The death of my father left me sad and depressed for a couple of months. But that eventually wore away. And when it did, I found myself completely stripped of everything that impeded the movement of my own will to do as it pleased. I imagined that I was free. And it would take me five or six years to discover what a frightful captivity I had got myself into. It was in this year, too, that the hard crust of my dry soul finally squeezed out all the last traces of religion that had ever been in it. There was no room for any God in that empty temple full of dust and rubbish which I was now so jealously to guard against all intruders, in order to devote it to the worship of my own stupid will.
And so I became the complete twentieth-century man. I now belonged to the world in which I lived. I became a true citizen of my own disgusting century: the century of poison gas and atomic bombs. A man living on the doorsill of the Apocalypse, a man with veins full of poison, living in death. Baudelaire could truly address me, then, reader: Hypocrite lecteur, mon semblable, mon frere . . .
If you're wondering what that last French phrase means: "Hypocrite reader! --my similar, --my brother . . . " Merton, after mourning his father for a couple months, undergoes a transformation. To paraphrase, poorly, the old hymn: he is cut free of all the ties that bind him. And Merton is blessed/cursed with complete and total freedom. He can pretty much do whatever he wants, rules and social etiquette and family obligations be damned.
I have never experienced that kind of freedom. I don't know if I would want it, even if it was offered to me. My whole life, I've been bound by rules and guidelines and catechisms and conscience. I worry about people and what people think of me. I have always tried to do what I thought was right, and, frequently, I've fallen far short. That goes for love relationships, family relationships, friend relationships, and work relationships. And I have to accept that about myself. I am a deeply flawed individual. Period.
But that pretty much describes the whole world, and everyone in it. We all just do our best, and sometimes that best simply isn't good enough. I'm coming off a pretty rough week, filled with death and injury and struggle. And then , , ,
My son woke up sick yesterday. Sore throat. Fatigue. My wife took him to the walk-in clinic, and he had strep throat and mono screenings. Both came back negative. The provider who saw him told us to bring him to the ER if he developed a fever over 100.4. At around 6:30 p.m., his temp rose to 100.4 and then, a couple minutes later, to 101.4. By the time we got him into a room at the ER, his temperature was 102. He had developed a little bit of a cough, and he said that nothing tasted good.
Of course, in this time of pandemic, first thoughts went to Covid-19. My son was terrified. The doctor did another throat swab, and, eventually, a nasal swab for the coronavirus. Then, we were sent home to await the results.
That is how my week ended. Now, if I weren't a religious person, I would say that all that has happened this week is simply the result of every person travelling through this universe alone, subject to the capricious whims of fate. No grand design. No lessons to be learned or graces to be found. Just a series of unfortunate events.
Yet, that is not who I am. I believe in the Creator, and I think that we all are subject to certain rules, the most important of which being the Golden one--"Do unto others . . ." So, I live being very aware of other people and creatures. Trying to do what's best for the universe in general. It's not just about me. Most importantly, I believe that somehow there is some kind of overarching architecture to life. That's the Christian in me, I guess. And I know that I fail miserably. Frequently. That's the cradle Catholic boy in me.
So, total and complete freedom--without the worry of consequences--is just not in my make-up. If I offended you this week, I apologize. If I hurt you in any way, I am deeply regretful. It was not intentional. It was simply a reflection of who I am--a human being, trying to fumble my way through a pretty dark time. That does not excuse me from guilt. It convicts me of my imperfections and limitations. I accept them as a miracle, given to me to keep me grounded in humility.
And for that, Saint Marty is deeply grateful.
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