September 4: I Would Become Better, Stuart Smalley, Quiet is Better

Merton's fears about praying in church . . .

Another thing which Catholics do not realize about converts is the tremendous, agonizing embarrassment and self-consciousness which they feel about praying publicly in a Catholic Church. The effort it takes to overcome all the strange imaginary fears that everyone is looking at you, and that they all think you are crazy or ridiculous, is something that costs a tremendous effort. And that day in Santa Sabina, although the church was almost entirely empty, I walked across the stone floor mortally afraid that a poor devout old Italian woman was following me with suspicious eyes. As I knelt to pray, I wondered if she would run out and accuse me at once to the priests, with scandalous horror, for coming and praying in their church—as if Catholics were perfectly content to have a lot of heretic tourists walking about their churches with complete indifference and irreverence, and would get angry if one of them so far acknowledged God’s presence there as to go on his knees for a few seconds and say a prayer! 

However, I prayed, then I looked about the church, and went into a room where there was a picture by Sassoferrato, and stuck my face out a door into a tiny, simple cloister, where the sun shone down on an orange tree. After that I walked out into the open feeling as if I had been reborn, and crossed the street, and strolled through the suburban fields to another deserted church where I did not pray, being scared by some carpenters and scaffolding. I sat outside, in the sun, on a wall and tasted the joy of my own inner peace, and turned over in my mind how my life was now going to change, and how I would become better.

I think everybody goes through moments like this--Christians, Jews, Muslims, Rastafarians, agnostics, atheists, you name it.  At some time or other, everyone has a moment of clarity, where all the tumblers of life seem to click into place.  When you feel as if you're in exactly the place you're supposed to be, doing what you were meant to do, with the person you were meant to do it with.  Sometimes those moments last a long time.  Sometimes they are as fleeting as afternoon light.

I haven't felt like that in a while.  I've had a few hours--leading poetry workshops, teaching classes, visiting with old friends--when I'm reminded that, as Stuart Smalley says, "I'm good enough, I'm smart enough, and doggone it, people like me!"  Unfortunately, my existential moments have been outnumbering my Stuart Smalley moments in the last year or so.  You know, being awake at 3:27 a.m., searching through kitchen cupboards for Fig Newtons, and questioning the meaning of life.

It's Friday night as I type this post.  I started it two days ago, after a session of Zoom writing and wine with a friend.  I continued writing it last night, after I led an outdoor poetry workshop inspired by the work of John Ashbery.  And tonight, I just got home from cleaning two churches after a ten-hour work day at the medical office.  It's 10 p.m., and I'm exhausted.  (I'm also eating some blueberry Newtons that I've been hoarding for a couple weeks.)

Nobody's lives are perfect.  Struggle is part of the human condition.  It's what makes us human.  Imperfection.  My personal failings are multitude.  If asked to list them all, I would need three Moleskine journals, three or four ink cartridge refills for my fountain pen, and several bottles of cheap wine.

If forced to choose my biggest failing, I would have to say that I overthink everything.  I mean everything.  Dinner.  Blog posts.  Answers to the simplest questions.  Relationships.  Poems.  For example, I'm drinking a glass of wine at the moment.  Before pouring this glass, I sat at my kitchen table, questioning whether I have been drinking too much recently.  In doing so, I went over the last month of my life, trying to remember every time I drank before I went to bed.  Once I had that number, I thought of all the money I've spent on alcohol in the last 30 days.  Finally, I thought about the strong strain of addiction that runs through my genetics.  I came to the conclusion that I don't have a drinking problem, and I grabbed the wine bottle out of the fridge.

That is the way my mind works.  Reading this, you might think I'm a tad obsessive.  But, by analyzing and scrutinizing, I am able to avoid most unpleasant surprises.  Think of me as the guy who's always in the crow's nest, scanning the horizon for icebergs.  But despite all my emergency preparedness, I've been blindsided by a lot of unpleasant realities recently.  The tumblers of my life are not falling into place.  Quite the opposite, as a matter of fact.  I've lost my equilibrium.

I could blame Donald Trump.  The pandemic.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  This year has been like a boil that's burst open, all kinds of poison pouring out into the universe.  A good friend, who's dealing with struggles similar to mine, recently said to me, "Quiet is better."  Better than arguing with life, because, in the end, life always wins the argument.  That's what she meant.  Practicing silence is meditation.  Brings peace to moments of great discord.  Allows you to find balance.

That is my wisdom for this night.  Quiet is better.  It's a miracle, as a matter of fact.  It lets you sleep.  Reflect.  Write.  Pray.

All the things that help bring Saint Marty back to center.