September 29-30: My New Religion, Communism, Strike a Match

Merton discusses capitalism . . .

It is true that the materialistic society, the so-called culture that has evolved under the tender mercies of capitalism, has produced what seems to be the ultimate limit of this worldliness. And nowhere, except perhaps in the analogous society of pagan Rome, has there ever been such a flowering of cheap and petty and disgusting lusts and vanities as in the world of capitalism, where there is no evil that is not fostered and encouraged for the sake of making money. We live in a society whose whole policy is to excite every nerve in the human body and keep it at the highest pitch of artificial tension, to strain every human desire to the limit and to create as many new desires and synthetic passions as possible, in order to cater to them with the products of our factories and printing presses and movie studios and all the rest. 

Being the son of an artist, I was born the sworn enemy of everything that could obviously be called “bourgeois,” and now I only had to dress up that aversion in economic terms and extend it to cover more ground than it had covered before—namely, to include anything that could be classified as semi-fascist, like D. H. Lawrence and many of the artists who thought they were rebels without really being so—and I had my new religion all ready for immediate use.

Warning:  I may sound like a socialist/communist in this post.

Merton has an intense distrust of capitalism.  He pins all the ills of the world on the excesses of a capitalistic society.  (I'm not too far behind him in this idea.)  Of course, Merton hasn't found religion yet.  Instead, he attaches himself to any belief besides the belief in God.  It just so happens that his belief du jour is communism.

I think all young people go through periods where they try on different coats to see which one fits them best.  I know I did.  For quite a few years in college, I thought I was a computer programmer.  Then, I studied fiction writing and was convinced that I was Flannery O'Connor reincarnated (a notion that O'Connor would have found particularly repulsive or hysterically funny--probably both).  Then, I took a poetry class at the urging of one of my mentors at the university.  I was hooked.  I wanted to be Galway Kinnell and e. e. cummings and Sharon Olds and Gerard Manley Hopkins.

Of course, having been a student of poetry now for over 25-plus years now, I know that I am NOT and will NEVER BE Kinnell or Hopkins.  Sometimes, the best I can do is Helen Steiner Rice of Hallmark card fame.  And that's okay.  I have to learn to accept things as they are.  Nothing I do can change the outcome of certain situations, no matter how hard I hope, pray, or work.

Tonight, I accepted some hard truths.  These truths made me angry and sad and confused, all at the same time, anger being the dominant emotion.  I'm still angry, but now sadness is taking over.  I expect, near midnight, I will lapse into confusion and fall asleep in that mixed state.

It has been a very long year already.  I expect that the next three months will be more of the same.  Anger.  Sadness.  Confusion.  My life isn't going the way I thought it would.  In fact, it feels as if my life is going in the exact opposite direction I want it to go.  And nothing I do or say can fix it.  I simply have to watch it happen.

You see, a person I care about deeply has doused her life in gasoline and is about to strike a match.  She is turning her back on every person and thing that used to mean something to her.  I know that in the future, one or two or six or thirteen months from now, she's going to be filled with a whole lot of regret.  By that time, it may be too late.  Her kids will have lost faith in her love, and her spouse will be unwilling to be hurt again.

I have to accept all of that.  Not easy for me to do.  But my friend is hell bent of self-destruction.  Nothing will change her mind.  Believe me, I've tried.  She's too far gone, and she sees nothing wrong in her current trajectory.  Until she ends up alone on Christmas Eve or Day.  A good possibility.  Or until she gets sick, really sick, because of the choices she's making.  Another good possibility.

Hard truths.  Difficult to accept.  But I have to.  I will continue to pray for this person.  Hope for this person.  Love this person.  That's all I can do through this dark night of the soul.

It's what God expects Saint Marty to do.

February 15: Followed by Deep Shadow, Traveling, Dark Night of the Soul

Merton on the move with his father again:

The locomotive had big wheels and a low, squat boiler, and an inordinately high smoke-stack, so that it seemed to have escaped from the museum, except that it was very sturdy and did its work well.  And the three or four little coaches sped us quickly into a territory that was certainly sacramental.

