I was less literal when I was sixteen. I could accept Blake's metaphors and they already began, a little, to astound and to move me, although I had no real grasp of their depth and power. And I liked Blake immensely. I read him with more patience and attention than any other poet. I thought about him more. And I could not figure him out. I do not mean, I could not figure out the Prophetic Books--nobody can do that! But I could not place him in any kind of a context, and I did not know how to make his ideas fit together.
One grey Sunday in the spring, I walked alone out the Brooke Road and up Brooke Hill, where the rifle range was. It was a long, bare hog-back of a hill, with a few lone trees along the top, and it commanded a big sweeping view of the Vale of Catmos, with the town of Oakham lying in the midst of it, gathered around the grey, sharp church spire. I sat on a stile on the hill top, and contemplated the wide vale, from the north, where the kennels of the Cottesmore hounds were, to Lax Hill and Manton in the south. Straight across was Burley House, on top of its hill, massed with woods. At my feet, a few red brick houses straggled out from the town to the bottom of the slope.
And all the time I reflected, that afternoon, upon Blake. I remember how I concentrated and applied myself to it. It was rare that I ever really thought about such a thing of my own accord. But I was trying to establish what manner of man he was. Where did he stand? What did he believe? What did he preach?
As an MFA student, I struggled with William Blake, as well. I spent an entire class (four months) trying to comprehend the Prophetic Books, and failed just as miserably as Merton does. I love Blake's grand mythology, am transported by his words, but, to this day, I don't think I've even come close to understanding his visions. And that's okay. Sometimes, it's okay to just exist in the mystery of something. Even it it's dark.
I have a confession this evening. Over these last seven days, with everything that has happened in my life (and other things I haven't blogged about), I've been struggling with God the same way Merton struggles with Blake in the above passage. I just don't get God right now. Don't see how God's going to take the chaff of my life and spin it into gold. Ain't gonna happen, as far as I can tell.
Of course, that's where faith is supposed to come in, right? True believers simply hand over the pieces of their broken lives and trust that God is somehow going to do something amazing with those shards. Put Humpty back together, bigger and better. Right now, I'd have to say my faith is at low ebb. I'm feeling like a failure in many aspects of my life, professional and personal and spiritual. And I can't seem to find my way up from the bottom of this hole I'm in.
Those of my disciples who are tired of my darker ruminations may skip to the end of this post right now. I promise something beautiful will be there waiting. And for those disciples who want to slog a little with me, I appreciate the company. When I'm in a blue funk, I tend to feel more than a little isolated, so it helps me to imagine a person out there reading these words and wanting to walk with me for a little while.
Sometimes, when you're feeling lousy, all you really need is someone to put an arm around you and say, "Yeah, this is really fucked up." That's where I am at the moment. I don't need advice. Don't tell me to go for a walk. Or that it's always darkest before dawn. Or that God never closes a door without opening a window. None of that shit is going to work for me tonight.
Just know that I am sad. That's all. I've been here before, and the only cure is time. And a little alcohol.
And now, the something beautiful I promised . . .
This afternoon, God sent some grace my way. One of my best and dearest friends met me after work. She had a carload of groceries for me. Things she thought I could use because of my sick son and chaotic life. It was remarkable. In this hugless time of pandemic, it felt like a strong and long embrace from someone who loves me deeply. And I felt the arms of that miracle around me all the way home.
And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks tonight.
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