The first time I actually tried to say the Office was on the feast of the
Curé of Ars, St. John Vianney. I was on the train, going back to Olean—to
Olean because the cottage was, for the time being, the safest place I could
think of, and because anyway my best prospect for a job was at St.
Bonaventure’s.
As soon as the train was well started on its journey, and was climbing
into the hills towards Suffern, I opened up the book and began right away
with Matins, in the Common of a Confessor-non-pontiff.
“Venite exultemus Domino, jubilemus Deo salutari nostra...” It was a
happy experience, although its exultancy was subdued and lost under my
hesitations and external confusion about how to find my way around in the
jungle of the rubrics. To begin with, I did not know enough to look for the general rubrics at the beginning of the Pars Hiemalis and anyway, when I
did eventually find them, there was too much information in small-print and
obscure canonical Latin for me to make much out of them.
The train climbed slowly into the Catskills, and I went on from psalm to
psalm, smoothly enough. By the time I got to the Lessons of the Second
Nocturn, I had figured out whose feast it was that I was celebrating.
This business of saying the Office on the Erie train, going up through the
Delaware valley, was to become a familiar experience in the year that was
ahead. Of course, I soon found out the ordinary routine by which Matins
and Lauds are anticipated the evening of the day before. Usually, then, on
my way from New York to Olean, I would be saying the Little Hours
around ten o’clock in the morning when the train had passed Port Jervis and
was travelling at the base of the steep, wooded hills that hemmed in the
river on either side. If I looked up from the pages of the book, I would see
the sun blazing on the trees and moist rocks, and flashing on the surface of
the shallow river and playing in the forest foliage along the line. And all
this was very much like what the book was singing to me, so that
everything lifted up my heart to God.
Thou sendest forth springs in the vales: between the midst of the hills the waters shall pass.... Over them the birds of the air shall dwell, from the midst of the rocks they shall give forth their voices. Thou waterest the hills from Thy upper rooms: the earth shall be filled with the fruit of Thy works.... The trees of the field shall be filled and the cedars of Libanus which He hath planted: there the sparrows shall make their nests. The highest of them is the house of the heron. The high hills are a refuge for the harts, the rocks for the irchins.... All expect from Thee that Thou give them food in season. What Thou givest them they shall gather up: when Thou openest Thy hand they shall all be filled with good.... Thou shalt send forth Thy Spirit and they shall be created, and Thou shalt renew the face of the earth.
It is not an easy thing, sometimes, to pray. Merton learns this here. For the past year or so, Merton has prayed, pursued a path that he thought led to God. And then, he loses his way. His own humanity--with its focus on human needs and wants--gets in the way. So, he starts here from ground zero. He turns to prayer again. This time, however, his prayer takes him back to the beginning. To springs and Spirit and renewal.
It's a strange thing. For the past day or so, I've been working on a new poem. And tonight, as I sat down to write this post, I find this passage from Merton about beginning and rebirth and renewal, full of water imagery. Like my poem.
I have no idea where poems come from. I would like to say that they tumble from my veins like blood or spill out of my lips like breath. They don't. The idea for most poems may come to me like that, but what happens after that is as far from speaking in tongues as bologna is from prime rib. Writing poetry is work. Hard work.
Since starting my new poem, I have gone through about fifteen or sixteen drafts in the space of about two or so days. That may sound like torture to some of my disciples. To me, working on a poem is the closest I get to actual prayer. Because I know that, when a poem coalesces on the page, when that final word materializes in front of me, there is something else at work. I've always thought of it as a little divine moment. God reaches down, taps me on the shoulder.
It all boils down to the source of inspiration. Is it the unconscious making an intuitional leap that the conscious brain doesn't quite understand? Or hours and hours of writing finally bearing fruit? Or the Holy Spirit descending upon me, giving me a tongue of fire? I think it's all three of these things. A holy trinity of creativity.
Whatever it is, I give thanks for it this evening. Something new exists in the world. God said, "Let there be poem," and there was poem.
For that small miracle, Saint Marty gives thanks.
One Species of Jellyfish is Immortal
by: Martin Achatz
One species of jellyfish is immortal, moves from polyp to medusa to polyp over and over, raises the chicken-egg question: which came first--jellyfish or God? Book of Jellyfish, Chapter 1, Verse 1: In the beginning was jellyfish, and jellyfish was with God, and jellyfish was God. Did God create jellyfish in his image, or vice versa? Or did they create each other, a begat begatting begat? Beginning calling to beginning?
Before the first day, light and dark, before God even breathed, there was jellyfish in a blue nirvana of brine and tears. Which means that before there was heart, there was heartbreak. Jellyfish and God fractals. Grief within grief within grief.
If you get stung by jellyfish or God, don't urinate on yourself to cleanse the poison. That's a tale told by old sailors who chase St. Elmo's votives. If you are touched by God/tendril of jellyfish, you are a chosen one. Bearer of a sadness that has existed before existence. Wail, gnash, hosanna your teeth. Something is about to be born again. Its natal starfish blazes in coral skies. Follow it to tide pools. Sargasso kelp. Stop. Listen.
You will hear your daughter's first breath move over the waters, making all things new.
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