The last town that had a brick campanile to its church, after the manner of all Languedoc, was Montricoux.  Then the train entered the Aveyron valley.  After that, we were more or less in Rouergue.  And then we began to see something. 

I did not realize what we were getting into until the train swept around a big curve of the shallow river, and came to stop under the sunny plane trees along the platform of a tiny station, and we looked out the window, and saw that we had just passed along the bottom of a sheer cliff one or two hundred feet high, with a thirteenth-century castle on the top of it.  That was Bruniquel.  All around us, the steep hills were thick with woods, small gnarled oaks, clinging to the rock.  Along the river, the slender poplars rippled with the light of late afternoon, and green waters danced on the stones.  The people who got on and off the train were peasants with black smocks, and on the roads we saw men walking beside teams of oxen, drawing their two-wheeled carts: and they guided the placid beasts with their long sticks.  Father told me that the people were all talking, not French, but the old patois, langue d'oc.

The next place was Penne.  At the meeting of two valleys, a thin escarpment of rock soared up boldly over the river, bent and sharply rising, like an open wing.  On the top were the ruins of another castle.  Further down, straggling along the ridge, went the houses of the village and somewhere among them the small square tower of a church, an open iron belfry on top, with a visible bell.

The valley seemed to get narrower and deeper as the train followed its narrow single track between the river and the rocks.  Sometimes there was enough space between us and the river to contain a small hayfield.  Occasionally a deserted dirt road or cattle track would cross our way, and there would be a house and a crossing-gate and one of those furious French bells, throwing the sudden scare of it clangor through the windows of the carriage as we passed by. 

The valley widened a little to contain the village of Cazals, hanging on to the foot of the hill across the river, and then we were back in the gorge.  If you went to the window and looked up, you could see the grey and yellow cliffs towering up so high they almost blocked out the sky.  And now we could begin to distinguish caves high up on the rock.  Later I would climb up there and visit some of them.  Passing through tunnel after tunnel, and over many bridges, through bursts of light and greenery followed by deep shadow, we came at last to the town of our destination.

It was an old, old town.  Its history went back to the Roman days--which were the times of the martyred saint, its patron.  Antoninus had brought Christianity to the Roman colony in this valley, and later he had been martyred in another place, Paniers, down in the foothills of the Pyrenees, near Prades, where I was born.  

So, Merton, as a young boy, comes full circle, returning to the place of his birth in France.  Merton's father seems to be on a journey himself--wrestling with his notions of religious faith.  So this little passage about travel is both literal and metaphorical, for both father and son.  There has been a void in Merton's life since the death of his mother.  A God-sized hole.  Merton's father is suffering from the same thing.

For the last couple of days, I've done some traveling myself, going from one place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to another and then back.  I've never been a fan of road trips.  Living in the U. P., however, you have to get used to them.  They become a necessity, for work, medical appointments, Christmas shopping, traveling Broadway performances, college educations, and the like.  There are just some things that are not readily available in this little shark-shaped piece of land surrounded by water.

During the week, I spend a lot of time on the road.  I live about 20 miles from the places where I mainly work--the university and the hospital.  So, during the course of a work week, I travel roughly around 40 miles a day.  I'm sure, for those who live closer to big cities like New York or Chicago, that commute seems like nothing.

I try to use my time in the car productively.  In the mornings, I pray a lot--for all the people in my life in need of some extra heavenly help.  (Saint Anthony is my go-to guy.  He has rarely let me down.)  In the afternoons, I listen to my favorite podcasts or an audio book--my recents include Normal People by Sally Rooney, A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles and When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi.  I don't like wasted time, and I tend to view the minutes/hours I spend in a car as empty time.  I need to fill that time

Metaphorically, I've been on a journey for the last year or so, and I'm not quite sure where I'm going to end up.  This little trip is sponsored by mental illness and addiction.  There have been a whole lot of valleys and tunnels, and not a whole lot of palm trees and margaritas this go 'round.  In fact, if I'm being completely honest, I started down this road quite a while ago--right around the time my daughter was born.

