I had an imaginary friend , called Jack, who had an imaginary dog, called Doolittle. The chief reason why I had an imaginary friend was that there were no other children to play with, and my brother John Paul was still a baby. When I tried to seek diversion watching the gentlemen who played pool at Mr. Duggan's saloon, I got into much trouble. On the other hand, I could go and play at Burroughs' place, in their garden and in the room full of old lumber over the studio. Betty Burroughs knew how to join in games in a way that did not imply patronage, though she was practically grown up. But for friends of my own age, I had to fall back on my imagination, and it was perhaps not a good thing.
Mother did not mind the company I kept in my imagination, at least to begin with, but once I went shopping with her, and refused to cross Main Street, Flushing, for fear that the imaginary dog, Doolittle, might get run over by real cars. This I later learned from her record of the affair in her diary.
Merton seems to have a fairly lonely childhood at this point in his story. No friends his own age. No one to confide his fears and dreams. Instead, he has to make up a person. I suppose that's not too unusual for a child his age (which is, I'm estimating, to be around six or seven at this time). I have to confess, however, that this little detail of his life saddens me this Epiphany.
I have had a full day of activity--I went back to bed for a little while this morning, and then I went out to a local diner for a late breakfast with my wife, where we engaged in conversation that didn't simply center on who's picking up my son from school and driving him to the dance studio and picking him up from the studio and driving him home and getting him to bed. It was adult conversation. And then I went to the church and cleaned. Marble floors that needed mopping. Pews that needed dusting.
Despite all of this activity, and the activities that I will engage in tonight (a poetry workshop, open mic, and an Epiphany celebration at a poet friend's house), I find myself feeling very alone today. Not really able to discuss things in my life that are troubling me. They are deeply personal issues that I really can't talk about with a lot of people. I'm almost tempted to invent an imaginary friend with whom I can share my problems freely. I would name her (yes, it would be a woman--I've always felt more comfortable in the presence of females) Claire, because of a lifelong crush I've had on the actress Claire Danes.
Claire would be the perfect confidant. Safe. I could tell her anything without fear of judgmental looks or advice that I'm really not seeking. She would simply listen with understanding, avoiding all the stuff that normally clutters up the sharing of life difficulties. In the end, Claire would take all the problems that I hand over to her, pack them in a suitcase, like Mary Poppins, and, tucking her red hair behind her ears, she would take my worries away with her. Maybe to dump in Lake Superior or the Atlantic Ocean. And my life would be normal and predictable again.
On this Feast of the Epiphany, I know that no imaginary magi Claire is going to materialize, bearing magic luggage that will swallow all the problems that exist in my life. It isn't that easy. This new year/new decade began with the loss of one of my dearest friends. I'm not sure if that is some kind of omen for what is to come in 2020. Drastic, difficult change.
Tonight, I will go to my poet friend's house, with my wife, and we will light candles on her Christmas tree. On this twelfth night, I am going to embrace the image of those candles, flickering on the branches, banishing darkness. This act will not be imaginary. I will be surrounded by people I care about, who love me and have helped me through a lot this past year. It will be a night of embracing hope. For the return of peace, love, and joy in my life and the world.
Saint Marty wishes everyone hope on this Epiphany Eve.
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