Summertime asceticism

From the third-floor attic of the house in which I live, on the campus of Holy Cross church in Northeast Minneapolis, I have a perfect view of the statue of the Blessed Mother in the courtyard down below and — if I crane my neck — of the stone cross atop the church’s facade.

Or at least I have this winter.

During these cold and barren months, I’ve been able to look through the branches of the tree plopped right outside my window to see these religious reminders beyond. Gazing at them during one of my work or study breaks spent looking out the window has prompted many a gratitude-producing reflection on God’s sacrificial love, or a plea to the Virgin Mary to help me out with whatever struggle occupies my mind at that moment.

But it’s dawning on me, as the drab and dreariness of the past few months is replaced by the verdancy and vitality of late spring, that my view will soon be obscured. The buds emerging from the branches of my backyard tree (oak, I think) will soon unfold into lush green leaves. The tree will become less of a window, and more of, well, a tree.

I’m excited for this view itself. Already, a variety of birds have been active in the oak tree’s branches, the newness of their seasonal songs a refreshing reminder that we’re not alone in creation, in a way that the monotony of human activity can sometimes fail to be. I’m also looking forward to the aesthetic experience of being nestled “in the treetops;” the tree presses up against the house, its nearest branch is no more than a few feet away. It won’t quite be the feeling one gets when walking under the veritable canopies hanging over Minnehaha Parkway or the streets of the neighborhoods around the campus of St. Thomas in the height of summer, but it will beat the feeling of being exposed, in danger of falling into the open sky, that the relatively treeless Northeast produces, especially in the winter months.

But with all this fullness comes a peculiar lack, namely, an inability to see beyond the tree to those spiritual icons that lie on the other side. Ironically, it was a lacking in the tree, the natural asceticism of its wintertime leaflessness, that provided such an opportunity before.

I hope it’s not too forced, but it seems to me that there’s something in this experience that can be broadened out to the spiritual life more generally as we move from the most naturally ascetical seasons of the liturgical year, Advent and Lent, and into Easter and the long-haul of summery ordinary time.

Our lives during these next few months will be full. The relative stillness and even contemplativeness necessitated by not only our penitential liturgical seasons but also our cold, dark winters will be replaced by long bright days, filled with vacations, bike rides, boat rides, patio-side dinners and drinks, movies in the park, county fairs, the State Fair, camps, leagues, lake days, lazy days, and all the flurry of activity that defines our short, but sweet Minnesota summer.

Of course, engagement in life and reveling in the natural glory of summer in the Land of 10,000 Lakes provide their own opportunities for connecting with God, and for being grateful for all that he’s given. But the challenge is to somehow avoid allowing this fullness of earthly life to over-occupy us, obscuring our vision of those spiritual realities that lie beyond and ultimately make a Minnesota summer worth anything in the end.

What to do? Returning to the view outside my window, it’s important for me to remember that the statue of the Blessed Mother in the Holy Cross courtyard below won’t cease to exist once the oak tree gains all its leaves and blocks my line of sight. If I want to make a visit to Mary, it won’t be as easy as it was when I could simply see her through the leafless branches, but I can still go downstairs and walk outside. It will just take a little more effort, and a little more intentionality, than it did in the wintertime. So too, perhaps, with our spiritual lives, as we move from the austerity of winter to the fullness of the summer season.

Liedl, a Twin Cities resident, is the senior editor of the National Catholic Register and a graduate student in theology at The St. Paul Seminary and School of Divinity.