During this journey, God and I have had an off again/on again relationship.  Sometimes, we're barely on speaking terms.  Other times, He's all I got.  At the moment, tonight, as I sit here in my living room alone, I have to say that the God-sized hole in my life seems pretty large.  I've tried praying, and it hasn't helped.  It's one of those times when it feels as though God has taken His own little vacation away from me.  Saint John of the Cross called a moment like this a "dark night of the soul."

What do I do with this feeling of isolation and abandonment?  If I was Mother Teresa (who was afflicted with a dark night of the soul that lasted for decades), I would continue to care for the sick and dying in Calcutta, doing God's work.  That's what faith is all about--trusting that God is there even when it seems like he's on the other side of the universe.

So, this evening I look for signs of God.  I found Him in my son, who gave me a hug and kiss as I put him to bed, said, "I love you, Daddy."  I find Him in my puppy, Juno, who's sitting quietly in the room with me, every once in a while lifting her head from her pillow to make sure I'm still here.  And I will find Him, hopefully, when I climb into bed tonight and try to chase down sleep.  Maybe, God will grant me some rest of mind and heart and body.

Saint Marty is tired of this road, this journey.  He'd rather be at Disney World.

August 26: Thank You Very Much, Gratitude, I Am Loved

Arthur meets some mice . . .

"Let me introduce you," said Trillian.  "Arthur, this is Benjy mouse."

"Hi," said one of the mice.  His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky glasslike affair, and it moved forward slightly.

"And this is Frankie mouse."

 The other mouse said, "Pleased to meet you," and did likewise.  

Arthur gaped.

"But aren't they . . ."

"Yes," said Trillian, "they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth."

She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug.

"Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Mega-Donkey?" she said.

Slartibartfast coughed politely

"Er, excuse me," he said.

"Yes, thank you, Slartibartfast," said Benjy mouse sharply, "you may go."

"What?  Oh . . . er, very well," said the old man, slightly taken aback, "I'll just go and get on with some of my fjords then."

"Ah, well, in fact that won't be necessary," said Frankie mouse.  "It looks very much as if we won't be needing the new Earth any longer."  He swiveled his pink little eyes.  "Not now that we have found a native of the planet who was there seconds before it was destroyed."

"What?" cried Slartibartfast, aghast.  "You can't mean that!  I've got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!"

"Well, perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them," said Frankie acidly.

"Skiing holiday!" cried the old man.  "Those glaciers are works of art!  Elegantly sculpted contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines!  It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!"

"Thank you, Slartibartfast," said Benjy firmly.  "That will be all."

"Yes, sir," said the old man coldly, "thank you very much.  Well, goodbye, Earthman," he said to Arthur, "hope the life-style comes together."

There is false gratitude at the end of this passage.  The mice are trying to dismiss Slartibartfast with their "thank you," and Slartibartfast barely withholds his anger in his return "thank you."  There is no real sense of thankfulness in the exchange.  All three are friendly hostiles.  Or hostile friendlies.  Either way, the true intent of those two words in the above paragraphs is not meant to convey any sort of thanksgiving.

I have been quite remiss this month in blogging, having disappeared for days at a stretch.  August has been a particularly difficult month for me.  Please accept my apologies.  It's never my intent to be neglectful of the disciples of this blog, most of whom I know personally and count as friends.  This particular absence was filled with work and a new job (my fourth, if you count playing the pipe organ) and a funeral.

None of that, however, is my subject this evening.  My subject is gratitude.

Last night, at the Joy Center in Ishpeming, I was honored by a group of people (poets and friends) who have been aware of my struggles these past months.  They wanted to do something to help me and my family out.  So, they did what poets do.  They got together, read poems, held a raffle, collected love offerings, and showered me with grace.

Those of you who know me will be surprised to know that I don't really feel comfortable being the center of attention.  Yes, I love sharing my poems and writings.  Yes, if there's an open mic, I will show up, pages in my hands, and wait my turn.  And yes, almost every night I send these blog posts out into the world for people to read and (hopefully) appreciate.  That is all part of being a writer.

