Then I would go back to my godfather's place, and we would have lunch in the dining room, sitting at the little table that always seemed to me so small and delicate that I was afraid to move for fear the whole thing would collapse and the pretty French dishes would smash on the floor and scatter the French food on the waxed floorboards. Everything in that flat was small and delicate. It harmonized with my godfather and his wife. Not that he was delicate, but he was a little man who walked quietly and quickly on small feet, or stood at the fireplace with a cigarette between his fingers, neat and precise as a decent doctor ought to be. And he had something of the pursed lips of medical men--the contraction of the lips that they somehow acquire leaning over wide-open bodies.
Tom's wife was delicate. In fact, she looked almost brittle. She was French, and the daughter of a great Protestant patriarch with a long white beard who dominated French Calvinism from the Rue des Saints-Peres.
Everything in their flat was in proportion to their own stature and delicacy and precision and neatness and wit. Yet I do not say it looked like a doctor's place--still less like an English doctor's place. English doctors always seem to go in for very heavy and depressing kinds of furniture. But Tom was not the kind of specialist that always wears a frock coat and wing collar. His flat was bright and full of objects I was afraid to break and, on the whole, I was scared to walk too heavily for fear I might suddenly go through the floor.
I know how Merton feels. My friends would never describe me as "delicate" or "neat." I tend to be loud and a little irreverent most of the time. A bull in a china shop, as my mother would say. But it's not that I can't recognize and appreciate beautiful things. One of the most memorable days of my life was when I wandered through the Met in New York, running into unexpected Rembrandts and Picassos and a room full of van Goghs. It was as if I was breathing beauty.
I've been thinking about that day a lot recently. In the past week, we've seen humankind at its very worst (that knee on George Floyd's neck, Donald Trump's Bible photo op) and very best (African Americans marching for justice, real police officers joining that march). It's so easy to give into despair at times like this. Yet, so much of that day at the Met for me was about encountering the very best of what human beings have brought into the world. Creations that made me cry because I was in their presence.
Creatures that birthed "Starry Night" and "Bridge Over a Pond of Water Lilies" can do better. We don't have to accept institutional racism or a President of the United States who mobilizes the armed forces against American citizens. We can stand up or kneel down or link arms and say "no" to all that is ugly and wrong in the universe. In fact, we HAVE to do this, or else we forfeit the one thing that binds us all together: our humanity.
Let me end by sharing a moment I had today. When I got home from work, I noticed that the lilacs in my backyard were flowering. It was a sultry afternoon, and I walked around my house to smell the purple blossoms. As I neared the bushes, I could hear loud buzzing. The lilacs were teeming with fat bumblebees who were obviously getting drunk on violet nectar. I stood there for over 15 minutes, getting drunk with them.
It was better than the Met. It was a reminder that beauty that still exists in the world, despite pandemics and racism and riots. It was a van Gogh moment. Monet moment. Pollack and O'Keeffe moment. I shared it with those bees, and it was a miracle.
For that, Saint Marty gives thanks.
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| A picture I took this afternoon |
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