March 22-25: Simple Way of Wiping Out Sins, Giving Thanks, Darkness and Light

Merton in Cuba . . . 

There was a partial natural explanation for this. I was learning a thing that could not be completely learned except in a culture that is at least outwardly Catholic. One needs the atmosphere of French or Spanish or Italian Catholicism before there is any possibility of a complete and total experience of all the natural and sensible joys that overflow from the Sacramental life. 

But here, at every turn, I found my way into great, cool, dark churches, some of them with splendid altars shining with carven retables or rich with mahogany and silver: and wonderful red gardens of flame flowered before the saints or the Blessed Sacrament. 

Here in niches were those lovely, dressed-up images, those little carved Virgins full of miracle and pathos and clad in silks and black velvet, throned above the high altars. Here, in side chapels, were those pietas fraught with fierce, Spanish drama, with thorns and nails whose very sight pierced the mind and heart, and all around the church were many altars to white and black saints: and everywhere were Cubans in prayer, for it is not true that the Cubans neglect their religion—or not as true as Americans complacently think, basing their judgements on the lives of the rich, sallow young men who come north from the island and spend their days in arduous gambling in the dormitories of Jesuit colleges. 

But I was living like a prince in that island, like a spiritual millionaire. Every morning, getting up about seven or half-past, and walking out into the warm sunny street, I could find my way quickly to any one of a dozen churches, new churches or as old as the seventeenth century. Almost as soon as I went in the door I could receive Communion, if I wished, for the priest came out with a ciborium loaded with Hosts before Mass and during it and after it—and every fifteen or twenty minutes a new Mass was starting at a different altar. These were the churches of the religious Orders— Carmelites, Franciscans, the American Augustinians at El Santo Cristo, or the Fathers of Mercy—everywhere I turned, there was someone ready to feed me with the infinite strength of the Christ Who loved me, and Who was beginning to show me with an immense and subtle and generous lavishness how much He loved me.

And there were a thousand things to do, a thousand ways of easily making a thanksgiving: everything lent itself to Communion: I could hear another Mass, I could say the Rosary, do the Stations of the Cross, or if I just knelt where I was, everywhere I turned my eyes I saw saints in wood or plaster or those who seemed to be saints in flesh and blood—and even those who were probably not saints, were new enough and picturesque enough to stimulate my mind with many meanings and my heart with prayers. And as I left the church there was no lack of beggars to give me the opportunity of almsgiving, which is an easy and simple way of wiping out sins. 

I love stories about people waking up to the holiness within them and around them.  That's what is going on here with young Merton.  He is unaccountably happy and at peace, and that state doesn't come from money or fame or chocolate or power.  Nope.  It comes from, as Merton says, making a thanksgiving.  Being grateful for all the gifts and graces in his life.  

I think that everyone would be a lot happier if they simply gave thanks more.  If you wake up in the morning and--instead of thinking "I can't face this day!"--say out loud, "thank you for this day!" . . . Well, I think your day is going to be a whole lot better.  Gratitude does that--changes you.  It's like Communion in a way.  You're giving thanks for the table that's been set for you.

Some days, I can perform this little act of praise.  It's simple and easy.  Other days, however, I struggle to muster this attitude of gratitude.  I know that my life is deeply blessed.  With kids, family, friends.  A job that allows me to talk to poets and musicians and writers.  Students that challenge me to think in new and exciting ways.  A home.  Food in the fridge.  A puppy that is, quite simply, the cutest puppy that has ever existed.  My blessings are pretty plentiful.  And most days, I'm able to recognize that and give thanks.

Yet, there are also days when darkness sort of overtakes me, and I focus instead on the empty chairs at the Communion table.  Poverty instead of plenty.  Today was one of those days.  I've been teaching the gothic vampire novella Carmilla in my writing class these last couple weeks, and I've sort of felt like there's been some kind of darkness following me since I woke up this morning.  I keep looking over my shoulder, expecting to see some shadow disappearing around the corner.

No, I'm not having a psychotic break.  I'm just noticing the spaces in my life that used to be full.  That's all.  The dark places that used to be filled with light.  There's an essential truth to recognize here, and I've said it before:  you cannot have light without darkness.  And, conversely, you can't have darkness without light.  That's the way life works.

So, this evening, I have to give thanks for the darkness in my life.  Because it reminds me that light is on the way.  In a week, we'll be celebrating Good Friday.  Three days in the tomb.  And then, Easter morning.  Death into resurrection.

Saint Marty gives thanks this evening--for his whole messy life.

November 24: Mark Doty, "Messiah (Christmas Portions)," Darkness and Light

Messiah (Christmas Portions)

by:  Mark Doty

A little heat caught

in gleaming rags,

in shrouds of veil,

   torn and sun-shot swaddlings:

   over the Methodist roof,

two clouds propose a Zion

of their own, blazing

   (colors of tarnish on copper)

   against the steely close

of a coastal afternoon, December,

while under the steeple

   the Choral Society

   prepares to perform

Messiah, pouring, in their best

blacks and whites, onto the raked stage.

