June 16: Father was Dead, the Lady or the Tiger, Difficult Choices

Thomas Merton learns that in the midst of life . . .

In the Christmas holidays I only saw him once or twice.  Things were about the same.  I spent most of the holidays in Strasbourg, where Tom had arranged for me to go for the sake of the languages:  German and French.  I stayed in a big Protestant pension in the Rue Finkmatt, and was under the unofficial tutelage of a professor at the University, a friend of Tom's family and of the Protestant patriarch.

Professor Hering was a kind and pleasant man with a red beard, and one of the few Protestants I have ever met who struck one as being at all holy:  that is, he possessed a certain profound interior peace, which he probably got from his contact with the Fathers of the Church, for he was a teacher of theology.  We did not talk much about religion, however.  Once when some students were visiting him, one of them explained to me the essentials of Unitarianism, and when I asked the professor about it afterwards, he said it was all right, in a way which indicated that he approved, in a sort of academic and eclectic way, of all these different forms of belief:  or rather that he was interested in them as objectively intriguing manifestations of a fundamental human instinct, regarding them more or less through the eyes of a sociologist.  As a matter of fact, sometimes Protestant theology does, in certain circumstances, amount to little more than a combination of sociology and religious history, but I will not accuse him of teaching it altogether in that sense, for I really have no idea how he taught it.

Under the inspiration of the environment, I went to a Lutheran church and sat through a long sermon in German which I did not understand.  But I think that was all the worship of God I did in Strasbourg.  I was more interested in Josephine Baker, a big skinny colored girl from some American city like St. Louis, who came to one of the theaters and sang Fai deux amours, mon pays et Paris.

So I went back to school, after seeing Father for a moment on the way through London.  I had been back for barely a week when I was summoned, one morning, to the Headmaster's study, and he gave me a telegram which said that Father was dead.

Merton, being a teenage boy, is too self-absorbed in his own life to be really attentive to his father's declining health.  For Merton, it's all about being in a new place, surrounded by German and French speakers, and being exposed to new ideas and experiences.  Unitarianism.  Lutheran worship.  Josephine Baker.  Merton is too busy living while his father is dying.  And then the telegram arrives.

It's so easy to ignore suffering and death, especially when surrounded by all the stimulation of day-to-day existence.  Music.  Dance.  Sex.  Religion.  Learning.  Art.  And perhaps that's the point of this passage from The Seven-Storey Mountain:  if you don't pay attention, you will miss the truly important experiences--and you will be filled with regret.

I've noticed an alarming shift in the people I encounter every day.  Two months ago, everyone was wearing masks, staying six-feet apart, avoiding unnecessary trips to crowded places like stores and gas stations.  A person without a mask in public was suspect, flagrantly violating rules that were in place to suppress the spread of Covid-19.  Everyone was very aware of the suffering and death present in the world.

Now, people walk around with masks pulled down below their chins, exposing their noses and mouths.  That's if they wear masks at all.  Patrons congregate outside of bars, smoking cigarettes.  Beaches are crowded.  Restaurants are open.  Churches are filled with singing parishioners.  It's as if there's some kind of collective amnesia taking place.  Covid-19 has faded into memory, replaced by the urge to "return to normal."  Or people are simply being willfully ignorant.

Yet, in the United States, 23 of the 50 states are experiencing a rise in coronavirus cases.  That's nearly half of the country.  The health of the nation is taking a backseat to the economy of the nation.  And I understand that need.  Small businesses are hurting.  Unemployment is at historic levels.  Yet, citizens are still getting sick and dying.  It truly is a "The Lady, or the Tiger?" scenario. 

Most of you probably remember that short story by Frank R. Stockton from high school.  A young princess falls in love with a youth of lower standing.  Her father, the king, finds out about the relationship and has the youth arrested.  The king sets up a public trial for the youth.  The youth is placed in an arena containing two doors.  Behind one door is a beautiful maiden.  Behind the other is a hungry, ferocious tiger.  If the youth chooses the door with the maiden, he is set free and marries the maiden.  If he chooses the door with the tiger, he is devoured by the tiger.  Before the trial, the king's daughter finds out what is behind each of the doors.  She has the power to save her love from death, but then she must also lose him forever to another woman.  The princess also finds out that the woman behind the door is a rival for her love's affections.  At the conclusion of the story, the youth stands before the two doors and looks up at the princess.  The princess discretely indicates the door on the right, and the youth opens the door.  However, we never find out what is behind the door.  Stockton simply ends:  "And so I leave it with all of you:  Which came out of the opened door--the lady, or the tiger?"

That is where we are right now--choosing between the lady or the tiger.  Both options are equally problematic.  Most people in the Upper Peninsula have been untouched by Covid in any way.  It's some distant, below-the-bridge issue.  I've actually heard a person comment that "it's a Detroit problem."  (I won't even get into the inherent racism of that observation.)  I guess, until Covid becomes something personal, it remains the lady (or tiger) behind the door.

I wrote last night of the death of my uncle, a decent and loving man.  He didn't die of the virus.  Yet, because of the virus, there will be no funeral.  Instead, a memorial service is going to be held at a later time, "after this Covid shit is done," as my sister said.  A difficult moment made even more so because of the pandemic.  Mourning and saying goodbye postponed indefinitely.

Covid-19 and its accompanying issues are complicated.  Lots of doors to contemplate opening.  For me, the choice is to wear a mask, socially distance, avoid crowded events and places.  Is that the lady?  Or the tiger?  I'm not sure.  Only time will provide the answer to that question.

