Merton rediscovers the land of his birth:
And yet it was France that grew the finest flowers of delicacy and grace and intelligence and wit and understanding and proportion and taste. Even the countryside, even the landscape of France, whether in the low hills and lush meadows and apple orchards of Normandy or in the sharp and arid and vivid outline of the mountains of Provence, or in the vast, rolling red vineyards of Languedoc, seems to have been made full of a special perfection, as a setting for the best of the cathedrals, the most interesting towns, the most fervent monasteries, and the greatest universities.
But the wonderful thing about France is how all her perfections harmonize so fully together. She has possessed all the skills, from cooking to logic and theology, from bridge-building to contemplation, from vine-growing to sculpture, from cattle-breeding to prayer: and possessed them more perfectly, separately and together, than any other nation.
Why is it that the songs of the little French children are more graceful, their speech more intelligent and sober, their eyes calmer and more profound than those of the children of other nations? Who can explain these things?
France, I am glad I was born in your land, and I am glad God brought me back to you, for a time, before it was too late.
I did not know all these things about France the rainy September evening when we landed at Calais, coming from England through which we had passed on our way.
Nor did I share or understand the enthusiastic satisfaction with which Father got off the boat and walked into the noise of the French station, filled with the cries of porters and with the steam of the French trains.
I was tired , and fell asleep long before we got to Paris. I woke up long enough to be impressed by the welter of lights in the wet streets, and the dark sweep of the Seine, as we crossed one of the countless bridges, while far away the fires on the Eiffel tower spelled "C-I-T-R-O-E-N."
The words Montparnasse, Rue des Saints Peres, Gare d'Orleans filled my mind with their unmeaning, and spelled me no certitude concerning the tall grey houses, and the wide shady awnings of the cafes, and the trees, and the people , and the churches, and the flying taxis, and the green and white buses full of noise.
I did not have time, at the age of ten, to make anything out of this city, but already I knew I was going to like France: and then, once more, we were on a train.
That day, on that express, going into the south, into the Midi, I discovered France. I discovered that land which is really, as far as I can tell, the one to which I do belong, if I belong to any at all, by no documentary title but by geographical birth.
Merton has not really belonged anywhere he's lived so far in his short life. Always on the move, he's felt more like a visitor than a resident of every place he's called "home." That includes his maternal grandparents' house in New York. Landing in France, however, he feels as if he has found himself, understands why he is who he is.
It's difficult always feeling like a stranger in your life. Like you don't ever belong. I have felt like that a lot. I've always been the weird sibling in my family--artistic and sensitive, a poet and actor and musician. Line me up with my remaining siblings, and you could play a game of "One of these things is not like the other."
Feeling like a stranger is a lonely thing. It's as if, even though you're speaking the same language as everyone else, nobody really understands what you're saying. Because of circumstances in my life, in the past and recently, I have felt completely alone in rooms filled with people. Separated. Unable to ever talk about what is on my mind or heart. The only thing that has saved me at those moments is knowing that I have tons of friends and family who love me deeply, despite my brokenness.
So, this post is for all of those individuals. A thank you from a stranger in a strange land. I don't understand how I got to the place where I am right now. I've always tried to live right, work hard, love unconditionally. Yet, I'm surrounded by struggle. If you are reading this post because you care about me, please know that I care about you, too. In the world at large, love is in short supply. In my life, however, love abounds. I thank you all for that. I'm not sure I deserve it.
Sometimes Saint Marty feels like an alien, and sometimes Saint Marty feels like the most blessed person alive.
