June 28: Ten-Day Boat, Book Club Meeting, God Complex

Young Merton goes on the search for love . . .

In three months, the summer of 1931, I suddenly matured like a weed.

I cannot tell which is the more humiliating: the memory of the half-baked adolescent I was in June or the glib and hard-boiled specimen I was in October when I came back to Oakham full of a thorough and deep-rooted sophistication of which I was both conscious and proud.

The beginning was like this: Pop wrote to me to come to America. I got a brand-new suit made. I said to myself, "On the boat I am going to meet a beautiful girl, and I am going to fall in love."

So, I got on the boat. The first day I sat in a deck chair and read the correspondence of Goethe and Schiller which had been imposed on me as a duty, in preparation for the scholarship examinations at the university. What is worse, I not only tolerated this imposition but actually convinced myself that it was interesting.

The second day I had more or less found out who was on the boat. The third day I was no longer interested in Goethe and Schiller. The fourth day I was up to my neck in the trouble that I was looking for.

It was a ten-day boat.


According to David Van Biema of Time Magazine:

He [Thomas Merton] will not become a saint because of his radical pacificism, which caused him to be censored even in his lifetime; because his curiosity regarding Eastern contemplative traditions struck some as heretical; and because he admitted to a variety of sins throughout his career that would give ammunition to his opponents. Certain intellectually-inclined Catholics, however, will continue to regard his wrestling with faith as holier than the boring compliance of some others well along the path to canonization.

According to Van Biema, Merton is too much a person of his time--vehemently opposed to war, intellectually curious about Eastern religious ideas, and wholly human in his failings (he fathered a child out of wedlock before he became a Trappist monk).  And in the passage above, the adolescent Merton does what all adolescent boys do:  he lets his actions be dictated by a force centered thoroughly below his belt.  

I think I am drawn to Merton because of his humanity.  He isn't one of these holy people who, as a child, had visions of the Virgin Mary and joined a holy order when he was ten years old, never to leave the confines of the monastery again.  No, Merton struggled.  Failed.  Sinned.  Sought forgiveness.  Failed again.  For me, he is a model for saintliness.  Despite all of the things he did "wrong," Merton never stopped chasing God for his entire life.

Now, I have been chasing God most of my life, or vice versa.  It's pretty much the same thing.  I've run away from God, turned my back on God, yelled at God, and broke up with God.  Yet, somehow, I still have God in my life, despite my best efforts.  I would like to say that now, in the darkest moments of my life, I always turn to prayer and find comfort in God's abiding presence.  However, that would be a lie.  

Here's the truth:  there is something in me that always wants to try to fix things that are wrong in my life.  Things I simply have no power over.  People I love who are traveling down the road of addiction and self-destruction.  Who are sick with no hope of good health.  Who make bad choices daily because of that stupid thing called free will.

You will notice that all of the things I listed in the previous paragraph belong to the life journeys of other people.  One of my huge failings as a human being (and spiritual person) is this notion that I have all the answers.  If only people would listen to me, the world would be a much better place.  Certainly, my life would be a lot easier.  God just needs to let me drive the car for a little while.

There it is.  I want to be God.  Instead of praying "Thy will be done," I pray "my will be done."  And when my will isn't done, I get angry, depressed, despairing.  

Tonight, I had a wonderful Zoom meeting with my book club.  This month's selection was Ann Patchett's The Dutch House.  A great novel.  Deeply complex in its humanity.  There were a lot of difficult questions to answer about being stuck in the past, unable to move forward.  A lot of the book's issues struck close to home.  And no matter how hard I tried to steer the discussion in other directions, it always seemed to circle back to me.  I'm not kidding.  I couldn't control it.

The people in my book club are some of my best friends.  They know me.  I can't bullshit my way through anything with them.  They will call me on it.  Or laugh at me.  That's why I love our meetings.  They bring out my flaws, force me to take stock of my life.  They remind me that I'm human, like Merton.  I ain't no saint, although one of my book club members pointed out the possibility that I enjoy being a martyr.  My response to that observations:  "I have to be a martyr to put up with all of you."  Which simply elicited raucous laughter.

So, here I am tonight:  a flawed, deeply conflicted, would-be saint with a God complex.  And I am blessed with the miracle of friends who know all this and still love me.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.

March 30: Book Club Meeting, Mark Strand, "From the Long Sad Party"

Just finished our Book Club meeting.  We read Pot Farm by my friend, Matt Gavin Frank.  Matt joined us for pizza and chicken wings and brownies.  We talked about marijuana and family and diamond smuggling and the Mormon religion.  Oh, and we talked about his book.  He was such fun.

I don't have much more to add.  I will return to Slaughterhouse tomorrow night.  Too tired right now for deep thoughts.

Saint Marty is thankful that he did not have a long, sad party this evening.

From the Long Sad Party

by:  Mark Strand

Someone was saying
something about shadows covering the field, about
how things pass, how one sleeps towards morning
and the morning goes.

Someone was saying
how the wind dies down but comes back,
how shells are the coffins of wind
but the weather continues.

It was a long night
and someone said something about the moon shedding its
white
on the cold field, that there was nothing ahead
but more of the same.

