Terry participates in an internet study group. When completes the project and tells us of where it is published, I'll pass the information on. Charles+ --- pax20@... wrote: > > Charles +, > > > > If this part of a book I would love to be able to > read the rest of it. > > > +chd > > -----Original Message----- > From: charles scott <crscottblu@...> > To: faith life <faithandlife@...> > Sent: Fri, 11 Jan 2008 5:25 pm > Subject: [FaithandLife] ALL BECAUSE OF YOU > > > > > Brothers+ > The paragraphs below arrived in my mailbox from a > log. > hese lines are perhaps the beginning of a book. The > uthor shared a few lines on a blog. > Charles+ > > > LL BECAUSE OF YOU > (Terry Veling, Australian Catholic University) > “ALL KNOWLEDGE BEGINS WITH FEELING” > I was sitting on a country road, admiring the > sun-lit > alley, listening to the wind. A stranger came up to > e and we started talking. At first he was > uspicious, and I felt myself under scrutiny. He > came > o inquire into this strange scene, this stranger > itting by the road. I commented on the beauty of > the > alley, asked him whether he lived in the house > earby, and if it was alright for me to sit a while. > e smiled and I saw his suspicion ease. > We began to talk and I suddenly found myself > involved > n a personal and friendly conversation. He > iscovered that I taught theology at a Catholic > niversity, that I had come to the mountains to sit > nd write a while. He said he had lived in this > alley for 25 years, since his retirement. He was > now > 2. He spoke with a noticeable Czech accent, and I > earnt that he had immigrated to Australia just after > orld War Two. > Maybe it was because I was sitting there writing > – > ’m not sure – but he said, “I am a sculptor > – would > ou like to see my work?” At first I thought of > olitely declining, but then I felt the wind’s > breath > rompting me. So we walked up the road a little, > alking about art and religion, his life and his > work, > ntil we approached the front gate of his property. > I > topped in my tracks. Stunned. Before me was a huge > ranite stone with these words chiseled into it: > All knowledge begins > ith feeling > I immediately wanted to rush back to where I had > been > itting, take up my pen, and practice this saying. > We followed the tree-lined pathway that led to > his > ouse, and along the way there appeared various > tatues – like ancient ghosts, with singular > dignity, > arved from solid rock, yet filled with fluid forms: > omen, dancers, dolphins, birds, children. > In another part of his garden, where he set > himself > o work, I saw three or four solid masses of raw > rock. > rom one of these emerged a half-formed figure as if > reaking free from the stone. > I felt quite spell-bound. I had ventured into a > tranger’s home. What was I doing here? I stood > in > his sculptor’s garden full of bewilderment and > arvel. > He then opened the door to a large shed. He > asked me > o take my off my sandals, as his wife liked to keep > he floors clean. The shed was filled with examples > f his work. In his hey-day, he had received various > rizes. It seemed like quite an intimate moment to > e. He was sharing his memories, his treasure. > “This > s holy ground,” I thought. > I commented on a carving that caught my eye, the > face > f the suffering Christ. He said, “Well there’s > quite > story behind that . . . I carved it in 1955, and > omeone purchased it. Then, a few years ago, I was > isiting a market fair, and there it was! Someone > had > ound it while cleaning out a house, and now they > were > elling it. Fifty years later, my suffering Christ > ame back to me, as if resurrected.” > What was it, I wondered, that brought these two > trangers together? One trying to write, another > rying to wrest shape and form from stone? Was it > the > ind? The strange and wandering Spirit that blows > here it will? Did this stranger come to me as a > eacher? > When he first arrived, I did not know he was a > culptor, nor less that he would invite me to his > ome. I didn’t know about the words carved in > stone > t the front of his gate. Did he come to tell me > omething? > How is it, I wondered, that a person who deals in > ock and granite, in hard and solid forms, > evertheless inscribes at his gate: > All knowledge begins > with feeling > To carve feeling from rock, to let shape and > form > merge from solid mass, to trust the chisel, to love, > ather than fear, the raw beauty of ancient stone. > Perhaps he really did come to teach me, perhaps > the > ind was right: latent in every aspect of life, even > n the difficulty of rock, there is spirit and there > s friendship – if only we could but feel. > ALL BECAUSE OF YOU > This is a rather simple event, yet I was quite > taken > y it. I had come to the mountains to do some > riting, with a simple pen and pad, and a glorious > iew. Though I enjoy these small moments of retreat > nd solitude, I often wonder when I write: to whom am > writing? Another way of asking this question is: > to > hom is my life addressed? It seems to me that there > s always an “other” to whom and for whom we live > our > ives. Of course, this question – “to whom or > for > hom do you live?” – will invite as many > different > esponses as there are people. Yet the personal > tenor > f this question – “who is my life for?” – > strikes me > s having a different tone, and inviting a different > uality of response, than the more abstract and > mpersonal question, “what is your life about?” > -- > o unsubscribe, send ANY message to: > faithandlife-unsubscribe@... > > > ________________________________________________________________________ > More new features than ever. 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