY is the key word...

Among a couple other small projects.

Allow me to dismount my high horse.

The wonderful and melancholy part of seasons is that they change, and equally wonderful and melancholy is that they come back. Just when you come to believe you have all the time in the lazy, 85-degree world, you feel a chill at the beach on an August night and realize that this bit of earth is cooling down, preparing for a romantic and glorified death of its foliage. And just when you think you are about to break your lease, pack up a sundress and a few pairs of socks and high-tail it to Tahiti, the sun envelopes the city in its sweet balmy light--a small reminder that some day, not entirely far away, the midwest will be awash with heat and we will all be complaining about how sweaty our thighs get when we wear skirts.

Or maybe that's just me?

OKAY THE POINT IS: Lent is not really a 40-day holy diet plan, but a gentle awakening of the soul, the journey from Ash Wednesday to Easter, that day of days! It is not a condemnation into a period of guilt and lack of sugar, but a warm invitation into preparation for wholeness and delight, during which we will be whole and delighted and then start the entire process over again.
Rev. Ann Fontaine from the Diocese of Wyoming wrote this for Lent:

Fast from judgment, Feast on compassion
Fast from greed, Feast on sharing
Fast from scarcity, Feast on abundance
Fast from fear, Feast on peace
Fast from lies, Feast on truth
Fast from gossip, Feast on praise
Fast from anxiety, Feast on patience
Fast from evil, Feast on kindness
Fast from apathy, Feast on engagement
Fast from discontent, Feast on gratitude
Fast from noise, Feast on silence
Fast from discouragement, Feast on hope
Fast from hatred, Feast on love

This Lent I am not only trying to be aware of this specific Church season, but also my own personal life-season--even if it is not as lush and reflective as the last. For this time, I will allow myself to enjoy all pancakes as they become available, attend to the daily care of my body and its soul, and keep in mind that this, like the last, will not last forever--and soon I will be saying those very long prayers and singing those billions of songs in the joy of Easter. Maybe even in a very fetching yet-to-be-purchased Easter frock.

There is much to prepare for.