It seems to me, now, that Mother must have been a person full of insatiable dreams and of great ambition after perfection: perfection in art, in interior decoration, in dancing, in housekeeping, in raising children. Maybe that is why I remember her mostly as worried since that imperfection of myself, her first son, had been a great deception. If this book does not prove anything else, it will certainly show that I was nobody's dream-child. I have seen a diary Mother was keeping, in the time of my infancy and first childhood, and it reflects some astonishment at the stubborn and seemingly spontaneous development of completely unpredictable features in my character. things she had never bargained for: for example, a deep and serious urge to adore the gas-light in the kitchen, with no little ritualistic veneration, when I was about four. Churches and formal religion were things to which Mother attached not too much importance in the training of a modern child, and my guess is that she thought, if I were left to myself, I would grow up into a nice, quiet Deist of some sort, and never be perverted by superstition.
My baptism, at Prades, was almost certainly Father's idea, because he had grown up with a deep and well-developed faith, according to the doctrines of the Church of England. But I don't think there was much power, in the waters of the baptism I got in Prades, to untwist the warping of my essential freedom, or loose me from the devils that hung like vampires on my soul.
My father came to the Pyrenees because of a dream of his own: more single, more concrete, and more practical than Mother's numerous and haunting ideals of perfection. Father wanted to get some place where he could settle in France, and raise a family, and paint, and live on practically nothing, because we had practically nothing to live on.
Father and Mother had many friends at Prades, and when they had moved there, and had their furniture in their flat, and the canvasses piled up in a corner, and the whole place smelling of fresh oil-paints and water-color and cheap pipe tobacco and cooking, more friends came down from Paris. And Mother would paint in the hills, under a large canvas parasol, and Father would paint in the sun, and the friends would drink red wine and gaze out over the valley of Canigon, and at the monastery on the slopes of the mountain.
There they are--Mr. and Mrs. Merton. His mother, an idealist, striving always toward the possibility of perfection. His father, more practical and realistic, wanting only a cheap place to live, work, and raise his family. Of course, we all know that attaining perfection is impossible, unless God reaches down has a hand in it. Being human means being imperfect. We are all glorious messes.
These blog posts that I send out into the world every day are not meant to be sugar-coated portraits of my day-to-day existence. My wife is not perfect. My son and daughter aren't perfect. I, most certainly, am not perfect. For example, today I have been struggling with feelings of grief and anger and exhaustion. The loss of my good friend has thrown me into a little bit of a tailspin in these first few days of this new year of this new decade of this new millennium.
Merton certainly doesn't shy away from his imperfections in his memoir. In fact, most of The Seven Storey Mountain' opening is about him overcoming the demons of his past in order to fill the God-sized hole in his life. Keep in mind, this Trappist monk wasn't a cradle Catholic. On the contrary, he was raised by bohemian artists who, for the most part, shied away from the rituals of organized religion.
I pretty much try to follow Merton's example with this blog. I tell the truth about my life, in all of its nit and grit. However, I follow Emily Dickinson's advice: "Tell all the truth but tell it slant--" I can't and won't share all the details of my struggles, because they involve other people I love. It is not my place to talk about their journeys.
So, let me tell you a slant truth this evening. I cannot stand secretive people. I don't like secrets, and I have a difficult time with anyone whose life consists of secrets. In my dealings with family and friends, I am pretty much an open book. If you care about me, ask me what's going on in my life, and I will pretty much tell you. Secrets are terrible things. They can make you crazy. Engage in unhealthy behaviors. Hurt people you love. Drive you to drink, and then the drinking becomes one of the secrets. It's a pretty vicious circle.
Thomas Merton had a secret. He doesn't really discuss it fully in The Seven Storey Mountain. Instead, he tells it slant. You see, when he was a young man, Thomas Merton fathered a child. He didn't marry the woman he got pregnant, and both she and Merton's child were eventually killed in the blitzkriegs of London during World War II. This little secret almost kept Merton out of religious life. It also was something he anguished over. A lot.
See what I mean? Secrets are terrible, destructive things to hold on to. They can derail your happiness. Alienate children. Drive away friends. End marriages. Sever family ties. Destroy homes. I've seen it happen. I'm seeing it happen right now.
I am still determined to make 2020 a better, brighter year, despite its rocky start. I refuse to live another 2019, where secrets ruled and ruined my days. Let me dispel some rumors. I didn't have an affair or father an illegitimate child. Didn't take up selling crystal meth like Walter White. Didn't become addicted to pain killers or sleeping pills. Didn't beat my children or wife. Didn't rob a bank or desecrate a cemetery. I didn't become a Trump supporter.
In the spirit of new beginnings and fresh starts this New Year's week, I will reveal one of my best-kept secrets. One that I'm not really proud of. One that could ruin a part of my life. I will say it quickly, without comment. Then, I will go to bed, unburdened, and sleep better than I've slept in months.
Here is the secret: Saint Marty likes reading Fannie Flagg novels.
