Merton expresses admiration for Hindu monks . . .
I get this picture of the monastery: it is called Sri Angan, meaning “the Playground.” It consists of an enclosure and many huts or “cells,” to use an Occidental term. The monks are quiet, simple men. They live what we would call a liturgical life, very closely integrated with the cycle of the seasons and of nature: in fact, the chief characteristic of their worship seems to be this deep, harmonious identification with all living things, in praising God. Their praise itself is expressed in songs, accompanied by drums and primitive instruments, flutes, pipes. There is much ceremonial dancing. In addition to that, there is a profound stress laid on a form of “mental prayer” which is largely contemplative. The monk works himself into it, by softly chanting lyrical aspirations to God and then remains in peaceful absorption in the Absolute.
For the rest, their life is extremely primitive and frugal. It is not so much what we would call austere. I do not think there are any fierce penances or mortifications. But nevertheless, the general level of poverty in Hindu society as a whole imposes on these monks a standard of living which most Occidental religious would probably find unlivable. Their clothes consist of a turban and something thrown around the body and a robe. No shoes. Perhaps the robe is only for travelling. Their food—some rice, a few vegetables, a piece of fruit.
Of all that they do, they attach most importance to prayer, to praising God. They have a well-developed sense of the power and efficacy of prayer, based on a keen realization of the goodness of God. Their whole spirituality is childlike, simple, primitive if you like, close to nature, ingenuous, optimistic, happy. But the point is, although it may be no more than the full flowering of the natural virtue of religion, with the other natural virtues, including a powerful natural charity, still the life of these pagan monks is one of such purity and holiness and peace, in the natural order, that it may put to shame the actual conduct of many Christian religious, in spite of their advantages of constant access to all the means of grace.
The power and efficacy of prayer. Merton recognizes the holiness of Sri Angan's way of life. Its devotion to austere simplicity. By taking away all the simple luxuries of daily existence, these monks learn to appreciate the tiniest of things. The fact that a mosquito doesn't bite you. The fact the a mosquito does bite you. That breath you just took. The next breath. And the breath after that. Living like this, every moment becomes praise. Praise, praise, praise.
It's easy to lose sight of tiny praise moments. These last two days have been a little trying for me, filled with all kinds of struggles. Finishing up the semester's grading. Finding out that I might not get any classes to teach next semester, due to low enrollments. (How much the pandemic has to do with this fact, I'm not quite sure.) Telling my daughter that I might not be able to help with her tuition next semester. Tending to my son, who just couldn't get out of bed yesterday. He slept until well past noon. This morning, he had a low-grade fever, said he "felt funny." So, I found myself calling his pediatrician and scheduling a COVID test for him in two days.
Of course, I've also been working at home for the library. Scheduling programs. Sending out publicity. Attending Zoom meetings. Last night, I helped livestream a concert of Christmas carols as part of a month-long celebration of Charles Dickens. Tomorrow evening, I'm hosting an author chat. In short, it's been a long week, and it's only Tuesday.
However, I found out late this afternoon that I will be teaching one class next semester. Praise. I'm going to be directing the MFA thesis of a really talented grad student at the university. Praise. I'm done grading. Praise. I had Swedish meatballs for dinner. Praise. I'm writing with a good friend tomorrow night. Praise. I have a lot to be thankful for.
A little while ago, I received a phone call from my sister. She had just returned from the hospital. Our sister, Rose, has been admitted. It seems that she's been very weak recently. (I noticed this on Thanksgiving.) Today, they could barely get her to move. So, on the advice of her doctor, they took Rose to the ER.
Rose has Down syndrome. Her heart is very weak. That's not uncommon when people with Down syndrome get older. Her heartrate is in the 40s. Low blood pressure. The doctors think she may need a pacemaker. However, she needs to be transferred to another hospital for cardiac treatment. That hospital is currently all full due to COVID. So, Rose is waiting for a bed to open up. That could take a few days, if she's lucky. Unless her condition worsens and she becomes emergent.
I believe in the power and efficacy of prayer. If you send out positive energy and thoughts into the universe, they will be returned. Manifold. I am praying for Rose tonight. And I'm asking you to pray for her, too. Rose's whole life has been an act of praise. She really does appreciate every moment, from breakfast to bedtime. With each breath she takes, God smiles. (If that sounds sentimental, too bad. The universe is a better place because Rose is in it.)
At times this year, I've lost faith because of all the terrible things that have occurred. My mother is still COVID-positive in the nursing home. The pandemic has reached a crisis in my neck of the woods, and it won't be getting better any time soon. All the hospitals are at capacity. People are getting sick. People are dying. And where is God in all this?
Well, Saint Marty can tell you where He is tonight. He's sitting next to my sister Rose's bed. Holding her hand. Thanking her. For the miracle of her life.
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