   Not steep, really,

   but from here,

the first pew, they’re a looming

cloudbank of familiar angels:

   that neighbor who

   fights operatically

with her girlfriend, for one,

and the friendly bearded clerk

   from the post office

   —tenor trapped

in the body of a baritone? Altos

from the A&P, soprano

   from the T-shirt shop:

   today they’re all poise,

costume and purpose

conveying the right note

   of distance and formality.

   Silence in the hall,

anticipatory, as if we’re all

about to open a gift we’re not sure

   we’ll like;

   how could they

compete with sunset’s burnished

oratorio? Thoughts which vanish,

   when the violins begin.

   Who’d have thought

they’d be so good? Every valley,

proclaims the solo tenor,

   (a sleek blonde

   I’ve seen somewhere before

—the liquor store?) shall be exalted,

and in his handsome mouth the word

   is lifted and opened

   into more syllables

than we could count, central ah

dilated in a baroque melisma,

   liquefied; the pour

   of voice seems

to make the unplaned landscape

the text predicts the Lord

   will heighten and tame.

   This music

demonstrates what it claims:

glory shall be revealed. If art’s

   acceptable evidence,

   mustn’t what lies

behind the world be at least

as beautiful as the human voice?

   The tenors lack confidence,

   and the soloists,

half of them anyway, don’t

have the strength to found

   the mighty kingdoms

   these passages propose

—but the chorus, all together,

equals my burning clouds,

   and seems itself to burn,

   commingled powers

deeded to a larger, centering claim.

These aren’t anyone we know;

   choiring dissolves

   familiarity in an up-

pouring rush which will not

rest, will not, for a moment,

   be still.

____________________________________

Trying to fill myself with some Christmas spirit through poetry.  Those of my disciples who know me personally may be surprised to know that I sometimes struggle with keeping the holidays in my heart.  I love the music and decorations and movies and all, but there is something about this time of year that also calls me to darkness.

Of course, that isn't unusual for this time of year.  The world is tilting toward night right now.  Winter solstice is coming.  Darkness battles with light in my heart.  I've been climbing out of a hole since the beginning of September, and, while I'm much better than I was a couple months ago, I still have daily moments of struggle.

Things that lift me up:  my wife and kids, my family, poetry, friends, old movies, and music.  Hence, today's poem from Mark Doty.  Music always has the ability to transport and transform darkness into light for me.

Sing with Saint Marty, "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine . . ."

August 27: Christian Wiman, "Darkness Starts," Superior Breaths

Darkness Starts

by:  Christian Wiman

A shadow in the shape of a house

slides out of a house

and loses its shape on the lawn.

Trees seek each other

as the wind within them dies.

Darkness starts inside of things

but keeps on going when the things are gone.

Barefoot careless in the farthest parts of the yard

children become their cries.

__________________________

A poem for tonight about darkness and light.

I am happy to report that I survived what I thought was going to be a very dark day.  I was even able to laugh a little bit.  See the sun instead of the clouds.  Breathe some big Superior breaths, as a friend advised me to do.

Saint Marty is still breathing.

January 1: Annie Dillard, "Pilgrim at Tinker Creek," Partly Cloudies, Edged in Gold

Today is one of those excellent January partly cloudies in which light chooses an unexpected part of the landscape to trick out in gilt, and then shadow sweeps it away.  You know you're alive.  You take huge steps, trying to feel the planet's roundness arc between your feet.  Kazantzakis says that when he was young he had a canary and a globe.  When he freed the canary, it would perch on the globe and sing.  All his life, wandering the earth, he felt as though he had a canary on top of his mind, singing.

Welcome to Tinker Creek.  This year's book will be Annie Dillard's Pilgrim at Tinker Creek.  It's a book that I read on my honeymoon in Hawaii, on the plane, in hotel rooms, on a beach overlooking a coral cove.  It was a time of hopes and expectations.  The whole world open and fresh, like a fresh-cut lawn or the Pacific Ocean.

I chose Pilgrim because it's a book full of beauty and light.  All kinds of light.  Like the January partly cloudy Dillard describes above.  And I want a year of beauty and light.  There has been too much darkness in my life in the last couple of years.  As I sit here, typing this post, I'm looking out a window.  The sun is setting on the first day of 2016.  The branches of the trees are edged in gold.  That's the kind of year I'm hoping for.  A year edged in gold.

Now, I know it's a fool's dream to hope for an entire year of blessings and goodness.  Life has a way of circumventing those kinds of ambitions.  I will experience hardship in the next 365 days.  Sadness and worry.  The world is a broken place, and brokenness has a way of asserting itself.  But so does light.  Light seeps in through the cracks of a dark room.  Around the window shades.  Under closed doors.  Where there is darkness, there is also light.

So, I am going to be a pilgrim at Tinker Creek, along with Annie Dillard.  You can join us.  The writing is stunning, seeped with spirituality and poetry.  I guarantee you will be inspired.  Taken by surprise.  The world is full of strange creations, things that make you believe in everyday miracles.

As this day draws to a close, I am . . . content.  I guess that's the best word I can come up with.  I'm satisfied.  This evening, I will go home, spend the night reading and watching my daughter and her friend pretend they're just friends.  I could clean my bathroom and straighten up my living room.  But I'm tired.  I want a night of rest.  Of nothing.

