The Habit of My Soul
All Saints' Day
“And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.” — Coleridge
I don’t write every day because I want to write every day. I write every day because I like to write and, in doing so regularly, I begin to want it.
Writing regularly, I create the practice which opens a space in my psyche which can only be satisfied by writing.
Such that, on the days I don’t write, I can immediately feel the absence of the practice.
I go through the day thinking “I would feel differently, had I written.”
I might think “why didn’t I write today?” It would’ve been better.
One does not always do what one wants to do regularly. Something I really enjoy doing, but have rarely done lately, is practice my transcendental meditation.
It’s pleasurable, I feel better after doing it, and it seems to help in other areas of my life (a sharper intellect, a sense of restedness, a more peaceful demeanor, greater distress tolerance, spiritual connection, metaphysical fulfillment).
OK Wait. Something is good for you which you also enjoy — and you don’t naturally do it regularly? What’s the grip?
My only hypothesis is that it is because it has not yet become a habit.
Lots of other things in my life have become habitual. Coffee certainly. I started drinking coffee with my grandmother when I was 8, and by high school was emulating both of my parents and making it before I went to school in the morning.
Today, I noticed a new form of habit emerge, which almost surprised me.
Upon waking — before visiting the water closet, dressing, making coffee, or turning on my laptop to write to all of you — I fell onto my knees and prayed the prayer the Anointed describes in the sixth book of Matthew.
This is not something I do daily. It is, however, something I do with regularity at certain points of the year.
And today is a very special day. Today is All Saint’s Day.
The second day in the Hallowtide triduum, today is the day we celebrate the power and influence of the Saints following our successful survival of last night’s test. All Hallow’s Eve (John Keats’ birthday) is the eve during which the veil between the physical and spiritual realms is said to be the thinnest, and we lit our gourds and went into the dark last night to confront any demoniac presences which could thwart our good natures.
Today, if we’ve made it, we have the opportunity to celebrate. Which I appear to already be doing.
Why am I writing about this in terms of habit?
For ten years now, I’ve been observing Hallowtide as a spiritual practice. Twice, I’ve gone to the New Melleray Abbey on these days in order to pray and meditate, participate in the liturgy, and spend time in their great, neo-Gothic sanctuary, as the monks chaunt the psalms.
As with the other big holidays of the year, I have begun to adopt a regular relationship to time and season via a mytho-symbolical interface.
So there are certain things I do almost automatically during this time of year, prayer being one of them.
What a ramble this post has been. I began by telling you about a habit I’m trying to cultivate, and ended by telling you about a habit which has become automatic.
But more, I just want to remind you that a habit is the garment worn by monks, who live their lives deliberately and prayerfully.
Coming from an old French word meaning (roughly) “clothing,” one’s habitude is the way in which they present themselves publicly. “People like us, who do and believe things like this, wear these sorts of things.”
The same word grew to describe spaces we inhabit, such as homes. How is my space organized such that it is conducive to my practice of the behaviors I wish to promote?
Much in the way that writing is the habitation of my thoughts, and daily writing is a mindful observance in which to promote them with spiritual intention.
May your prayers be full of blessed wonder.
Aspiringly,
Aaron