Merton takes a trip to the library . . .
When the summer came I sub-let the apartment on Perry Street to Seymour’s wife and went up-state, into the hills behind Olean. Lax’s brother-in-law had a cottage, on top of a hill, from which you could see miles over New York and Pennsylvania—miles of blue hill-tops and wooded ridges, miles of forest smudged here and there, in the dry weeks, with smoke, and gashed open, in the neighboring valley, by the lumbermen. All day and all night the silence of the wood was broken by the coughing of oil-pumps, and when you passed through the trees you could see long metal arms moving back and forth clumsily in the shadows of the glade, because the hills were full of oil.
So Benjie, Lax’s brother-in-law, gave us this place, and let us live there, trusting more than he should have in our ability to live in a house for more than a week without partially destroying it.
Lax and I and Rice moved in to the cottage, and looked around for places to put our typewriters. There was one big room with a huge stone fireplace and the works of Rabelais and a table which we presently ruined, feeding ourselves on it with hamburgers and canned beans and untold quarts of milk. There was a porch which looked out over the hills and where we eventually erected a trapeze. It was very pleasant to sit on the step of this porch, and look at the valley in the quiet evening, and play the drums. We had a pair of bongos, a Cuban double-drum, which is played two-handed and gives several different tones, depending where and how you hit it.
In order to make sure we would have plenty of books, we went down to the library at St. Bonaventure’s College where this time, being baptized, I was no longer scared of the Friars. The librarian was Father Irenaeus, who looked up at us through his glasses and recognized Lax with ingenuous surprise. He always seemed to be surprised and glad to see everybody. Lax introduced us to him: “This is Ed Rice, this is Tom Merton.”
“Ah! Mr. Rice.... Mr. Myrtle.” Father Irenaeus took us both in, with the eyes of a rather bookish child, and shook hands without embarrassment.
“Merton,” said Lax, “Tom Merton.”
“Yes, glad to know you, Mr. Myrtle,” said Father Irenaeus.
“They were at Columbia too,” said Lax. “Ah, Columbia,” said Father Irenaeus. “I studied at the Columbia Library School,” and then he took us into his own library and with reckless trust abandoned all the shelves to us. It never occurred to him to place any limit upon the appetites of those who seemed to like books. If they wanted books, well, this was a library. He had plenty of books, that was what a library was for. You could take as many as you liked, and keep them until you were through: he was astonishingly free of red tape, this happy little Franciscan. When I got to know the Friars a little better, I found out that this trait was fairly universal. Those who love rigid and methodical systems have their life of penance all cut out for them if they enter the Franciscans, and especially if they become superiors. But as far as I know, Father Irenaeus has never been robbed of his books on a larger scale than any other librarian, and on the whole, the little library at St. Bonaventure’s was always one of the most orderly and peaceful I have ever seen.
Presently we came out of the stacks with our arms full.
“May we take all these, Father?”
“Sure, sure, that’s fine, help yourself.”
We signed a vague sort of a ticket, and shook hands.
“Good-bye, Mr. Myrtle,” said the Friar, and stood in the open door and folded his hands as we started down the steps with our spoils.
I still did not know that I had discovered a place where I was going to find out something about happiness.
Merton feels at home in the library at St. Bonaventure's. I think there are two reasons for this. First, he is surrounded by books, which have always been his best companions throughout his young life. Second, he is surrounded by Franciscan monks. Merton, even at this early stage in his faith, finds some kind of inner happiness and peace interacting with religious community life. Books and monks are the key.
I've worked many jobs in my life. Plumber's apprentice. Busboy. Bookstore clerk and cashier. Teacher. Professor. Pipe organist. Worship leader. Janitor. Health information clerk. Medical office manager. I've loved certain things about all of these jobs. Enjoyed some more than others.
Having this many occupations has been a necessity more than a choice. You see, I'm a poet. There aren't too many jobs out there for those of my ilk. For some reason, nobody wants to pay me to sit in a quiet room all day long and poetize. Those days probably died with Chaucer. There aren't any rich patrons out there who want poets on their payroll. So, therefore, throughout my lifetime, I have always held down many jobs at once.
Now, I work for a library. And it is amazing. I am surrounded by books all day long. I work with people who are concerned about things like making take-home art kits for kids and adults; answering research questions on family genealogy, ordering collections or poetry for the shelves, scheduling musical concerts. In a lot of ways, librarians are a lot like people in religious communities. There's a shared sense of purpose. Everyone is all about knowledge and learning and art and making the world a better place through language and beauty.
So, it has taken me close to 40 years, but I have found a work place that completely coincides with my own passions and interests.
Nothing is ideal, of course. I still have daily problems. Still have to hold down several jobs to pay the bills. My son is still struggling with school. My wife, with mental health and addiction issues. I still have bills that I don't know how I'm going to pay. My sister Rose went home from the hospital a few days ago, but she still has severe health challenges.
Yet, professionally, I am in a better place than I've ever been. I like sitting in my library office every day, figuring out how to shed some light into the universe with poetry, music, art, learning. On Saturday mornings, I get to the library very early. Usually, I'm the first person in the building. I climb the stairs to my second-floor office. I take off my jacket, turn on my computer. Then I sit down, look out the window, and watch the sunrise. Darkness giving way to the pink and orange bruise of day.
The world is an amazing place. Full of small and large miracles. Poems. Icicles burning with dawn. New medications that will hopefully help to control my sister Rose's seizures and prolong her time with us. Vaccines to combat a worldwide pandemic. Coworkers to laugh with. Friends to speak with. Family to love with.
Books to read.
Saint Marty is a pretty lucky guy. He just needs to be reminded every once in a while.
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