January 23: Cause of Wars, Self-Loathing, War on Myself

Merton figures out the cause of war . . . 

The night before being New Year’s Eve, we had had a party in the house of Seymour’s mother-in-law, who was a doctor, in Long Beach. It had been a mixed-up, desultory affair, in which we remained in a place that served as the doctor’s waiting-room, sitting on the floor, playing different kinds of drums and drinking I forget what. But whatever it was we drank it put me in a bad temper. 

The only person in the place not more or less fed up with everything was Bramachari, who had taken his turban off and sat in a chair and did not mind the noise. Later on, however, John Slate, who was also in a bad mood, having had a tooth torn out of his head, tried to tie me up in Bramachari’s turban so the monk quietly went home—that is, to Seymour’s house—and slept. 

Later on, I threw a can of pineapple juice at a street light and also went to bed. I was sleeping in the same room with Bramachari, and consequently when it began to get light, he sat up and started chanting his morning prayers and I woke up. Since I could not get back to sleep even when his prayers trailed off into contemplation, I was going to an earlier Mass than I had expected. But it was a good thing. As usual, I found out that the only good thing about such days, or any other days, was Mass. 

What a strange thing that I did not see how much that meant, and come at last to the realization that it was God alone I was supposed to live for, God that was supposed to be the center of my life and of all that I did. 

It was to take me nearly a year to untangle that truth from all my disorganized and futile desires: and sometimes it seems to me that the hangovers I had while I was finding it out had something to do with what was going on in the history of the world. 

For that was to be 1939, the year when the war that everybody had been fearing finally began to teach us with its inexorable logic that the dread of war is not enough. If you don’t want the effect, do something to remove the causes. There is no use loving the cause and fearing the effect and being surprised when the effect inevitably follows the cause. 

By this time, I should have acquired enough sense to realize that the cause of wars is sin. If I had accepted the gift of sanctity that had been put in my hands when I stood by the font in November 1938, what might have happened in the world? People have no idea what one saint can do: for sanctity is stronger than the whole of hell. The saints are full of Christ in the plenitude of His Kingly and Divine power: and they are conscious of it, and they give themselves to Him, that He may exercise His power through their smallest and seemingly most insignificant acts, for the salvation of the world. 

But the world did not get very much of that out of me. 

The cause of war is sin.  I could agree with that, depending on how you define sin.  Certainly, war is a direct result of one group of people dehumanizing another group of people.  You can only think of exterminating a large population of individuals if those individuals are seen as less than human.  That's how Adolf Hitler did it.  George W. Bush did it in Iraq.  Donald Trump did it in the United States with illegal immigrants and LGTBQ citizens and any person who disagreed with him.  Democrats.  Scientists.  Journalists.  Anyone who told the truth.

I'm not talking about Donald Trump here, though.  Or Adolf Hitler or George W. Bush.  People declare war on things and people every day, because people sin every day.  I know I do.  Get angry.  Disappoint.  Fail.  That's the nature of being human.  We are all flawed creatures, and we take those flaws out on each other.

Went to work at the library this morning.  Four hours laboring away on a $20,000 government grant.  I made quite a bit of headway.  However, it wasn't enough.  I failed meeting the goal I set for myself.  If this sounds like I'm declaring war on myself, I guess I am.  Self-loathing comes pretty naturally to me.

I played the pipe organ for Mass this evening.  Screwed up one of the songs.  More self-loathing.  Ate too much pizza for dinner.  Thinking about going to the fridge and eating another piece right now.  Self-loathing again.  Didn't grade any student diagnostic writings.  Staying up way too late.  Got angry with God over my sister Rose's health struggles.  Self-loathing all 'round.

Of course, declaring war on yourself all day long is not very healthy.  It leads to exhaustion and, at the same time, insomnia.  That's pretty much where I am right now.  I've tried watching movies.  Reading books I love.  Reading books I hate.  Staring at my Christmas tree.  (Yes, I still have my Christmas tree up.  Don't judge me.)  And sitting in darkness.

Every time I close my eyes, I start thinking of my sister, Rose, in the hospital.  Or all the things I have to do tomorrow.  Anticipating how I will fail yet again.  This is my state of mind these days.  There are some other personal struggles that contribute to this, as well.  Things that weigh on me.

Of course, this war is of my own making, as most wars are.  This sleeplessness is due to my own obsessions.  I need to declare an armistice.  Sign a Treaty of Acceptance.  To forgive my shortcomings.  Be kinder to myself.  Know that I love and am loved.  Place my sister, Rose, in God's hands.

