December 9-10: A Tremendous Assignment, Control Freak, God's Job

Merton relates the tale of a little monk . . .

So this was the atmosphere into which the letter from Chicago dropped like a heavy stone. The abbot was pleased by the letter. He did not know what the Chicago World’s Fair was. He did not understand that all these things were simply schemes for accumulating money. The “World Congress of Religions” appeared to him as something more than the fatuous scheme of a few restless, though probably sincere, minds. He seemed to see in it the first step towards the realization of the hopes of their beloved messiah, Jagad-Bondhu: world peace, universal brotherhood. Perhaps, now, all religions would unite into one great universal religion, and all men would begin to praise God as brothers, instead of tearing each other to pieces. 

At any rate, the abbot selected one of his monks and told him that he was to go to Chicago, to the World Congress of Religions. 

This was a tremendous assignment. It was something far more terrible than an order given, for instance, to a newly ordained Capuchin to proceed to a mission in India. That would merely be a matter of a trained missionary going off to occupy a place that had been prepared for him. But here was a little man who had been born at the edge of a jungle told to start out from a contemplative monastery and go not only into the world, but into the heart of a civilization the violence and materialism of which he could scarcely evaluate, and which raised goose-flesh on every square inch of his body. What is more, he was told to undertake this journey without money. Not that money was prohibited to him, but they simply did not have any. His abbot managed to raise enough to get him a ticket for a little more than half the distance. After that heaven would have to take care of him. 

By the time I met this poor little monk who had come to America without money, he had been living in the country for about five years, and had acquired, of all things, the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Chicago. So that people referred to him as Doctor Bramachari, although I believe that Bramachari is simply a generic-Hindu term for monk—and one that might almost be translated: “Little-BrotherWithout-the-Degree-of-Doctor.” 

How he got through all the red tape that stands between America and the penniless traveller is something that I never quite understood. But it seems that officials, after questioning him, being completely overwhelmed by his simplicity, would either do something dishonest in his favor, or else would give him a tip as to how to beat the various technicalities. Some of them even lent him fairly large sums of money. In any case he landed in America. 

The only trouble was that he got to Chicago after the World Congress of Religions was all over. 

By that time, one look at the Fair buildings, which were already being torn down, told him all he needed to know about the World Congress of Religions. But once he was there, he did not have much trouble. People would see him standing around in the middle of railway stations waiting for Providence to do something about his plight. They would be intrigued by his turban and white garments (which were partly concealed by a brown overcoat in winter). They observed that he was wearing a pair of sneakers, and perhaps that alone was enough to rouse their curiosity. He was frequently invited to give lectures to religious and social clubs, and to schools and colleges, and he more than once spoke from the pulpits of Protestant churches. In this way he managed to make a living for himself Besides, he was always being hospitably entertained by people that he met, and he financed the stages of his journey by artlessly leaving his purse lying open on the living room table, at night, before his departure. 

The open mouth of the purse spoke eloquently to the hearts of his hosts, saying: “As you see, I am empty,” or, perhaps, “As you see, I am down to my last fifteen cents.” It was often enough filled up in the morning. He got around. 

How did he run into Sy Freedgood? Well, Seymour’s wife was studying at Chicago, and she met Bramachari there, and then Seymour met Bramachari, and Bramachari came to Long Beach once or twice, and went out in Seymour’s sailboat, and wrote a poem which he gave to Seymour and Helen. He was very happy with Seymour, because he did not have to answer so many stupid questions and, after all, a lot of the people who befriended him were cranks and semi-maniacs and theosophists who thought they had some kind of a claim on him. They wearied him with their eccentricities, although he was a gentle and patient little man. But at Long Beach he was left in peace, although Seymour’s ancient grandmother was not easily convinced that he was not the hereditary enemy of the Jewish people. She moved around in the other room, lighting small religious lamps against the intruder. 

This is a tale about leaps of faith.  Bramachari is sent on a mission by the abbot of his monastery, without any clear path to accomplishing that mission.  No money.  No extra clothing.  No shelter.  He is simply given a command, and he follows it, with absolute trust that God will show him the way.  