Someone mentioned
a city she had been in before the war, a room with two
candles
against a wall, someone dancing, someone watching.
We began to believe

the night would not end.
Someone was saying the music was over and no one had
noticed.
Then someone said something about the planets, about the
stars,
how small they were, how far away.

May 28: Festively Enough, Book Club Meeting, Photos

That evening passed festively enough.  The tree had been decorated with great aplomb and by ten thirty everyone had left and the children were in bed...

Ives throws a tree decorating party every Christmas, where family and friends come together, eat, drink, and listen to Bing Crosby records.  The kids tinsel the tree, and the adults get mildly drunk.

This evening, my book club met at my house.  Our monthly gatherings are full of food and drink and conversation.  We talk about the month's reading selection (this month--We Are Not Ourselves by Matthew Thomas), and we catch up on gossip and family news.  As I've said in previous posts, it's one of my favorite evenings of the month.

Tonight, I had great news to share at book club.  My sister, who has been in the nursing home since February, flew down to the University of Michigan Hospital this morning to have her parathyroid removed.  The surgery went very well.  Before she was even out of the operating room, my sister had her calcium level checked, and it was in the normal range.

I received several pictures from my sister's hospital room.  My sister was sitting up in bed, eating potato chips.  There are two things in that statement that are remarkable.  First, my sister was sitting up--she has been flat on her back for almost four months, too weak to move.  Second, my sister was eating potato chips--my sister hasn't really eaten in almost four months either, throwing up everything.  So, two miracles in one picture.

It was a good evening.  Good book.  Good news.  Good friends.

One of the ladies in book club recently returned from a trip to Ireland.  She visited W. B. Yeats' grave and showed me a picture.  I just sort of sat there, staring at the photo.  Dumbstruck. 

Saint Marty has had a really good day.

P. S. Sorry about not posting last night.  I had a plumbing emergency at 11 p.m.  A plumber had to be called to unclog the only toilet in my house.  It was not a good scene.

Thanks to my friend for sharing this photo

March 1: Alone in the World, Book Club, Ginger Pears

"Mr. Scrooge it was.  I passed his office window; and as it was not shut up, and he had a candle inside, I could scarcely help seeing him.  His partner lies upon the point of death, I hear; and there he sat alone.  Quite alone in the world, I do believe."

There are several darker passages in A Christmas Carol that don't get much attention.  This passage is one of them, I think.  The speaker is the husband of Scrooge's former fiancee, Belle.  It is many years past the Christmas Belle broke off her engagement with Scrooge.  Scrooge has turned into the miser we all know, and he is, as the passage above indicates, alone in the world.  Quite alone.

It's a glimpse of Scrooge we don't get very often, one that encourages sympathy and compassion.  That "quite' in front of the word "alone" is terrifying in its finality and certainty.  It depicts Scrooge as a man with no friends and no family to speak of.  A man cut off from the human race.

I don't like to be alone very much.  I like having people near by, to joke around, to share my thoughts, to listen to my problems, to celebrate in my joys.  The only time I crave isolation is when I write.  I don't want distractions then.  But, for the most part, I have more in common with Scrooge's nephew, Fred, than with Ebenezer himself.

A great read, folks!

For instance, tonight, I 'm hosting my monthly book club.  People will be showing up with food and books in hand.  We will sit around, laugh, eat, and talk.  It's one of my favorite nights of the month.  This month we read the short story collection This Is Not Your City by Caitlin Horrocks.  It's a great book, and I'm looking forward to talking about it.  I'm also trying out a new recipe.  Ginger pears.  I've never made it before, but it sounds really good.

My book club is made up of family and some of my best friends.  I love seeing each and every person.  Some months, we talk about the book a lot.  Some months, the book is just an excuse to get together and eat.  I'm not sure what kind of month we're going to have this time.

One thing's for sure, though:  Saint Marty will not be quite alone tonight.

December 30: Book Club, Almost Vacation, First Entry

A book club member.  Image changed to protect identity.

Last night, our book club meeting went really well.  We got together.  We ate.  We talked about our favorite Christmas presents.  We talked about our hopes for the new year.  Oh, yeah, we also talked about the book we read.  With our book club, sometimes the book takes a backseat to other topics.  We usually get around to the book.  Usually.

Today is my last day of work before vacation begins.  I have a lot to accomplish still.  I have to take down the Christmas decorations in another area of the surgery center.  I have to finalize some surgical schedules.  I have to send some charts over to the hospital.  I have to clean the business office.  It's going to be a rough couple of hours.

Then, I have to go grocery shopping for the week, and I have to get supplies for our annual New Year's Eve party.  I have given up cleaning the house this weekend.  I just don't have the energy or time for it.  I will also be stopping by the AT&T store to talk to someone about my iPad.  I can't really figure out how to do a few things.  Plus, I want to discuss getting 3G with it.  I'm not quite sure what that means, but it will allow me to use the Internet at home.

By the way, I finally have an entry in my 500th Post Name My iPad Contest.  My friend Keith has suggested "George" for very obvious reasons if you've read my December posts.  I kinda like it.  If you have other ideas, you still have a few days to get them to me.

Saint Marty needs to get his holy ass in gear now.