Tonight, Saint Marty is thankful for this simple miracle:  a cool pillow and a good night's sleep.  No tiger.  No virus.  No door.  Just rest.

June 15: Fork in the Road, Difficult Choices, Speckled and Twining

I don't want to cut this too short.  Let me pull the camera back and look at that fork in the road from a distance, in the larger context of the speckled and twining world.  It could be that the fork will disappear,. or that I will see it to be but one of many interstices in a network, so that it is impossible to say which line is the main part and which is the fork.

Dillard is talking about choices, those times in life when you stand at a crossroads.  Now, we all know what Robert Frost did when he faced a fork in the road:  he took the road less traveled. Dillard, on the other hand, takes several steps back, to try to get a wider view of her situation.  Instead of a crossroads, she sees a network.  Everything connected to everything else.

Choices are not easy.  Especially choices that have profound repercussions.  Recently, I changed jobs.  Even though I was returning to a job that I knew well (I'd done it for close to 17 years), I was still unsure about my decision.  Like Dillard, I wish I'd had the ability to step back to see the wider picture.  Instead, I just saw that less traveled road, full of rocks and leaves and skittering mice.

Now, after I've made my choice and walked down that road for a little while, I know that I made the right decision.  I'm happier.  Less stressed.  Since I started, I haven't had a bad day.  I've had busy days, but nothing that made me want to go home and open my liquor cabinet.  I stood down my fears, and I'm in a better situation because of it.

I don't want to get all philosophical here.  Not gonna give a lecture on difficult choices and roads.  If I had the choice to go back in time and somehow change all of the painful moments in my life, I would.  Difficult life experiences just plain suck.  Deaths of loved ones.  Marital strife.  Addictions.  I don't think any of my disciples reading this post would argue that these things are enriching or necessary.

However, the shitty times in my life have given me some perspective.  I appreciate my wife and kids more because, at one point, my family was on the road to being not a family.  When one of my siblings piss me off, I forgive a little easier, because loss may be just around the bend.  I am a stronger, better person because of these challenges I have faced.

So, there will always be forks in the road, choices to make, hurdles to overcome.  That's life.  As Dillard says, it's a speckled and twining world.

Saint Marty hopes there aren't too many forks in his near future, unless they are coupled with cheesecake.

July 20: "Ives" Dip, Unfeeling Bastard, Poet of the Week, Siv Cedering, "In the Planetarium"

I'm going to change things up a little bit tonight.  I'm going to start with the Poet of the Week.  This time, I've chosen a poet I met about ten years ago when she gave a reading at the university.  Her name is Siv Cedering.  I should say "was."  Siv died eight years ago, at the age of 68.  Siv was born in Sweden.  An accomplished poet and novelist, she also won awards for her screenplays.  The screen adaptation of her novel Oxen won an Oscar for Best Foreign Language Film.

Siv was a fantastic writer and a very gracious woman.  She is now Saint Marty's Poet of the Week.

In the Planetarium

by:  Siv Cedering

And I lean back into the chair
as my mother must have
leaned back under the space
of my father's body.
A small light, a comet
approaches the sun.
My father's seed
approaches
my mother's.  A soft laugh,
and I begin

to inhabit the space that grows
to hold me.  Cells divide,
atoms spin
solar systems around me.
The comet's tail
is blown away from the sun.
My tail shrinks
in my mother's sea.
I grow fingers, toes.  The arm
of the galaxy
will hold me

When I leave one space
for another
space.

This poem makes me think of my parents.  They raised nine kids.  Made tons of sacrifices, every day of their lives.  One of my sisters has Down Syndrome.  I nearly died when I was thirteen and I lapsed into a diabetic coma with a blood glucose of close to 1000; I was in that coma for two or three days.  My brother had a stroke about five or six years ago; he died last year.  And, of course, right now, another of my sisters is battling lymphoma of the brain.  My parents have been through a lot.

I talked to a really smart friend this afternoon about my sister's illness.  I told my friend how I'm so conflicted in my feelings.  I want my sister to get well and come home, but I don't want my sister to live a life of continuing diminishment.  A few years ago, my sister brought me into her office at work.  She asked me to sign an Advanced Directive, named me as her advocate.  In the time we worked together, my sister and I talked about our wishes in the event of life-limiting circumstances.  My sister never wanted any kind of extraordinary measures used to sustain her life.

My friend asked me how I felt about my sister's current treatment.  I told her that, if the chemo is successful, one of the blessings would be that my parents wouldn't have to bury another child in their lifetimes.  That would be grace for my parents.  However, I'm not a believer in trying to keep someone alive by any means necessary, which is what most doctors try to do.  If treatment itself makes my sister's life an exercise in misery, I don't think my sister would want that.  My sister's life is going to be shortened by this illness.  I want my sister to have a life of dignity, no matter how long she lives.

I'm trying to put myself in my parents' shoes.  If my daughter was ill, I would want the doctors to do everything in their powers to save her.  That's the truth.  Maybe that's why my sister talked to me about her wishes, because she knew my parents wouldn't be able to make the hard decisions.  I just hope my other siblings are able to make those difficult choices, if need be.

My question this Ives dip Monday is this:

Am I a horrible person for having these thoughts?

And the answer from Edward Ives:

And then Ives blinked and found himself standing on the sidewalk beside his wife, across the street from the Church of the Ascension.  On the pavement, just by his feet, was a large piece of canvas, and under it a body, stretched out.  Then the officer lifted off the canvas and shined a flashlight onto the face to reveal the shocked and bewildered expressions of his son.

That's it.  Saint Marty is going to die and go to hell for being a cold, unfeeling bastard.

Speaking of cold, unfeeling bastards...