I read the better part of The Way of A Pilgrim on the plane today. There’s something especially lovely about reading on a plane, I always enjoy such focus, I’m not sure what it is about it. No internet probably lends a hand, frankly. I listened to some liturgical music, as I am listening now, and I often took breaks to practice what the pilgrim preaches, namely, the repetitive utterance of the Jesus Prayer. 

His two suggested methods are first, to imagine one’s heart beating, to find a pulse by throat or chest or wrist, and to speak the words in time with each beat

Lord
Jesus
Christ
have mercy
on me

Again and again until something like pain comes and subsides. 
Later on we can pair it with breath “Lord Jesus Christ” on the inhale “have mercy on me” on the exhale. 

This version is shorter than the one I was originally taught: Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner. While I really enjoy the longer version, and especially the contrast it evokes, there is something incredibly special about the shorter version. 

I’ve been practicing the longer version on my walks and while falling asleep and when I can remember for a while now, and there was a unique impact to this breath and heartbeat practice that I did not expect. Maybe it’s because I was at airports and surrounded by people, which often brings out good feelings for humanity in me.

I leave Plainfield less and less, the world feels more full and full every time I visit it. And every time it feels a little bit more incredible. This seems to me like a combination of things. A balance. 

I wonder how I can inspire that balance in Roby. To love the silence of the country, and to love the people of the city, but not too much. To be in awe of their proximity and their potency, but to be a bit afraid of it too. To love the divinity in them, but to protect the divinity in herself by remaining apart. 

I’m glad that I am seeing all of these people, that I’m out in the world, but I’m deeply grateful this is in the strictest minority of my experience.