July 24: "Reaper," Near-Death, "Traffic Jam"

Billy Collins has a close encounter with death . . .

Reaper

by: Billy Collins

As I drove north along a country road

on a bright spring morning

I caught the look of a man on the roadside

who was carrying an enormous scythe on his shoulder.

He was not wearing a long black cloak

with a hood to conceal his skull--

rather a torn white tee shirt

and a pair of loose khaki trousers.

But still, as I flew past him,

he turned and met my glance

as if I had an appointment in Samarra,

not just the usual lunch at the Raccoon Lodge.

There was no sign I could give him

in that instant--no casual wave,

or thumbs-up, no two-fingered V

that would ease a jolt of fear

whose voltage ran from my ankles

to my scalp--just the glimpse,

the split-second lock of the pupils

like catching the eye of a stranger on a passing train.

And there was nothing to do

but keep driving, turn off the radio,

and notice how white the houses were,

how red the barns, and green the sloping fields.

Most people have these mini near-death experiences occasionally.  It may be as simple as seeing some guy carrying a scythe on his shoulder.  Or driving by a cemetery.  Or finding a dead sparrow in the backyard.

Suddenly, a spike of ice hits your spine, and you're walking hand-in-hand with mortality for a few moments.  Time becomes as present as a popsicle on a hot July afternoon, sweetly fleeting and soon forgotten. Yet, the world shifts, becomes more vibrant and precious for a little while.

This morning, I wrote with one of my best poet friends.  We sat on the roof of the library and scribbled in our journals, and, as seagulls complained overhead and Lake Superior marched iron waves to its shores, poetry was born.

It was a blessing, and I felt blessed.  Not too many people can start their days with birds and words and water.  But, because I'd just read Collins' poem, I was aware of the presence of grace moving around and through me.

In the evening, another blessing--an outdoor concert by a wonderful group of musicians.  They set up their equipment and filled the air with a joyful noise.  And this was grace at work, too.

Here's one of the poems Saint Marty wrote this morning . . . 

Traffic Jam

by: Martin Achatz

I got stuck in a slow crawl

of cars and trucks and motorcycles,

annoyed at the inconvenience

of pace, other drivers trying

to snake in and out of lanes

to arrive 15 seconds sooner

than me at the next dead stop.

I was with a writer friend

who was in no hurry, embraced

the humanness of the situation,

this long line of souls inching

inching inching toward some

unseen obstacle, a toll we had

to pass in order to speed back

into our daily lives.  Around a bend,

we came to the accident, jackknifed

semi, its tire shredded on the rim,

crushed pickup with EMTs

crowded around a stretcher.  We 

glided by like a gondola in Venice,

took in the tragedy, and suddenly

I wasn't all that anxious to arrive.

Instead, I turned up the radio

a little, asked my friend about

her pet donkeys, enjoyed the July

sun streaming through the windshield.

November 8-9: True Child of the Modern World, "A Charlie Brown Christmas," Linus' Blanket

Thomas Merton lives in fear . . . 

That window! It was huge. It seemed to go right down to the floor. Maybe the force of gravity would draw the whole bed, with me on it, to the edge of that abyss, and spill me headlong into the emptiness. 

And far, far away in my mind was a little, dry, mocking voice that said: “What if you threw yourself out of that window....” 

I turned over on the bed, and tried to go to sleep. But the blood drummed and drummed in my head. I could not sleep. 

I thought to myself: “I wonder if I am having a nervous breakdown.” 

Then, again, I saw that window. The mere sight of it made my head spin. The mere thought that I was high above the ground almost knocked me out again. 

The doctor came in and saw me lying there wide awake and said:

“I thought I told you to go to sleep.” 

“I couldn’t sleep,” I said. He gave me a bottle of medicine, and went away again. All I wanted was to get out of that room. 

When he was gone, I got up and went downstairs and paid for the room and took a train home. I did not feel bad in the train going home. The house was empty. I lay down on a thing in the living room that they called the chaise-longue, and went to sleep. 

When Else came home, she said: “I thought you were going to stay up town for dinner.” 

But I said: “I felt bad, so I came home.” 

What was the matter with me? I never found out. I suppose it was a sort of a nervous breakdown. In connection with it, I developed gastritis, and thought I was beginning to get a stomach ulcer. 

The doctors gave me a diet and some medicine. The effect of both was more psychological than anything else. Every time I went to eat anything, I studied what was there, and only chose certain things and ate them with a sort of conscious scrupulosity. I remember one of the things that I was told to eat: it was ice-cream. I had no objection to eating ice-cream, especially in summer. How delightful not only to enjoy this dish, but also to feed my imagination with thoughts of its healthfulness and wholesomeness. I could almost see it kindly and blandly and mercifully covering the incipient ulcer with its cool, health-giving substance. 

