Falling Down, Again and Again

What Benedictines Do

In considering my last post, it occurs that there may be hope for me yet, even if I don't immediately find my Rule of Benedict. To be persistent in prayer and life is, as I recall one of my monk friends telling me, the heart of Benedictine life.

Not knowing much about monastics, I asked him what monks do all day. He sighed, and I realized that monks are asked this question all too often. Instead of giving me the long answer about their prayer schedule, or the short answer, telling me that they eat, sleep and do what other people do, which is also true, he grasped a teachable moment. Fortunately for him and for me, there is an ancient monastic proverb that provided a wonderful answer to my hackneyed question.

"We fall down and get up, fall down and get up," he told me.

Remember babyhood? Vaguely? I don't remember much, but I have a vague sense of that "thud" of falling down. That whomping sound of diaper on linoleum, or the bonking sensation of my hands or head on the ground. Sure, I cried a little, but it didn't bother me a lot. It seemed like part of the program, part of learning to walk or run.

I do remember that the older I got, the more it bothered me. Falling off my bike. Slipping off a curb and dropping my schoolbooks. Now, falling down is an awful experience, especially in public. Not only does it jar my bones and rattle my teeth, I'm mortified to think that people have seen me in an extremely ungraceful moment. I'm so self-conscious that, halfway to the ground, I'm already taking a mental inventory of who's in the room, what perspective he or she has of my backside, and thinking how I wish I'd never been born so clumsy. Then there are those other mistakes that I make, those sinful "falls" that people see. I hate those, too. Sometimes it's easier to just walk on and pretend they didn't happen, easier not to apologize or acknowledge that I was out of line.

Too bad falling, which used to be such a learning experience, became such a trauma. Of course, it is farther to the ground, now. Gravity hurts. Being human is painful. But most of all, I think it's the social pressure and the laughter and my own pride that make falling so hard.

My Benedictine, monastic friends reminded me that falling down isn't just for babies. It's for all of us. They remind me, even now in soft voices in my head, that it's not the Fall that finalizes and defines us, but the Rising and walking again. So I keep praying for the grace to grin at myself, wave at my admirers, wipe the leaves off my backside, get up and try again. Again and again.

Now that's good Benedictine stuff.