November 23: Seven and a Half Million Years, 365 Days, Silence

"All I wanted to say," bellowed the computer, "is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything."  He paused and satisfied himself that he now had everyone's attention, before continuing more quietly.  "But the program will take ma little while to run."

Fook glanced impatiently at his watch.

"How long?" he said.

"Seven and a half million years," said Deep Thought.

Yes, Deep Thought, the greatest supercomputer ever made, has the power to answer the Ultimate Question, but he's going to do it in his own time, not anyone else's.  That time is seven and a half million years.  And then, Deep Thought goes silent for a very long time.

Humans have a hard time with supercomputers and Supreme Beings going silent.

This morning, as I sit in a crowded McDonald's typing this post, I am staring out the window at a spine of high land studded with leafless trees and scrappy evergreens.  Feeling a little melancholy at the moment, thinking of all the changes that have occurred in my life this year.  Most of those changes not of my own choosing.

Recently, I have said that I can't wait for this year to end.  These 365 days have been filled with upheaval.  Me, having to redefine myself and my life.  I'm not sure things will be much better in 2020.  In fact, I'm pretty sure there's a whole lot more change coming my way.  Jobs.  Family.  Loves.  That fills me with quite a bit of anxiety.

Of course, I know that there are no guarantees for the future.  Believe me, I know that.  What I am doing right now is thinking months and years ahead, using current trajectories to predict where my life is headed.  That's a pretty dangerous thing to do.  It doesn't allow for grace or God to step in and lend a hand.  For a while now, I haven't felt a whole lot of God's presence in my life.

Of course, I'm not alone in this.  Saint John of the Cross wrote, "Silence is God's first language."  Mother Teresa, for most of her life, lived in God's silence.  She said, "In my soul I feel just that terrible pain of loss--of God not wanting me--of God not being God--of God not really existing."  And Saint Therese of Lisieux commented, "God hides, is wrapped in darkness."  I guess I'm in pretty good company.  To hope for some kind of immunity from these periods of darkness would be unnatural, I suppose.  Would be me asking not to be human.

The trick is to avoid despair when God answers with silence.  That's the difference between saints and people like me (and maybe you).  Saints embrace that silence and remember that God is still right there, holding them up when they stumble and fall and get up and fall again.  I try to remind myself of this fact.  Daily.  Sometimes hourly.  It may seem kind of cliche, but, like all cliches, there's truth in it.  That's why cliches get repeated and used so much.  They cut to the heart of human experience.

So, here I sit, a living cliche.  Living through a dark night of the soul.  Struggling to find God in a hill laced with winter trees.  Feeling the sun on my face.  Maybe God is talking to me right now, and I'm just not listening in the right way.  That happens, too.  A lot.  I'm looking for one answer, and God is sending me another.  An answer I really don't like.  So, my head/heart/soul chooses to ignore it.

I'm not sure which is better.  Living in that ignorance or in God's silence.  Neither option is easy or comforting.  I'm fighting God with one.  God and I aren't speaking with the other.  I'm God's teenager, not getting my way, rolling my eyes, pouting, texting my friends about how unfair God is being.

If you want to find Saint Marty today, I'll be in my bedroom, lying on my bed, lights off, listening to Simon and Garfunkel songs.  Knock before entering.

September 29: Poet of the Week, Lisel Mueller, "On Finding a Bird's Bones in the Woods"

REMINDER:  SIX MORE DAYS UNTIL SAINT MARTY'S DAY

Some poets really seem to strip away the skin and muscle of everyday life to examine the skeleton of the universe.  That's when a poem is really great.  When it feels like you've somehow glimpsed the fabric of time and space.  The mind of God, if you will.

As a poet, I can say it's a tremendous gift when my words fall into place and reveal a deeper truth.  Call it what you want.  Inspiration.  The muse.  Grace.  The Holy Spirit.  Luck.  It's as if I'm a conduit in moments like that, simply a mouthpiece for something bigger than myself.  I don't mean to get all mystical.  I'm not Saint John of the Cross.  I'm Saint Marty of the Upper Peninsula.

The Poet of the Week this time is Lisel Mueller, and she has a poem in her collection Alive Together about seeing/sensing the bones of existence.

Saint Marty has to go to a meeting of Mystics Anonymous now.

On Finding a Bird's Bones in the Woods

by:  Lisel Mueller

Even Einstein, gazing
at the slender ribs of the world,
examining and praising
the cool and tranquil core
under the boil and burning
of faith and metaphor--
even he, unlearning
the bag and baggage of notion,
must have kept some shred
in which to clothe that shape,
as we, who cannot escape
imagination, swaddle
this tiny world of bone
in all that we have known
of sound and motion.

God has a sense of humor, too