I struggle with trust all the time.  I've faced some pretty difficult decisions and times in my life, when God seemed distant, silent, dark.  A lunar eclipse.  I'd like to say that I was like Bramachari at those times, boarding the ship to America without a cent in his pocket.  I wasn't.  Worry comes more naturally to me than blind faith.

Tonight, I found out that my sister, Rose, is doing much better.  She is currently still an inpatient, but her cardiologist recommends treating with medication versus a pacemaker.  Good news.  Answered prayer.

It's a strange thing.  You see, I'm kind of a control freak.  I don't like surprises, and I structure my life so that I don't have to experience too many of them.  I know what I'm going to have for breakfast tomorrow morning.  Two eggs with a piece of toast.  I know what I'm going to have for dinner.  Thai food from one of my favorite restaurants.  And I know how I'm going to spend my day at work.  Publicity and promotion for some upcoming library programs, and the creation of a document about January's events.  A blog post tomorrow night, and work on this year's Christmas essay.

Two days ago, I had similar plans, and then I received a text message about Rose being at the ER.  Structure went out the window.  Plans went out the window.  I had no way of controlling my sister's fate, whether she got better or worse.  So, I asked people to pray for her.  I suppose, in a way, that was my attempt to control the situation.  I don't like feeling powerless, either.

Here is the truth of the matter:  I'm not in control of anything.  Sure, I can make all the plans in the world, from now until next Christmas.  However, those plans are human, based on human assumptions that I will remain healthy and gainfully employed.  That my financial situation will remain the same.  My marriage, stable.  My children and loved ones, happy and healthy.

Of course, things happen.  Pandemics.  Heart attacks.  Recessions.  Depressions.  Any and many kinds of catastrophes.  No amount of planning can prepare for all the possibilities that the future may hold.

Truth be told, my sense of control is simply an illusion fabricated by me to allow me to sleep at night.  I am more like Bramachari than I care to admit.  A stranger in a strange land, dependent upon heaven to take care of me.  That pretty much describes every single one of us.  We aren't masters of our own destinies.  Nope.  We are corks bobbing in an ocean, subject to winds and waves and rains and sharks.  

But, tonight, heaven has taken care of my sister.  I received another text a little while ago:  "Rosey is almost back to Rosey.  She is talking, and she stood today with help . . ."  I had nothing to do with that, other than offering up my meager request to the universe.  Writer Anne Lamott says this:  "You know, we're often ashamed of asking for so much help because it seems selfish or petty or narcissistic, but I think, if there's a God--and I believe there is--that God is there to help.  That's what God's job is."

I am selfish sometimes.  Petty and narcissistic, too.  I try to control my life.  Play God.  Yet, when push comes to shove, I can only raise up my hands, surrender, and say, "Help."  Or "help, help."  Or, if I'm really desperate, "Helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp."  I get that prayer from Anne Lamott, too.

Tonight, however, I'm going to say another prayer.  It's just as powerful as "help," but it's not said as much, because the world is selfish and petty and narcissistic.  I gave my sister up to God two days ago, and it appears that God has given her back.  That's what God's job is.

For that miracle, Saint Marty says, "Thanks."

November 5: King of the Meadow, Addiction, Control

Not one of these insects in this meadow could change into a locust under any circumstance.  I am King of the Meadow, and raised my arms.  Instantly grasshoppers burst all around me, describing in the air a blur of trajectories which ended in front of my path in a wag of grasses.  As if I were king, dilly-dilly.

There are times when we all feel like King of the Meadow.  Raise your arms, walk into grasses, pretend like you can control all of the grasshoppers arcing and flinging themselves away and into you.  It's an illusion we all like to cling to--that we can control our meadows.