Saint Marty just wants to listen to the canary on the top of his head.  It's singing, "This little light of mine..."

Thoughts on New Year's Resolutions

 

November 18: Why Me, Darkness and Light, Two Haiku, Buson, Off the Top of My Head

But for all that, there hummed through his body a sorrow and loneliness that took him back to his son's death.  The very thought made him dig into his own skin, deep scratches further enflaming his condition of old:  cutting himself and bloody and restless turning all night, an impossible itchiness--"un picazon" he told Ramirez--hives ravaging his knee and arm joints, bumps formed under his arms.  He knew it was really bad when welts rose on his back and blotches appeared floating like large measle dots on his face, a depressing state, because he felt like a leper, not wanting to touch or be touched, and he would twist and turn and ask, "Why me?" and "Why is it going on and on?"

For decades, Ives tortures himself like this.  He can't let go of his sadness and grief.  If he tries to be happy, he feels guilty, and the guilt manifests as scratches and oozing sores on his body.  Every day is a punishment for Ives.  At night, one question swoops through the air above him like a fruit bat--"Why?"  Ives wants to understand the reason behind his son's death and his own unending sorrow.

I have been in a quiet state of sorrow myself for the past three months.  I try not to let it overwhelm me.  It's difficult some days.  Driving to work in the morning this past week, I've been listening to a radio station that has been playing just Christmas music.  Bing Crosby.  The Carpenters.  Johnny Mathis.  Every morning, I've cried.  I'm not sure if it's the early hour, the music, or my tired state of mind.  By the time I get to the medical office, I'm a mess. I have to sit in my car for a few minutes just to pull myself together.

I don't think I'm as bad as Ives.  I don't brood or avoid happy occasions, and I haven't stopped participating in any of my normal activities.  In fact, I'm currently planning a Christmas concert to benefit a local homeless shelter.  I am able to function.  Yet, sometimes, when I'm alone, there's a sadness that descends upon me.  It's palpable, like putting on a wet bathing suit.

I know that grief is a process.  I simply can't wake up one morning and say, "Okay, I'm done with being sad.  Time to move on."  It just doesn't work that way.  And I'm getting better.  There are whole days where I don't experience that clinging sadness.  I am very thankful for days like that.  Other days are more challenging.  And I am thankful for days like that, too, because they remind me to cherish my blessings--my family, home, jobs.

You can't have light without darkness.  That's just the way the universe works.  The darkness defines the light.  Therefore, Saint Marty is thankful for the darkness.

Two Haiku

by:  Buson

     Calligraphy of geese
against the sky--
     the moon seals it.


     It cried three times,
the deer,
     then silence.

Off the Top of My Head

January 8: Put It Behind You, Strength of Love, Marriage

[Ives and his wife] moved downtown from Claremont Avenue some ten years before, in '84, after their apartment had been burglarized and because Annie though the change would do her husband good.  His stubborn inability to stop mourning their son, to keep his sorrow hidden from others but to let it flourish around her, had tempted Annie to leave him several times over the years.  But she loved him too much.  Again and again, she told him, "You have to put it behind you, my love," but as the years passed, nearly thirty of them, with their thousands of days and hundreds of thousands of hours, he still could not get a certain image out of his head:  his righteous and good son, stretched out on the sidewalk, eyes glazed and looking upward, suddenly aware and saddened that his physical life was ending, that image coming to Ives again and again.

Edward and Annie's marriage is tested in Mr. Ives' Christmas.  Ives simply cannot stop mourning.  For three decades, he keeps reliving the loss of his son.  Every day.  Every hour.  Ives is angry and sad and confused.  He does a good job of hiding these feelings from everybody but his wife, who bears the heavy burden of her husband's profound sorrow.  She contemplates leaving him, but she can't.  She loves him too much.

Many aspects of this novel move me.  However, the depth of love between Ives and Annie moves me the most deeply.  It's a love that has to endure great loss (the death of a child).  Yet it endures.  Because that's the power of love, full of sacrifice and struggle and hope.

Yes, I'm going to get a little sentimental in this post.  My marriage has endured a lot of hardships.  At one point, it even seemed as though it simply wasn't going to survive.  My wife was living in another town, a hundred miles distant.  I was raising our daughter by myself, with a lot of help from my family and my wife's family.  It was one of the darkest times of my life.  Some days, I would drag myself out of bed in the morning, drag myself through my work day, and then drag myself home.  It was like moving in slow motion every second.  And every second was a little painful.


But I didn't give up.  I took care of my daughter, and I tried to act with love and understanding toward my spouse (I didn't always succeed).  It wasn't easy.  But marriage isn't always easy.  It takes work and compassion and compromise.  This coming October, my wife and I will celebrate our twentieth anniversary.  Twenty years.  We have two beautiful children who know that they are loved and cherished.  We have a home.  And we have each other.  That's love.  Through the darkness and the light.  Annie Ives knows this.

Saint Marty knows it, too.

Someone who knew a great deal about love