Merton says he could never be a Trappist monk . . .
Dan said: “Do you think you would like that kind of a life?”
“Oh, no,” I said, “not a chance! That’s not for me! I’d never be able to stand it. It would kill me in a week. Besides, I have to have meat. I can’t get along without meat, I need it for my health.”
“Well,” said Dan, “it’s a good thing you know yourself so well.”
For a moment it occurred to me that he was being ironical, but there was not a shadow of irony in his voice, and there never was. He was far too good and too kind and too simple for irony. He thought I knew what I was talking about, and took my word for it.
And so the conclusion of that evening was that I decided to go and see the Franciscans, and after all, we both agreed that they seemed to be the best for me.
So he gave me a note to his friend Father Edmund, at the monastery of St. Francis of Assisi on 31st Street.
Merton is absolutely certain he knows what is best for himself. He could never be a Trappist, because their way of life would kill him. Simplicity. Prayer. Solitude. Not for him. Vegetarian diet. Nope, he needs meat. Every day.
This passage is Merton at his most human--wanting to be in charge of his own destiny. Of course, none of us can really claim that privilege. Six years ago, I was working full-time in the business office of an outpatient surgical center while contingent teaching at the local university. Three years later, I was still working at the surgical center while contingent teaching, but I was also the Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula. Another two years--I was working for a cardiology practice, contingent teaching, and serving my second term as Poet Laureate. Today? I am the coordinator of adult programming for the largest library in the Upper Peninsula, still a contingent professor at the university, and am no longer Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.
During that span of time, my older brother died of complications from a stroke. My sister died of lymphoma of the brain. And my dad died of natural causes at the age of 90. Some people in my life have had on-again, off-again, on-again struggles with addiction and mental illness. Donald Trump was elected President of the United States. And a global pandemic pretty much shut down the world.
Six years ago, I wouldn't have predicted any of that. I was contentedly doing my thing--teaching and working and writing. I thought I knew who I was and understood my place in the universe. And that place didn't entail me deciding which facemask matched my outfit every morning. Or a failed reality TV star inciting the overthrow of the government of the United States.
Yet, God had different plans for me. Just like she had different plans for Merton. My life zigged when I thought it was going to zag. Here I sit in my living room this evening, after hosting a virtual astronomy event for the library, thinking about how I got where I am right now. And thinking about all the people who have supported and helped me along the way.
You see, I believe that people enter your life for a reason. Because I'm a Christian, I think God puts them there. For Merton, God sent Dan into his life to steer him toward a contemplative religious existence. Me? Well, it takes a whole village to keep me functioning.
But even now, I still like to think that I'm pretty independent. That I call the shots. I think everybody labors under that particular fallacy. Because, otherwise, it means you have to surrender control to the universe or God or Buddha or Muhammed or Yahweh or Jesus. Take your pick, depending on your particular belief system. And that's pretty scary. Like riding blindfolded in a car on the Autobahn. A white knuckle experience.
Unless you have faith and trust. Then, you can just take a nap and, when you wake up, you'll have safely arrived at your destination. Some days, I nap. Other days, I white knuckle it. Reading the Old Testament, I get the impression that visitations from angels were as common as colds. Faith was easy. Even Job, scabby and poor and childless and bereft, held onto his faith. Because angels walked the blighted earth bestowing blessings on those who believed.
The Book of Daniel in the Bible describes an angel like this: "I looked up and there before me was a man dressed in linen, with a belt of fine gold from Uphaz around his waist. His body was like topaz, his face like lightning, his eyes like flaming torches, his arms and legs like the gleam of burnished bronze, and his voice like the sound of a multitude."
These days, angels take on a different form. In my life, they are friends who send me text messages every day: "How are you doing?" Who drop off notes containing Bigfoot stickers on my front porch: "Thank you for being you." Who do Zoom calls with me where we drink wine and scribble poems: "Write about an animal that fills you with wonder, like Elizabeth Bishop with that fish."
It's easy to have faith when you have messengers like these in your life. More Clarence from It's a Wonderful Life than six-winged seraphim with flaming swords. At the end of Frank Capra's film, George Bailey receives these heavenly words from his angelic visitor: "Remember no man is a failure who has friends."
Tonight, Saint Marty gives thanks for all the angels in his life.
Koi
for A. C.
by: Martin Achatz
They blossom in ripples, Monetcreatures, fuzzy at the edges, suffused
with a kind of radioactive light.
The old Japanese man created
this pond, perhaps from some haiku
by Basho. Here, in the lake. Fish float.
God's eyelashes flash. Perhaps
from some recollection of Kyoto
where his father suckled the umbra
of his grandmother's young breasts.
Or perhaps he just woke up
one morning, aching
for something beautiful, went
to work. Van Gogh in an Arles
of David marble. Him hauling
