Because I do not hope
Because I do not hope to turn again
Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope
T.S. Eliot thought a lot about Ash Wednesday, obviously. Through the wonders of the internet, we can listen to him reading it himself:
This was his "conversion poem," the story of his embracing and renouncing. Lent is all about embracing and renouncing, and I'm reviving this blog for the duration as this year's Lenten observance. Exactly what form it will take is still unclear to me: my goal for Lent this year is to come to grips with my privilege and what it requires. Gratitude, first, but obligations too.
We don't see our privilege — or I should say, I don't see my privilege — because I'm always looking up. Most of us live aspirational lives, always trying to do more, earn more, live better (whatever "better" means). We don't look at the people who are aspiring to our lives. And so I whine about the invisibility of being middle-aged and overweight and female, and forget how that invisibility can be a superpower. I listen to colleagues describe their fancy vacations and wonder when I last took a "real" vacation, forgetting that I have work that lets me go almost anywhere whenever I like. I grumble at the unacknowledged volunteer work and retaliate by failing to acknowledge the work of my fellow volunteers.
Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something
Upon which to rejoice
Life goes only one way. The worst of grief, pain, anger, envy is the illusion that we could go back and fix things or regain what we lost. So for Lent I want to remember to look forward, to cherish my privilege, and to share as much of it as I can.
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