Yet, I am much more comfortable helping other people out, using my gifts and energies to make the universe better in some way.  My specific problems pale in comparison to a homeless, legless veteran wheeling himself to a warming center in the middle of winter.  I have not lost my home to a flood or hurricane or fire.  My children are healthy.  I have jobs that (most of the time) fill my cupboards and refrigerator with food.  By all accounts, I am one of the lucky ones.

Yet, even saints experience doubt and darkness.  Mother Teresa, for the last half century of her life, felt God's absence.  She wrote, "The place of God in my soul is blank--There is no God in me."  John of the Cross called this state the "dark night of the soul."  Feeling abandoned and lost.  Unloved.  In a small way, this is where I've been living for a while.

But my friends brought me light last night.  For those of you who were present, I was so humbled by all the hugs and laughter and words of love.  (I am going to be using the word "love" a lot in this post, so get used to it.)  Before the event began, I imagined just one or two people showing up.  It was one of those late August days filled with warmth, sunshine.  A last gasp of summer.  Who will come to a poetry reading tonight?, I thought to myself.

Then, car after car began pulling into the drive.  People kept coming through the door.  Good people.  Loving people.  People who inspire me all the time to be better than I am.  They hugged me over and over.  They read poems.  Told stories.  Ate cheese.  Laughed and cried.  

Above all, they reminded me that I am loved, something that I haven't felt for quite a while.  There is something sacred, I think, in being told that who you are, what you do, has made a difference in the world.  It felt like . . . prayer to me.  Like God had reached down and touched me through my friends (those who were there in body, and those who were there in spirit).  When I rose at the end of the evening to read my poems, my words seemed inadequate.  "Thank you" was not enough, will never be enough.

My struggles aren't over, but I have been gifted and graced with gratitude tonight.  

For those of you who don't believe in angels, let the scrutable Saint Marty assure you, they exist.

October 17: Numbness Descending, Dark Night of the Soul, Psalm 25, Confessions of Saint Marty

He went to church and prayed for guidance, begging God to bring forgiveness into his heart.  He would kneel before the creche, the crucifix, and wonder how and why all these things had happened.  At night he would dream of black threads twisting in the air and slipping into his body from afar.  Though he bowed his head and trembled at the funeral, though he spoke kindly with the priests and repeated to himself a thousand times that God was good and that the manifestations of evil that come to men are ultimately explicable in some divine way, His wisdom greater than what any of them would ever know, Ives felt a great numbness descending over him.

Yes, after his son's death, Ives really battles with God.  Ives doesn't reject God publicly, but, in his heart, he questions God's goodness.  It's what Saint John of the Cross called a dark night of the soul.  Ives feels abandoned, alone, as if God has somehow turned away.  God's back is the universe, and it's empty, devoid of happiness.

I have a friend right now who's experiencing a dark night.  He recently realized he was an addict and has been an addict for quite some time.  There are certain epiphanies in life that are easy.  I need to lose a few pounds--easy.  I think I may need bifocals--easy.  And then there are tough epiphanies.  I need to declare bankruptcy--tough.  I have cancer--tough.  I am an addict--tough.

My friend doesn't realize that he's already taken the most difficult step:  admitting that he has a problem.  Now that he's reached this point, as long as he remains honest with himself and his therapists/doctors, he is well on the way to becoming a recovering addict.

It won't be easy.  There's a great deal of shame and self-hatred that needs to be expunged from his emotional vocabulary.  He's at about 2 a.m. in his dark night of the soul.  It's going to get a little darker before sunrise.  Yet, I am proud of my friend.  He's a good person.  Loving.  Generous.  Spiritually connected.  He has the strength to overcome this obstacle.

Right now, he doesn't think that God will forgive him for his problem.  He thinks he's unlovable, unforgivable.  Of course, I know that my friend is wrong.  I know that God has already forgiven him for everything he's done.  That's the way He works.  My friend simply needs to lift himself up to God, and trust.  Through trust, God can do some pretty amazing things.

If you're reading this post and going through your own dark night of the soul, I want you to know that God has forgiven you.  He loves you.  And you need to trust in Him.

That's Saint Marty's wisdom for tonight.

Psalm 25

A Psalm of David

Unto thee, O LORD, do I lift up my soul.

