The Auvergnats are, as a rule, not tall. The Privats were both of them not much taller than I was, being then twelve, but tall for my age. I suppose M. Privat was about five foot three or four, but not more. But he was tremendously broad, a man of great strength. He seemed to have no neck, but his head rose from his shoulders in a solid column of muscle and bone, and for the rest, his shadow was almost completely square. He wore a black broad-brimmed hat, like most of the peasants of the region, and it gave his face an added solemnity when his sober and judicious eyes looked out at you peacefully from under the regular brows and that regular brim above them., These two decks, two levels of regularity, added much to the impression of solidity and immobility and impassiveness which he carried with him everywhere, whether at work or at rest.
His little wife was more like a bird, thin, serious, earnest, quick, but also full of the peacefulness and impassiveness which, as I now know, came from living close to God. She wore a funny little headdress which I find it almost impossible to describe, except to say that it looked like a little sugar-loaf perched on top of her head, and garnished with a bit of black lace. The women of Auvergne still wear that headdress.
It is a great pleasure for me to remember such good and kind people and to talk about them, although I no longer possess any details about them. I just remember their kindness and goodness to me, and their peacefulness and their utter simplicity. They inspired real reverence, and I think, in a way, they were certainly saints. And they were saints in the most effective and telling way: sanctified by leading ordinary lives in a completely supernatural manner, sanctified by obscurity, by usual skills, by common tasks, by routine, but skills, tasks, routine which received a supernatural form from grace within, and from the habitual union of their souls with God in deep faith and charity.
Their farm, their family, and their Church were all that occupied these good souls, and their lives were full.
Father, who thought more and more of my physical and moral health, realized what a treasure he had found in these two, and consequently Murat was more and more in his mind as a place where I should go and get healthy.
That winter, at the Lycee, I had spent several weeks in the infirmary with various fevers, and the following summer, when Father had to go to Paris, he took the opportunity to send me once again to Murat to spend a few weeks with the Privats, who would feed me plenty of butter and milk and would take care of me in a every possible way.
Merton obviously cares a great deal for the Privats. They are ordinary people leading ordinary lives in an extraordinary way, full or grace and love and compassion. They obviously make a strong impression on twelve-year-old Thomas Merton, who recognizes their "deep faith and charity." Perhaps, the seed of the future Trappist monk is planted here by this humble French couple.
I have to say that I have always been blessed by having good people in my life. Friends who've carried me through some of the worst times in my life. Filled my cupboards with food when I couldn't afford to buy groceries. Bought me lunch when my life was falling apart. Sat and listened to my problems without judgment. Gave me advice when I needed it. And just loved me despite of my messy, broken life.
In the current pandemic, shelter-in-place world, I miss these good people in my life.
Since the outbreak of Covid-19, I have been teaching my university classes online, including Zoom meetings with my students. At first weirdly awkward, these class sessions have come to feel "normal" in a way. I don't know if that's a good thing. Instead of being self-conscious, I now simply set aside the feeling that I am sitting next to Paul Lynde in Hollywood Squares. I allow myself to be myself.
So, when it came time for my monthly poetry workshop, I decided to try a virtual experiment. I, and seven of the best people I know, gathered online at 7 p.m. Thursday night for some writing and sharing. As each person entered the meeting, it was like greeting someone coming home from a war. We yelled out their names, like incantations them magically appear.
We talked and wrote and shared for about two-and-a-half hours. It was wonderful to be in the presence of these really good people. I told one of them later in a phone text that I entered the evening with an empty cup, and I left full to the brim. It was a night that I really needed, after dealing with the reality of Covid-19 on a daily basis at work for three weeks straight.
That is what this time has created--moments when you realize just how much has been stripped away from you. And what is really important. I have been holding these monthly poetry jam sessions for over three years. In the process, I found a family of poets. Wonderful friends, every last one of them. And I got to spend about 150 virtual minutes with them this week.
They are all healthy and safe. And they were all ready to write and share. As the old saying goes, pressure creates diamonds. That night was a diamond for me. Something beautiful in a dark moment in history. I have been living in the light of those couple hours ever since.
And then last night, out of the blue, I received a FaceTime call from one of my best friends. We spoke for over an hour. He's a pastor at a church downstate, and we hadn't spoken in a really long time. "Why does it take a global pandemic to get us to talk?" my friend asked. We laughed and talked about our kids and pets and jobs. It was as if we were picking up the thread of a conversation we had started that afternoon.
So, I have been blessed with poetry and friends these first few days of April. People who bring love and joy into my existence. That is something to celebrate.
Saint Marty just hopes it doesn't take a plague of locusts to hear from his friends again.
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| Photo courtesy of my good friend and poet, Jane Piirto |
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