I have a person in my life who struggles with an addiction to prescription medications.  (No, I am NOT talking about myself in code.  Don't jump to that conclusion.)  Sometimes, this person can control it.  Sometimes, it controls him.  This week, addiction was in the driver's seat.  When I saw him, he could barely walk up a set of stairs and couldn't recall what day of the month it was.  It was sad and frustrating at the same time.

Now, he may be in trouble at work.  Got caught dozing off on the job.  On Monday, he has a meeting with his supervisor, and he is fully expecting to be fired.  He's praying that he doesn't, but he told me yesterday that "I have a bad feeling."

His life is spinning out of control right now, and he refuses to admit that he has a problem.  I told him that, if everything turns out alright on Monday, he needs to walk the straight and narrow.  I looked at him and said, "You know what I mean."  He nodded.  He knew what I meant. 

I don't know what's going to happen to him on Monday, although I haven't told him that.  The last piece of wisdom I shared with him:  "You have no control over what your supervisor is going to do.  All you have is control over what you do and how you respond."

None of us are King of the Meadow.  There's only one King of the Meadow, dilly-dilly, and we need just trust in the King (or Queen, if you prefer).

Today, Saint Marty gives thanks for his meadow, that it's not full of locusts or addiction or Republicans.

October 20: My Little Delinquent, Tired, "Web" Dip

Yes, my six-year-old son committed another grade school felony on the playground today.  He punched one of his classmates, and then, when he was brought inside the school, he proceeded to throw homework bins and create general havoc.  He had to be brought to the time-out room, which I assume is the equivalent of kiddy solitary confinement.  Pretty soon, my little delinquent is going to be fashioning a shiv out of Elmer's Glue, Cheetos, and glitter.

Yes, I'm tired of doing crisis management at home.  My son isn't a bad kid.  He has bad moments.  I truly don't think he intends to hurt anybody.  He just doesn't have a whole lot of impulse control, and, when he loses control, he's a hurricane, destroying everything in his path.  I know he's a boy.  I know boys play rough.  I get that.  Well, actually, I don't get it.  But I understand it.  I wasn't like that as a little kid.  I preferred sitting somewhere, reading a book or drawing in my sketchbook.  In short, I was the kid who got punched.

Thus, my Web dip question:

Will my son ever learn to control himself?

And the answer from Charlotte:

"Certainly-ertainly-ertainly," said the gander.  "You may have the egg.  But I'll tell you one thing, Templeton, if I ever catch you poking-oking-oking your ugly nose around out goslings, I'll give you the worst pounding a rat ever took..."

Okay, so either my son will eventually get the crap pounded out of him, or my son will continue to pound the crap out of  his classmates.

Saint Marty needs to know who's the gander and who's the rat.

I guess I should save up for bail, not college

December 18: Interrupt My Worrying, Waste of Time, Headaches and Knots

...I probably was still looking out the window, but I swear I can't remember.  I was so damn worried, that's why.  When I really worry about something, I don't just fool around.  I even have to go to the bathroom when I worry about something.  Only, I don't go.  I'm too worried to go.  I don't want to interrupt my worrying to go...

I'd forgotten about this little passage.  Holden worries.  About Jane and Allie and Phoebe.  He worries about kids on the playground and "fuck you" graffiti in a grade school.  He worries so much that he ends up having a breakdown.  Catcher is really a portrait of Holden's mind unraveling.  Because he's "so damn worried."


I spent all day waiting to hear bad news.  I don't need to go into detail.  My point is that I wasted about twelve hours.  Worry doesn't really accomplish anything.  It's a pointless exercise.  Nothing really bad happened to me today, except for the fact that I gave myself a huge headache and knots in my shoulders.

I've always been a worrier.  I believe that, if I expect the worst, and the worst doesn't happen, I've somehow won a battle.  That doesn't mean that the worst won't happen tomorrow.  However, I can't really control anything about tomorrow.  Pretty much, all I have control over is the next word I type.  I know, when I'm done with this post, I'm going to work on a poem.  Then, I hope to get to bed a little early tonight.  That's what I have control of tonight.

Saint Marty's going to leave tomorrow to the worriers.