The whole result of this diet was to teach me this trivial amusement, this cult of foods that I imagined to be bland and healthful. It made me think about myself. It was a game, a hobby, something like psychoanalysis had been. I even sometimes fell into the discussion of foods and their values and qualities in relation to health, as if I were an authority on the subject. And for the rest, I went around with my mind in my stomach and ate quarts and quarts of ice-cream. 

Now my life was dominated by something I had never really known before: fear. Was it really something altogether new? No, for fear is inseparable from pride and lust. They may hide it for a time: but it is the reverse of the coin. The coin had turned over and I was looking at the other side: the eagle that was to eat out my insides for a year or so, cheap Prometheus that I had become! It was humiliating, this strange wariness that accompanied all my actions, this self-conscious watchfulness. It was a humiliation I had deserved more than I knew. There was more justice in it than I could understand. 

I had refused to pay any attention to the moral laws upon which all our vitality and sanity depend: and so now I was reduced to the condition of a silly old woman, worrying about a lot of imaginary rules of health, standards of food-value, and a thousand minute details of conduct that were in themselves completely ridiculous and stupid, and yet which haunted me with vague and terrific sanctions. If I eat this, I may go out of my mind. If I do not eat that, I may die in the night. 

I had at last become a true child of the modern world, completely tangled up in petty and useless concerns with myself, and almost incapable of even considering or understanding anything that was really important to my own true interests. 

In this passage from The Seven Storey Mountain, Thomas Merton is living in fear, of food, vertigo, heights, ulcers.  The world seems to terrify him and absorb him at the same time.  His religion consists of the Holy Trinity of the modern world:  me, myself, and I.  Anything not related to Merton's own interests and preoccupations are inconsequential.  Thinking outside of his own little concentric universe is impossible for him, like most teenagers.

I think, to a greater or lesser degree, we all sometimes fall victim to an inner voice that whispers, "What's in it for me?"  It's human nature.  We are like spoiled kids during the Christmas season.  There is no bell ringing for the Salvation Army.  No Toys for Tots.  No working in soup kitchens.  Nope.  For a child, it's all about the newest Nintendo Switch.  For a teenager, the newest iteration of the iPhone.  For an adult, there's Alexa and drones.  The modern world teaches us to be Veruca Salt, wanting more and more and more.  

I have always been a Christmas fanatic, as any of my friends and family will attest.  I listen to Christmas music all year long.  On the 25th of every month, I try to accomplish something Christmassy.  Addressing Christmas cards.  Doing some Christmas shopping.  Working on my annual Christmas essay.  I love everything about Christmas.

I try to avoid the commercial side of this obsession, although I did go out and spend a lot of money on Charlie Brown-themed decorations this past Sunday.  We decorate the enclosed front porch of our house every year, and, every year, we have a different theme.  Last year, because we were getting a puppy for Christmas, my daughter chose to deck the halls with dog toys--plush animals that squeaked, fat knots to chew on, and balls.  Another year, it was an Ice Creamy Christmas, with ice cream cone and sundae ornaments on the tree.  

My favorite Christmas television special has always been A Charlie Brown Christmas.  As a kid, I think I loved the cartoon because Chuck and his gang sounded and looked like me.  They were mean and petty and materialistic.  I KNEW these kids.  I was one of them.  As an adult, I love this special because of the Linus moment.  That's when Charlie Brown yells out, "Isn't there anyone who knows what Christmas is all about?!"  And Linus walks center stage and, in a spotlight, recites the Nativity story from Luke: 

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this [shall be] a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger. And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.

Blogger Jason Soroski points out that, at the point when Linus says "Fear not," he drops his blanket and finishes the monologue without it in his hands.  Soroski thinks this detail was intentional on Charles Schultz's part.  To drive home the true message of Christmas even more:  to drop all those things that we cling to for security, and focus on what is truly important.  The presence of grace in our lives.  

So, this year, in the middle of a pandemic, at the end of four years of absolutely no good will toward men in my country, I chose to decorate our front porch with Charlie Brown.  I want to embrace the true meaning of Christmas, per Linus van Pelt.  It's not about toys or gadgets or trips.  Those are all security blankets for a very lost world.  It's about grace toward all human beings.  Kindness and charity and compassion.  Lifting each other up, regardless of skin color or gender or sexual orientation or religion or political affiliation.

We are all Charlie Brown, and we need to be taught daily, over and over and over, what Christmas is all about.  So that we don't spend every second of our lives living in fear.  Clinging to ratty old blankets that will never give us warmth.

For the miracle of this Linus moment, and for Snoopy, Saint Marty gives thanks.