Merton flees from happiness and peace and optimism . . .
It is the association of that happiness which makes upper New York state seem, in my memory, to be so beautiful. But it is objectively so, there is no doubt of that. Those deep valleys and miles and miles of high, rolling wooded hills: the broad fields, the big red barns, the white farm houses and the peaceful towns: all this looked more and more impressive and fine in the long slanting rays of the sinking sun after we had passed Elmira.
And you began to get some of the feeling of the bigness of America, and to develop a continental sense of the scope of the country and of the vast, clear sky, as the train went on for mile after mile, and hour after hour. And the color, and freshness, and bigness, and richness of the land! The cleanness of it. The wholesomeness. This was new and yet it was old country. It was mellow country. It had been cleared and settled for much more than a hundred years.
When we got out at Olean, we breathed its health and listened to its silence.
I did not stay there for more than a week, being impatient to get back to New York on account of being, as usual, in love.
But one of the things we happened to do was to turn off the main road, one afternoon on the way to the Indian reservation, to look at the plain brick buildings of a college that was run by the Franciscans.
It was called St. Bonaventure’s. Lax had a good feeling about the place. And his mother was always taking courses there, in the evenings—courses in literature from the Friars. He was a good friend of the Father Librarian and liked the library. We drove in to the grounds and stopped by one of the buildings.
But when Lax tried to make me get out of the car, I would not.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
“Why? It’s a nice place.”
“It’s O.K., but let’s get out of here. Let’s go to the Indian reservation.”
“Don’t you want to see the library?”
“I can see enough of it from here. Let’s get going.”
I don’t know what was the matter. Perhaps I was scared of the thought of nuns and priests being all around me—the elemental fear of the citizen of hell, in the presence of anything that savors of the religious life, religious vows, official dedication to God through Christ. Too many crosses. Too many holy statues. Too much quiet and cheerfulness. Too much pious optimism. It made me very uncomfortable. I had to flee.
When confronted with a group of people dedicated to God, Merton has one instinct: flight. He says it's because he is a "citizen of hell." For Catholics, especially those in religious life, hell is a place as real as Toledo or McDonald's or Saint Peter's Basilica. It's a place where suffering is tangible. And perhaps that's what frightens Merton about St. Bonaventure's. When confronted by silence and joy and hope--everything that's absent from his life--he must face his own pain and emptiness. His own hell.
And if a person can physically sense hell, as Merton does here, it only makes sense that a person can also physically sense heaven.
This morning, my wife, daughter and I went to get COVID tests. I'm positive my daughter is positive. For the past three days, she's had body aches, headaches, and fever. My wife and I, however, are still not exhibiting any symptoms. But I am assuming that, in a couple days, we will receive a phone call from a nurse who will confirm that we are all COVID-positive.
It snowed last night, and, when I stepped outside to start my car, the silence was palpable. I could feel it on my skin. As if I had been wrapped in gauze. This sensation pervaded most of my day. In the morning, I worked in my kitchen, answering emails, sending text messages, and contacting musicians for upcoming library events that I'm planning. In the afternoon, I spent several hours working on a poem that will be used as narration for a video for the library. All this done in a cocoon of quiet.
And the blessings continued to shower on my home. Yes, I am in isolation, with my family. My daughter's condition seemed worse today, with additional symptoms. Worry was my constant companion, sitting in a chair beside me as I tapped away on my keyboard. Even now, as the day draws to a close, I can't seem to find sleep. Yet, I also felt grace. Heaven and hell, side-by-side, if you will.
Here are some snapshots from today:
- A beautiful, muffling snow fell overnight. I spent an hour or so shoveling it this morning.
- My beautiful poet friend, Esther, dropped off a care package with pizzas, cheese and bread, bottles of sweet wine, and a card that made me cry.
- The beautiful mother-in-law of my beautiful sister-in-law dropped off a pot of homemade chicken noodle soup for supper.
- My beautiful friend, Roslyn, dropped off green tea to help nourish our immune systems, bolster our health.
- I spent several beautiful hours writing a new poem, which I hope is beautiful, as well.
- My beautiful daughter realized tonight that she has lost her sense of smell and, with it, her sense of taste. Yet, pale and exhausted, she's still smiling and joking and loving.
- This evening, for one beautiful hour, I hosted a Zoom presentation on Charles Dicken given by a friend I've known for over 20 years. And many of my other beautiful friends showed up to watch and listen.
- My beautiful poet friend, Janeen, hung around after the Dickens Zoom presentation, and we talked and laughed and shared. It was beautiful soul food for me.
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