That is how I will sleep tonight.  Repeating those statements.  A mantra.  Lullaby.  Prayer.

Saint Marty is far from perfect. You all know that.  It's in imperfection that grace enters in.

April 6: Phrase I've Heard A Lot, Mantra, "Something Better"

I've been thinking a lot about something betters.  That's a phrase I've heard a lot these last couple weeks.  A friend told me last night, "There's something better coming for you."

It has become my mantra, a phrase I repeat over and over to myself during the course of the day.  Something better.  Something better.  Something better.  I'm starting to believe it, but it's hard work.

So, say it with Saint Marty:  something better, something better, somethingbetter, somethingbettersomethingbettersomethingbettersomething . . .

Something Better

by:  Martin Achatz 

I want something better for my kids,
The way all parents want their offspring
To attend college, law or medical
School.  Do something extraordinary.
We scrub toilets, paint walls, deep-fry potatoes
For thirty or forty years, put everything
On hold until we're sure our daughters
Can study veterinary medicine, our sons
Learn to x-ray broken vertebrae, tibias,
Clavicles.  My uncle drove to the GM plant
For over thirty-five years before he received
His pension, then began to paint oil landscapes
Of places he’d dreamed about in rush hour
Traffic on I-75, places full of waves,
Evergreens the color of Chinese jade,
Places he knew he'd never see,
All so his daughter could study,
Become an engineer at Ford.
I don’t want my children to teach
College English part-time, work
Eleven-hour days in an office,
Scribble poems on napkins, lunch bags,
Margins of graded essays, dreaming
Always of a time when those words,
Cut and polished and set in lines of gold,
Will buy vacations to Stockholm or Rome,
Ballet lessons and birthday parties
In hot air balloons.  I want my kids
To know a life better than mine,
Even if it means I eat bologna
With cheese every day, pretending
My cut of lunchmeat is somehow
Superior to the one my father ate
At work for over fifty years.

April 12: Remarkable Quality, Fifteen Bob, Blessed

...It was a remarkable quality of the Ghost (which Scrooge had observed at the baker's), that notwithstanding his gigantic size, he could accommodate himself to any place with ease; and that he stood beneath a low roof quite as gracefully and like a supernatural creature, as it was possible he could have done in any lofty hall.

And perhaps it was the pleasure the good Spirit had in showing off this power of his, or else it was his own kind, generous, hearty nature, and his sympathy with all poor men, that led him straight to Scrooge's clerk's; for there he went, and took Scrooge with him, holding to his robe; and on the threshold of the door the Spirit smiled, and stopped to bless Bob Cratchit's dwelling with the sprinklings of his torch.  Think of that!  Bob had but fifteen "Bob" a-week himself; he pocketed on Saturdays but fifteen copies of his Christian name; and yet the Ghost of Christmas Present blessed his four-roomed house!

I know you're probably sick of me writing about being grateful for the blessings in my life.  I think the reason I keep coming back to this subject is pretty simple:  I fall into the trap of feeling sorry for myself all the time.  I start focusing on finances, or the size of my house in comparison to the size of my family, and suddenly I'm caught in a spiral of negativity.  If I let it go long enough, I practically have to gnaw off my foot to escape.

Butter my butt and call me blessed!

Most people are like me in this respect.  It's easy to get wound up in the problems of life--bills, marital issues, school, whatever--and forget about the good things.  Scrooge is amazed at the Cratchit family's ability to celebrate Christmas in the face of abject poverty.  The goose is small.  The house is tiny.  Tiny Tim is critically ill.  Bob's salary is inadequate.  Yet, the Ghost of Christmas Present blesses the Cratchits, squeezes the bulk of his supernatural goodwill into the Cratchit abode.  And that's the miracle.  Goodwill fits in any space.

I am not Bob Cratchit.  I make a little more than fifteen bob a-week.  I don't have a sick child.  Our house, though small, is warm and keeps out the snow and rain.  When the Ghost of Christmas Present happens to stop on my threshold, he sprinkles my family with his torch.  We have a good life.  We have food and clothing.  In a few weeks, we're all going on a trip together.  I just need to remind myself of these facts.  These blessings.

Join Saint Marty in this little mantra:  "I am blessed.  Ooommmmmm.  I am blessed.  Ooommmmmm.  I wish I was more blessed.  Ooommmmm.  I wish I had more money.  Ooommmmmm.  I wish I had a three-bedroom, two-bathroom house.  Ooommmmm..."