2.  O my God, I trust in thee:  let me not be ashamed, let not mine enemies triumph over me.

3.  Yea, let none that wait on thee be ashamed:  let them be ashamed which transgress without cause.

4.  Show me thy ways, O LORD; teach me thy paths.

5.  Lead me in thy truth, and teach me:  for thou art the God of my salvation; on thee do I wait all the day.

6.  Remember, O LORD, thy tender mercies and thy lovingkindnesses; for they have been ever of old.

7.  Remember not the sins of my youth, nor my transgressions:  according to thy mercy remember thou me for thy goodness' sake, O LORD.

8.  Good and upright is the LORD:  therefore will he teach sinners in the way.

9.  The meek will he guide in judgement:  and the meek will he teach his way.

10.  All the paths of the LORD are mercy and truth unto such as keep his covenant and his testimonies.

11.  For thy name's sake, O LORD, pardon mine iniquity; for it is great.

12.  What man is he that feareth the LORD?  him shall he teach in the way that he shall choose.

13.  His soul shall dwell at ease:  and his seed shall inherit the earth.

14.  The secret of the LORD is with them that fear him; and he will show them his covenant.

15.  Mine eyes are ever toward the LORD; for he shall pluck my feet out of the net.

16.  Turn unto me, and have mercy upon me; for I am desolate and afflicted.

17.  The troubles of my heart are enlarged:  O bring thou me out of my distress.

18.  Look upon mine affliction and my pain; and forgive all my sins.

19.  Consider mine enemies; for they are many; and they hate me with cruel hatred.

20.  O keep my soul, and deliver me:  let me not be ashamed; for I put my trust in thee.

21.  Let integrity and uprightness preserve me; for I wait on thee.

22.  Redeem Israel, O God, out of all his troubles.

Confessions of Saint Marty

August 18: Terrible Darkness, Maggie Nelson, Divine Darkness, Adventures of Stickman

As they happily walked to the subway, they were looking forward to spending a lot of time together at home during the holiday, in the company of family and friends.  Ives and Annie had stopped to peer into a window display of French linen when, just like that, a terrible darkness entered them, and they could not move and stood looking at one another stupidly, on the crowded and busy sidewalk.

Yes, I have used this passage just recently.  It describes the moments before Annie and Ives learn that their son has been murdered.  The implication is that, at the instant that the "terrible darkness" enters them, Robert has passed into eternal life.  It hints at the enormity of the tragedy about to overtake their lives.  Annie and Ives have no idea what the darkness means, but it is powerfully sad, draining away their Christmas joy.

Darkness has always been used to describe moments of profound grief and loss and ignorance.  There's a reason why the Dark Ages was followed by the Age of Enlightenment.  The first period calls to mind a world full of suppression and rigidity, blind faith and blinder reason.  The second period, on the other hand, is the time of Bach and Mozart, Descartes and Voltaire.  Free thought and freer spirit.  Darkness= bad.  Enlightenment=good.

In the Biblical accounts, the birth of Christ is heralded by a immense star in the heavens.  Blinding angel choirs singing "Glory to God!"  Jesus is the bringer of light into a world of sin and darkness.  Again, darkness gets a metaphorical bad rap.

I'm not so sure that darkness is all that bad.  When the sun slips below the horizon, I am more at ease.  My day is over, and I'm able to relax, kick back, watch some mindless television.  For me, I am more myself in darkness.  Able to do what I want.  Read.  Write.  Nap.  Fart.  Whatever.  Darkness is a gift.

Maggie Nelson talks about Divine Darkness in Bluets.  Her description of darkness is comforting.  It's a state beyond sun and seeing, beyond knowledge and wisdom.  It's a place where trust exists.  And faith.  There is something in Divine Darkness that transcends comprehension.  I think that you can either fight it--and go through a "dark night of the soul"--or throw yourself into it--take that leap into God's open palm.

I know that's way too deep for a Tuesday night.  But that's what I'm thinking about.  Comforting darkness.

Saint Marty is going to go see his sister now.  Pray for her.  Let her know that she doesn't need to be afraid of the dark.