I forget this sometimes

October 9: Nobody Won, Daughter's Dance Team, Barely Awake

"Nobody won," I said.  Without looking up, though.                       

Holden has caused his school's fencing team to lose their meet.  He lost their foils on the subway.  That means they showed up to compete and found out all of their equipment was A. W. O. L.  Holden can't seem to hold anything together in his life.


My daughter was supposed to dance with her school's dance team at a J.V. football game tonight.  She didn't dance.  This afternoon, she came home from school sick.  She threw up.  She threw up yesterday morning before school, too.  However, she said she was just really hungry, and she went to school.  Today, my daughter couldn't dance at the football game because the school nurse is one of the helpers with dance.  The school nurse said my daughter wasn't allowed to participate.

My daughter was disappointed.  She went to bed before 9 p.m.  The last time she did that was when she was six or seven years old.  She must be really tired.  I haven't heard a single noise from her bedroom since she went in there.  Either she's playing with her iPod, or she really went to sleep.  My money's on the iPod.  Before she went to sleep, she told me that she never would have called to come home if she knew it would interfere with dance.

Worries tend to multiply during the day.  I find that if I wake up with a worry on my mind, at the end of the day, that worry has multiplied into dozens of additional concerns.  I was worried about my daughter this morning because she wasn't feeling well.  Tonight, I'm worried that my daughter won't go to school tomorrow morning, that my son will accidentally cut off someone's thumb with a pair of art scissors, that we're not going to have enough money for our trip to the Wisconsin Dells this weekend, that my daughter will spend the entire three days at the Kalahari Resort throwing up.  And that's only a few of them.

I am falling asleep at the moment.  It's nearly 10 p.m., and I've officially been awake for 18 hours straight.  The good thing is, I get to do the same thing tomorrow, too.  So I'm going to be barely awake on Thursday, too.

Worry never helps things.  Usually, I worry about things I have no control over at all.  Like my daughter's illness or my son's tendency to stick crayons in his ears at school.  No control.  I need to let it all go.  I'm cranky, and my wife is berating me for not washing my daughter's dinner plate.  I need to keep my lips closed, or else I'm going to say something I'll regret.

Saint Marty doesn't recommend alcohol as a coping mechanism, but a cup of spiked hot chocolate would taste pretty damn good about now.

That's what I count on...

January 28: That Museum, Different, My Holden, "Rye" Dip

...The best thing, though, in that museum was that everything always stayed right where it was.  Nobody'd move.  You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket.  Nobody'd be different.  The only thing that would be different would be you.  Not that you'd be so much older or anything.  It wouldn't be that, exactly.  You'd just be different, that's all.  You'd have an overcoat on this time.  Or the kid that was your partner in line the last time had got scarlet fever and you'd have a new partner.  Or you'd have a substitute taking the class, instead of Miss Aigletinger.  Or you'd heard your mother and father having a terrific fight in the bathroom.  Or you'd just passed by one of those puddles in the street with gasoline rainbows in them.  I mean you'd be different in some way--I can't explain what I mean.  And even if I could, I'd not sure I'd feel like it.

Holden is talking about the Museum of Natural History in New York.  He remembers going on class field trips to that museum when he was younger.  He describes his favorite exhibits in detail and then talks about nothing ever being "different" there,  Holden finds that comforting.  His brother, Allie, is dead.  His friend, Jane, is dating his dorm mate.  He's just been kicked out of another prep school.  Yet, the Eskimo at the museum is still ice fishing.  The deer are still at the water hole.  The birds are still flying south.  Nothing is different.  Except Holden himself, of course.

Holden craves stability, I think.  That's why his memory of the museum brings him so much pleasure.  He knows that, if he walks up the steps of the Museum of Natural History,  he will be greeted by the same sights and sounds from his childhood.  Nothing will have changed.  And it's change, the process of growing up, that Holden is struggling with.

