Man, how time flies, eh? Last year on Shrove
Tuesday, I was sat in a meeting with representatives of an organization that
gives out awards that are nearly ten times the monetary value of Nobel Prizes
($3MM, as opposed to approximately $350,000) in physics, life sciences and
mathematics; wearing business clothes and trying not to crunch my potato chips
too loudly. (Where were you in my time of need, Pepsico?)
It was an odd get-together, but the part that’s
stuck with me was when our colleague in Switzerland, who was calling into the
meeting starting at 1800 CET mentioned that he was missing Pancake Day with his
little boy for it. And my manager did not know what Pancake Day is.
I didn’t want to wax theological for someone
who doesn’t care about it, but I’ve been thinking about it over the past week—the
last hurrah before Ash Wednesday and the beginning of Lent. Pancake Day is when
you use up the last of the fats (including eggs; ergo the perfection of
pancakes) in your kitchen, preparing for the lean days of Lent. Mardi Gras (literally,
“Fat Tuesday”) and Carnival are different—some might say excessive—expressions
of this idea; drink yourself stupid and go crazy so you hit Ash Wednesday with
a monumental hangover and a properly penitential demeanor.
At the moment, I’m less interested in Shrove Tuesday/Mardi
Gras/Pancake Day than I am with what I view as the opportunity that Lent
presents to cleanse my spirit, reflect, discern and distil my current place in
life, what I have to contribute, and how I might pull it all together. I feel
like I’ve got myself into a muddle, so it’s going to take an effort to find my
way out of it.
I’m hoping 40 days and 40 nights will be
enough.
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