159 from Bluets

by:  Maggie Nelson

A good many have figured God as light, but a good many have also figured him as darkness.  Dionysius the Areopagite, a Syrian monk whose work and identity are themselves shrouded in obscurity, would seem to be one of the first serious Christian advocates of the idea of a "Divine Darkness."  The idea is a complicated one, as the burden falls to us to differentiate this Divine Darkness from other kinds of darknesses--that of a "dark night of the soul," the darkness of sin, and so on.  "We pray that we may come unto this Darkness which is beyond light, and, without seeing and without knowing, to see and to know that which is above vision and knowledge through the realization that by not-seeing and unknowing we attain to true vision and knowledge," Dionysius wrote, as if clarifying the matter.

Adventures of STICKMAN

August 11: Saint Clare

I'm having one of those days when I don't find a whole lot to be happy about.  I've known it was coming.  I've been in a good mood for quite some time now.  One of my friends, after reading my last few posts, said to me, "Those are really nice.  What's up with that?"  Last night, I felt the tide shifting.  I spent the evening sitting in my living room in the dark, watching the season finale of Hell's Kitchen.  Seeing people verbally assaulted on television usually improves my mood.  It didn't help.

There are reasons for my change in attitude.  An accumulation of reasons.  The end of summer and the impending start of a new teaching semester.  My daughter starting fourth grade in a few weeks.  Twenty or so pounds I need to lose.  Sarah Palin still in the news.  And other things.  Put them all together, and I'm in one of those states that doesn't quite qualify as a dark night of the soul, as John of the Cross called it.  More like a cloudy-with-a-chance-of-brussel-sprouts evening of the soul.  Just enough to push me to the edge.

I hate getting like this.  It's not really full-blown depression.  I guess, if you had to use a clinical term, it could be called situational depression, which doesn't sound too bad.  To me, situational depression seems to imply that all you have to do to correct the problem is change the channel on the TV, watch a few reruns of Gilligan's Island or The Brady Bunch (especially the one where Marcia gets hit in the nose with the football).  Simple.  Problem solved. 

Not quite.

The good thing about this kind of mood is that it doesn't require hospitalization or medication.  Usually.  In the past, my way of coping involved River Phoenix movies and a trip through Catcher in the Rye.  Maybe some wine coolers.  I haven't resorted to those antidotes yet, and, at my stage in life, I'd probably want to slap the shit out of Holden anyway.  So, I have to come up with some other coping mechanisms.  Hopefully, they won't involve the abuse of chocolate, caffeine, or prescription drugs.  I can't guarantee it, though.  I have a serious weakness for Cosmic Brownies and Twix bars.

I know I'm in good company when it comes to suffering these bouts of soul dusk.  I've written in a previous post about Mother Teresa's letters in which she talks about the "dryness," "darkness," "loneliness," and "torture" of her life.  She discusses the alienation she feels from God, as if she's been ignored or forgotten.  She wrote to a spiritual adviser, "...as for me, the silence and emptiness is so great, that I look and do not see, --Listen and do not hear--the tongue moves [in prayer] but does not speak..."  I'd like to think that, for people like Mother Teresa and Clare, today's patron saint, there's a kind of lighthouse of hope that lets them always see through the dark times.  Clare, who was a contemporary of Francis of Assisi, established a religious order that embraced poverty and the care of the needy, sick, and outcast.  Faced with daily evidence of cruelty and neglect, I'm sure Clare, like Teresa, experienced periods of drought, when God seemed as distant as Pluto or Jupiter (the planets, not the gods).  Teresa lived for years in this empty space, smiling her usual smile in public, groping through darkness in private.

Clare and Teresa made it through, obviously. One's a saint and one's on her way to sainthood. And they did it without the aid of Ativan or Gilligan's Island.  Even if I'm having a shitty day/week/month, as long as I have something to look forward to, something to hope for, I can make it through.  When that hope dims or disappears around a bend in the road, I find myself in the state I'm in right now--contemplating a Cosmic Brownie binge.  I'll make it through this funk, however.  I know this.  I just have to rediscover hope.

In the mean time, I'm hitting the chocolate drawer at work.  Kit Kats and PayDays.