I have a Holden in my life.  He's in his early fifties.  I had dinner at his house last night.  My Holden is tightly wound.  His parents are aging, and his job causes him huge amounts of stress.  He finds little pleasure in life.  Everything for my Holden is a battle for control.  Holden doesn't want his mother to get old.  He doesn't want his father to slow down.  He's afraid every day that he might lose his job.  He feels out of control.

My Holden's solution is structure and schedules.  He gets up at the same time every morning.  He works pretty much the same hours every day.  He arrives home around two or three o'clock in the afternoon and changes into his pajamas.  Supper has to be on the table by four.  By six o'clock, he's getting his mother to bed, and then he goes to bed himself.  That's his life.

Yesterday, dinner almost wasn't ready at 4 p.m.  Holden lost it.  He started slamming dishes and swearing.  He got into a huge argument with his sister, who was cooking.  There were quite a few "fuck yous" tossed back and forth.  Holden was red-faced and crying by the time dinner was on the table at 3:55 p.m.  Yes, dinner was five minutes early, and he was on the verge of a nuclear meltdown.

I don't know how to help Holden.  He doesn't readily accept advice, and he won't go to a therapist or counselor.  He's headed for a nervous breakdown.

So, my questions for Rye Dip Monday is simple:

Will my Holden get help for his mental health problems?

And the answer from J. D. Salinger is:

"I like Allie," I said.  "And I like doing what I'm doing right now.  Sitting here with you, and talking, and thinking about stuff, and--"

I'm not sure I like that answer.  That's Salinger's Holden talking to his little sister, trying to name something that he likes to do, something that gives him pleasure.  All he can come up with is thinking about his dead brother, Allie.  He's stuck, just like the exhibits at the museum.


So is Saint Marty's Holden.

It's true,  Nothing changes at the Museum of Natural History.  As this guy.

June 5: Mind Flew Back, Over and Over and Over, Disquiet

Scrooge went to bed again, and thought, and thought, and thought it over and over and over, and could make nothing of it.  The more he thought, the more perplexed he was; and the more he endeavoured not to think, the more he thought.  Marley's Ghost bothered him exceedingly.  Every time he resolved within himself, after mature inquiry, that it was all a dream, his mind flew back again, like a strong spring released, to its first position, and presented the same problem to be worked all through, "Was it a dream or not?"

Scrooge is stuck in the limbo of the spirit world.  He wakes up after the visit from Jacob Marley's ghost, and he's not sure what's going on.  The world is dark when it should be light.  The clock strikes midnight when it should be noon.  Scrooge finds himself in a position of disquiet, mind racing, thinking and thinking and thinking, over and over and over.

It's a pretty good description of the kind of mania that comes with mental illness.  The obsessive thoughts.  The displaced reality.  I've seen this state in my wife more than once.  However, Scrooge's disquiet is not really due to mental illness.  (At least, I've never interpreted A Christmas Carol in that light.  However, Scrooge does have visions of spirits that could be psychotic hallucinations.  He does have an altered sense of time.  At the end of the book, his frenetic state of joy could definitely be attributed to a hypomanic bipolar episode.  Hmmmmmm.)  Scrooge's disquiet is due to fear.  He's afraid of the upcoming appearance of the Ghost of Christmas Past.  He's afraid of the possibility that he should "retire to Bedlam," as he says earlier.  (Bedlam is short for "Bethlem Royal Hospital," which was a London hospital that was first to specialize in treating mental illnesses.)  And I think he's afraid of the prospect of change, for that's what Jacob Marley wants him to do:  change his ways.

I could go with any of the above explanations for Scrooge's disquiet.  I, myself, have experienced the kind of racing thoughts described by Dickens in the above paragraph.  It's not fun.  Usually, I fall into that pattern of thought when I'm worried or anxious about something:  job, bills, money, the past, the present, the future, a mole on my calf, my weight, my house, my attic, my garage, the clunk in my car engine.  That's just the tip of the proverbial iceberg.  I could go on, but that would take way too much time.  You get the idea.

