February 15: Followed by Deep Shadow, Traveling, Dark Night of the Soul

Merton on the move with his father again:

The locomotive had big wheels and a low, squat boiler, and an inordinately high smoke-stack, so that it seemed to have escaped from the museum, except that it was very sturdy and did its work well.  And the three or four little coaches sped us quickly into a territory that was certainly sacramental.

The last town that had a brick campanile to its church, after the manner of all Languedoc, was Montricoux.  Then the train entered the Aveyron valley.  After that, we were more or less in Rouergue.  And then we began to see something. 

I did not realize what we were getting into until the train swept around a big curve of the shallow river, and came to stop under the sunny plane trees along the platform of a tiny station, and we looked out the window, and saw that we had just passed along the bottom of a sheer cliff one or two hundred feet high, with a thirteenth-century castle on the top of it.  That was Bruniquel.  All around us, the steep hills were thick with woods, small gnarled oaks, clinging to the rock.  Along the river, the slender poplars rippled with the light of late afternoon, and green waters danced on the stones.  The people who got on and off the train were peasants with black smocks, and on the roads we saw men walking beside teams of oxen, drawing their two-wheeled carts: and they guided the placid beasts with their long sticks.  Father told me that the people were all talking, not French, but the old patois, langue d'oc.

The next place was Penne.  At the meeting of two valleys, a thin escarpment of rock soared up boldly over the river, bent and sharply rising, like an open wing.  On the top were the ruins of another castle.  Further down, straggling along the ridge, went the houses of the village and somewhere among them the small square tower of a church, an open iron belfry on top, with a visible bell.

The valley seemed to get narrower and deeper as the train followed its narrow single track between the river and the rocks.  Sometimes there was enough space between us and the river to contain a small hayfield.  Occasionally a deserted dirt road or cattle track would cross our way, and there would be a house and a crossing-gate and one of those furious French bells, throwing the sudden scare of it clangor through the windows of the carriage as we passed by. 

The valley widened a little to contain the village of Cazals, hanging on to the foot of the hill across the river, and then we were back in the gorge.  If you went to the window and looked up, you could see the grey and yellow cliffs towering up so high they almost blocked out the sky.  And now we could begin to distinguish caves high up on the rock.  Later I would climb up there and visit some of them.  Passing through tunnel after tunnel, and over many bridges, through bursts of light and greenery followed by deep shadow, we came at last to the town of our destination.

It was an old, old town.  Its history went back to the Roman days--which were the times of the martyred saint, its patron.  Antoninus had brought Christianity to the Roman colony in this valley, and later he had been martyred in another place, Paniers, down in the foothills of the Pyrenees, near Prades, where I was born.  

So, Merton, as a young boy, comes full circle, returning to the place of his birth in France.  Merton's father seems to be on a journey himself--wrestling with his notions of religious faith.  So this little passage about travel is both literal and metaphorical, for both father and son.  There has been a void in Merton's life since the death of his mother.  A God-sized hole.  Merton's father is suffering from the same thing.

For the last couple of days, I've done some traveling myself, going from one place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to another and then back.  I've never been a fan of road trips.  Living in the U. P., however, you have to get used to them.  They become a necessity, for work, medical appointments, Christmas shopping, traveling Broadway performances, college educations, and the like.  There are just some things that are not readily available in this little shark-shaped piece of land surrounded by water.

During the week, I spend a lot of time on the road.  I live about 20 miles from the places where I mainly work--the university and the hospital.  So, during the course of a work week, I travel roughly around 40 miles a day.  I'm sure, for those who live closer to big cities like New York or Chicago, that commute seems like nothing.

I try to use my time in the car productively.  In the mornings, I pray a lot--for all the people in my life in need of some extra heavenly help.  (Saint Anthony is my go-to guy.  He has rarely let me down.)  In the afternoons, I listen to my favorite podcasts or an audio book--my recents include Normal People by Sally Rooney, A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles and When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi.  I don't like wasted time, and I tend to view the minutes/hours I spend in a car as empty time.  I need to fill that time

Metaphorically, I've been on a journey for the last year or so, and I'm not quite sure where I'm going to end up.  This little trip is sponsored by mental illness and addiction.  There have been a whole lot of valleys and tunnels, and not a whole lot of palm trees and margaritas this go 'round.  In fact, if I'm being completely honest, I started down this road quite a while ago--right around the time my daughter was born.

During this journey, God and I have had an off again/on again relationship.  Sometimes, we're barely on speaking terms.  Other times, He's all I got.  At the moment, tonight, as I sit here in my living room alone, I have to say that the God-sized hole in my life seems pretty large.  I've tried praying, and it hasn't helped.  It's one of those times when it feels as though God has taken His own little vacation away from me.  Saint John of the Cross called a moment like this a "dark night of the soul."

What do I do with this feeling of isolation and abandonment?  If I was Mother Teresa (who was afflicted with a dark night of the soul that lasted for decades), I would continue to care for the sick and dying in Calcutta, doing God's work.  That's what faith is all about--trusting that God is there even when it seems like he's on the other side of the universe.

So, this evening I look for signs of God.  I found Him in my son, who gave me a hug and kiss as I put him to bed, said, "I love you, Daddy."  I find Him in my puppy, Juno, who's sitting quietly in the room with me, every once in a while lifting her head from her pillow to make sure I'm still here.  And I will find Him, hopefully, when I climb into bed tonight and try to chase down sleep.  Maybe, God will grant me some rest of mind and heart and body.

Saint Marty is tired of this road, this journey.  He'd rather be at Disney World.