Time, itself, does not vary. Grains of sand pass through the middle of a figure-8 glass at a constant rate, be they measured in minutes or hours. Drops of water in an ancient water-clock move at a fixed number per unit of time. The duration from one new-moon sliver, when a white thread becomes visible in the darkness, to the next new-moon sliver, remains constant over a year composed of twelve moon cycles, even if the planet’s rotation around the sun takes a few days longer than that. The perception of time, however, varies. The conditions for this variation are not fixed. This is the case for this time of coronavirus.
A year ago, Karen and I stopped attending Eucharistic liturgies at Epiphany of the Lord in Katy, Texas. The Archdiocese of Houston limited weekend masses throughout its territory, because of the risk of viral infections during the services. We searched for an on-line or “streaming” mass and, after examining several possible sites, finally settled on one originating at St Anthony of Padua in The Woodlands, Texas. The sanctuary photographed well; the homilist was usually acceptable, in both what he had to say and how he said it.
Our weekly at-a-distance participation occurred for an entire year. Finally, with the administration of two doses of Pfizer vaccine, and with the modification in the guidelines for assemblies for mass within the Archdiocese, we returned to attendance at the five-thirty Eucharistic celebration at Epiphany, almost one year following our self-imposed exile.
We had been absent for fifty weeks. Sitting there, before the liturgy began, it felt to me as if only a single week had passed. The purple altar cloth was still there, as it had been during each service in every previous Lent. The only visible change consisted of white ribbons blocking entrance to every other pew. Social distancing was to be maintained. The masked congregation spoke the same responses, used for two millennia in one language or another. There was a cantor without a choir to lead members of the community in song, now muffled slightly more than at a regular Saturday evening liturgy in the past.
Time is the interval between two events. The flow of time is constant. But the perception of time’s passage vanishes upon returning home. I have also had ths same perception when I would return to the Jesuit Retreat Center in Grand Coteau, Louisiana, for my annual Ignatian week-long silent meditations. I would drive onto the grounds, enter the foyer of the House and feel as if I had never left it. I had an identical encounter when I returned to Epiphany, having been gone, physically, for an entire year. This was, indeed, the feeling, the sense of, returning home. Yes, being home is being in the place which you never really left, no matter how long you have been away from it.
Homeward bound is the feeling of warmth one experiences when returning to a place of comfort. On the other hand, you can return to the place where you have lived and yet not be homeward bound. Home is not a geographic location associated with your past. Homeward bound is not merely to be headed toward a place where you once lived, but rather being “bound,” being united, being at oneness with the place at which you arrive, the place you desire never to leave.
Being homeward bound is being timeless; there is no perception that time has passed. What has occurred continues to occur. Being at home is continuing a conversation with a friend in the exact moment the two of you parted months or years ago. Nothing has been lost; nothing needs to be regained.
When this occurred with my return to Epiphany, I was very surprised. I had not realized how much “at home” I had become with this place. This feeling has been manifested upon my return to other religious locations – the Retreat Center at Grand Coteau and Christ the Good Shepherd in Spring – come to mind. For secular places, there is our current apartment at Eagle’s Trace with its homeward bound feeling experienced after a visit to places where relatives and friends reside.
I also recall places where I would have expected to feel “at home” but did not. Once, I had been visiting in Niles when I saw a newspaper ad that my grandparents’ house was up for sale. I was able to convince the realtor I would like to see the place even if I had no intention of buying a house in my hometown. During the walkthrough, I remembered what each room had once held, what events had occurred within them. But I did not feel “at home” regardless of having spent considerable time there in my younger days.
There had also been a visit when I happened to drive by my parent’s former house on Seneca Street and saw that a construction crew was tearing out its interior as part of a major remodeling. Once again, having convinced the workers that I had lived there during my teenage years and would like to see it for a few minutes, I was able to walk through rooms where my life had existed, and my dreams had faded. Although I could recall each location in the house, I failed to be at home in any of them.
However, I am able to be homeward bound in my memories, in my imagination. There are recollections of sitting at my cousin’s kitchen table drinking coffee with her, with her husband, George, and my wife, Karen. Although Rosemary died almost fifty years ago, I still am at home with my memories of those hours spent in pleasant conversation.
Memory has its own perception of time – of events long ago that still exist as vividly, perhaps even more so, than those lived only an hour ago. It is with this perception of time that I can return home. It is with this legacy of memories that I remain homeward bound.