Merton begins writing his thesis . . ,
When I got back to New York, one of the first things I did was to break away, at last, from the household in Douglaston. The family had really practically dissolved with the death of my grandparents, and I could get a lot more work done if I did not have to spend so much time on subways and the Long Island train.
One rainy day in June, then, I made a bargain with Herb, the colored taximan at Douglaston, and he drove me and all my bags and books and my portable vie and all my hot records and pictures to put on the wall and even a tennis racquet which I never used, uptown to a rooming-house on 114th Street, just behind the Columbia library.
All the way up we discussed the possible reasons for the mysterious death of Rudolph Valentino, once a famous movie star: but it was certainly not what you would call a live issue. Valentino had died at least ten years before.
“This is a nice spot you got here,” said Herb, approving of the room I was renting for seven-fifty a week. It was shiny and clean and filled with new furniture and had a big view of a pile of coal, in a yard by the campus tennis courts, with South Field and the steps of the old domed library beyond. The panorama even took in a couple of trees.
“I guess you’re going to have a pretty hot time, now you got away from your folks,” Herb remarked, as he took his leave.
Whatever else may have happened in that room, it was also there that I started to pray again more or less regularly, and it was there that I added, as Bramachari had suggested, The Imitation of Christ to my books, and it was from there that I was eventually to be driven out by an almost physical push, to go and look for a priest.
July came, with its great, misty heats, and Columbia filled with all the thousands of plump, spectacled ladies in pink dresses, from the Middle-West, and all the grey gents in seersucker suits, all the dried-up high-school principals from Indiana and Kansas and Iowa and Tennessee, with their veins shriveled up with positivism and all the reactions of the behaviorist flickering behind their spectacles as they meditated on the truths they learned in those sweltering halls.
The books piled higher and higher on my desk in the Graduate reading room and in my own lodgings. I was in the thick of my thesis, making hundreds of mistakes that I would not be able to detect for several years to come, because I was far out of my depth. Fortunately, nobody else detected them either. But for my own part, I was fairly happy, and learning many things. The discipline of the work itself was good for me, and helped to cure me, more than anything else did, of the illusion that my health was poor.
Merton is really on his own for the first time in his life. Free to make his own decisions, follow his own heart. So, in the midst or writing his graduate thesis on William Blake, Merton also begins to pray, explore Christian writings, and, eventually, feels a strong urge to seek out a priest. A "physical" urge, as he describes it. Something from deep inside him.
As you all can probably tell, I've felt quite reflective these last several days. In a season that, in many major religions, is dedicated to light and hope, my little family unit has been the recipient of much love and help from friends. I haven't had to look very far to see grace at work in my life. (This is saying quite a lot, as I tend toward a darker view of the universe a lot of the time. I'm a poet, What can I say?)
Tonight, I gave a Zoom poetry reading for my local library in the town where I grew up. I do it every year--Christmas-themed poems, stories, and essays. I spent most of the late afternoon and evening preparing for it, after working eight hours for the library (a different one--yes, I know this is getting confusing). I guess you could say that my whole day was dedicated to libraries and books and literature. Not a bad gig.
The way I prepare for events like this is fairly intuitional. I start reviewing poems and essays, reading and rereading what I've written. And, like Merton, if I feel a kind of physical push, I print out what I'm reading. I usually end up with 15 to 18 pages worth of material. Once I have that pile, I start rereading it all again.
I've been using this process for years, and it never fails that a theme starts emerging as I review everything that I've selected. A strong metaphysical current, if you will. I can't explain how this happens. Perhaps it's my subconscious at work, as I've usually been thinking about the reading for days. Or perhaps--just perhaps--it is something stronger, deeper. Something outside of myself, telling me what I need to say.
Either way, the theme that emerged tonight was "hunger." During this pandemic, I think we all are experiencing various forms of hunger. Hunger for friends and family. For food from a favorite restaurant. The ability to walk into a theater, sit down, eat popcorn, and watch the latest Tom Hanks movie. Or go to a library for a live poetry reading, with musicians singing Christmas carols. The whole world is hungry for this kind of normalcy.
So, I spoke to that hunger tonight. Tried to address those kinds of urges we all have in our lives for what gives us comfort, feeds our souls. The holiday season sort of lends itself to this kind of meditation, as much of it centers around the concept of hope.
And, as I read, looked into the faces of all the people on my computer screen, I felt hope. Yes, I'm stuck in COVID isolation. Yes, my daughter has lost her ability to smell or taste anything. And yes, my normal frenzy of Christmas preparation is greatly curtailed. Yet, hope was present tonight.
I have no idea if anybody else felt it, this thing with feathers, perching in their souls, as Emily Dickinson described it. But I did. I felt its wings beating against my ribcage. Its plumes were all the people who were at the reading tonight. who have dropped off groceries these last few days, who have reached out by phone or text or email to express concern and love.
Human beings are driven their whole lives by hunger for various things. Hamburgers. Poetry. Sex. Love. Wine. Friendship. Art. Cheetos. God. It's what gets us up in the morning, keeps us moving throughout the day. Each 24 hours are an exercise in chasing and finding hope. Filling the emptiness around and inside ourselves.
I am filled up tonight. Satisfied. However, I will certainly wake up hungry again tomorrow morning. That's the way it works. Nobody throughout human history has escaped this cycle. Even Jesus Christ. Buddha. Mohammed. They may all have been incarnations of the Creator. God made flesh. But, they were still fully human. subject to all the same pulls and urges and hungers.
Some snapshots from my day:
- My beautiful daughter is still achy and tired. She has fully lost her sense of smell and taste.
- My beautiful puppy was my office mate all day, coming over to my chair every once in a while when I needed a break to pet her.
- My beautiful wife made dinner tonight. Hamburger Helper. Delicious.
- I had a beautiful phone conversation with my writer friend, Ronnie, about art and faith and music and poetry.
- I gave a Christmas poetry reading to a group of beautiful people.
- I played a game of Trivial Pursuit with my beautiful family, as we watched Ratatouille.
- The bottom element inside my stove burned out tonight as I was trying to cook a pizza for my handsome son. I have to call an appliance repair place tomorrow. I have a feeling nobody will step foot in our house until after we are done quarantining.
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