My point is that Scrooge can't change a thing that's going to happen to him.  The ghosts are going to show up.  Jacob Marley is pretty clear about this fact.  The only thing Scrooge has any power over is his reaction to the ghosts.  He could cower under his bed or soil himself, which would be my reaction to random spirits appearing at my bedside in the middle of the night.  Or he could roll with the punches and go for some ghostly strolls and obtain some ghostly wisdom.  Scrooge chooses the latter.

I can't change most of the things on my list of worries.  Sure, I could go on a diet.  Clean my garage or attic.  Take my car to a mechanic.  None of those things will really alleviate my worries.  I'll just be thinner with anxiety.  I'll have an attic or garage to have a breakdown in.  I'll have a car to drive to my therapy appointments.  But I'll still have worries. 

Worry is about control.  I'm a control freak.  (I'm also a chocolate freak, book freak, poetry freak, and movie freak, since I'm making a confession.)  Control means happiness, at least in my book.  Of course, a lot of people would argue this point with me, including my therapist and pastor.  Scrooge's miserly ways are all about control, as well.  He was pretty wounded as a young person.  Abandoned by his father.  He doesn't want to be wounded again, so he pushes people away and collects wealth to protect himself.  Of course, all he's done is create the illusion of control.  Jacob Marley tears away that illusion.  But I'm OK with the illusion of control.  It calms me down, makes me feel safe and secure, like a warm blankie.  Marley can stay away from my skewed view of reality.

As long as Saint Marty has the illusion of control, he can sleep well.

Calvin has some control issues

February 19: Ghost of the Future, Fear, New Cartoon

"Ghost of the Future!" he exclaimed, "I fear you more than any Spectre I have seen.  But, as I know your purpose is to do me good, and as I hope to live to be another man from what I was, I am prepared to bear you company, and do it with a thankful heart.  Will you not speak with me?"

I guess I'm sort of picking up where I left off with yesterday's post.  Yesterday, I wrote about death.  Scrooge changes as a result of his walks with the Ghosts of Christmas.  Of all the ghosts, the Ghost of the Future is the most terrifying to him.  Rightfully so.  A sort of black shrouded specter of death, the Ghost conducts him to some pretty unsettling scenes and places, including Scrooge's grave.  I know I wouldn't want to party with this particular phantom.

Of course, Scrooge's fear touches upon a primal fear in all of us:  fear of the future.  None of us knows when we're going to die.  In fact, none of us knows what's going to happen tomorrow or tonight or in the next five minutes.  The future doesn't speak.  That's the fear Charles Dickens is playing with in this portion of the book.

I can tell you that the future is something that usually fills me with dread.  I spend a lot of my waking hours worrying about the future.  I worry about having enough money to pay my mortgage.  I worry about having enough money to pay for the utilities.  I worry about outgrowing our small house in a few years, when my son gets too old to share a room with my daughter.  I worry about strange noises in my car that may indicate mechanical issues.  I worry about what I'm going to have for dinner tomorrow night.  I worry about losing my jobs.  I worry about Hostess going bankrupt, and Twinkies going the way of the woolly mammoth.

That's a lot of worries, some of them legitimate (the mortgage payment) and some of them ridiculous (Twinkies have the half-life of uranium).  It's a terrible thing to have the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come always looming over my shoulder.  If I had a little more faith, I wouldn't spend as much time worrying about possible catastrophes.  Faith would give me confidence.  Faith should let me feel safe, sure of the future.

That's what Scrooge gains by the end of A Christmas Carol.  Faith.  He wants to change his future for the better.  He knows what he has to do.  The future is not something he fears anymore.  It's something he embraces because he sees it filled with the possibility for good.  He has faith in that.

I, on the other hand, envision a future filled with the possibility of sadness and strife.  I spend my time planning to avoid this future.  Of course, these plans are my way of trying to control things, which is absolutely idiotic.  I can't control the future.  Nobody can.  Not Scrooge.  Not Charles Dickens.  Not me, no matter how hard I try.  I know this fact. 

However, Saint Marty likes the illusion of control.

Confessions of Saint Marty