June 30: Faith and Simplicity, Messages in a Bottle, Evening of Heartbreak

Merton on his English students . . . 

I was writing a book—it was not much of a book—and I had classes to prepare. It was the latter work that had the most in it of health and satisfaction and reward. I had three big classes of sophomores, ninety students in all, to bring through English Literature from Beowulf to the Romantic Revival in one year. And a lot of them didn’t even know how to spell. But that did not worry me very much, and it could not alter my happiness with Piers Plowman and the Nun’s Priest’s Tale and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: I was back again in that atmosphere that had enthralled me as a child, the serene and simple and humorous Middle Ages, not the lute and goblin and moth-ball Middle Ages of Tennyson, but the real Middle Ages, the twelfth and thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, full of fresh air and simplicity, as solid as wheat bread and grape wine and water-mills and ox-drawn wagons: the age of Cistercian monasteries and of the first Franciscans. 

And so, in my innocence, I stood up and talked about all these things in front of those rooms full of football players with long, unpronounceable names: and because they saw that I myself liked my own subject matter, they tolerated it, and even did a certain amount of work for me without too much complaint. 

The classes were a strange mixture. The best elements in them were the football players and the seminarians. The football players were mostly on scholarships, and they did not have much money, and they stayed in at night most of the time. As a group, they were the best-natured and the best-tempered and worked as hard as the seminarians. They were also the most vocal. They liked to talk about these books when I stirred them up to argue. They liked to open their mouths and deliver rough, earnest, and sometimes sardonic observations about the behavior of these figures in literature. 

Also, some of them were strong and pious Catholics with souls full of faith and simplicity and honesty and conviction, yet without the violence and intemperance that come from mere prejudice. At Columbia it had been pretty much the fashion to despise football players as stupid: and I don’t maintain that they are, as a class, geniuses. But the ones at St. Bona’s taught me much more about people than I taught them about books, and I learned to have a lot of respect and affection for these rough, earnest, good-natured, and patient men who had to work so hard and take so many bruises and curses to entertain the Friars and the Alumni on the football field, and to advertise the school. 

I wonder what has happened to them all: how many of them got shot up in Africa or the Philippines? What became of that black-haired, grinning Mastrigiacomo who confided to me all his ambitions about being a band-leader; or that lanky, cat-faced villain Chapman whom I saw one night, after a dance, walking around chewing on a whole ham? What have they done with that big, quiet Irishman Quinn, or Woody McCarthy with his long bulbous nose and eyebrows full of perplexity and his sallies of gruff wit? Then there was Red Hagerman who was not a Catholic, and who looked like all the big cheerful muscle-bound football players they believed in in the nineteen twenties. He went off and got himself married towards the end of that year.   Another one called “Red” was Red McDonald, and he was one of the best students in the class, and one of the best people: a serious young Irishman with a wide-open face, all full of sincerity and hard work. Then there was the big round-faced Polish boy whose name I have forgotten, who grabbed hold of the tail of a cow which dragged him all around the pasture on the day of the sophomore beer-party at the end of the year. 

The most intelligent students were the seminarians or the ones that were going to enter the seminary: and they were the quietest. They kept pretty much to themselves, and handed in neat papers which you could be relatively sure were their own original work. Probably by now they are all priests. 

The rest of the class was a mixture of all kinds of people, some of them disgruntled, some of them penniless and hard-working, some of them rich and dumb and too fond of beer. Some of them liked to play the drums and knew how. Others liked to play them and did not know how. Some of them were good dancers and danced a lot. Others just went uptown and played the slot machines until the last minute before midnight, when they came back to the college in a panic-stricken rush to get in before the time limit was up. One of them, Joe Nastri, thought he was a Communist. I don’t suppose he had a very clear idea of what a Communist was. One day he went to sleep in class and one of the football players gave him the hot-foot. 

Of all the crowd, it could not be said that they were very different from the students I had known in other colleges. With a few exceptions, they were certainly no holier. They got drunk just as much, but they made more noise about it, and had less money to spend, and were handicapped by the necessity of getting back to the dormitory at a certain time. Twice a week they had to get up and hear Mass, which was a burden to most of them. Only very few of them heard Mass and went to Communion every day— outside of the seminarians. 

However, most of them clung with conviction to the Catholic faith, a loyalty which was resolute and inarticulate. It was hard to tell just how much that loyalty was a matter of conscious faith, and how much it was based on attachment to their class and social environment: but they were all pretty definite about being Catholics. One could not say of them that, as a whole, they led lives that went beyond the ordinary level demanded of a Christian. Some of the most intelligent of them often startled me with statements that showed they had not penetrated below the surface of Catholicism and did not really appreciate its spirit... One, for instance, argued that the virtue of humility was nonsense, and that it sapped a man of all his vitality and initiative. Another one did not think there were any such things as devils.... 

All of them were serene in their conviction that the modern world was the highest point reached by man in his development, and that our present civilization left very little to be desired. I wonder if the events of 1943 and the two following years did anything to change their opinions.

Merton seems to revel in his job as an English instructor.  Loves his students--from the football players to the seminarians.  He acknowledges that many of the young men he taught probably ended up as soldiers in World War II, with many of them not surviving.  They all work hard for Merton, keeping him on his toes.  The thing that Merton seems to admire most about all them is their Catholic-ness.  They all, to a greater or lesser extent, have "souls full of faith and simplicity and honesty and conviction . . ."  Merton readily admits that he learns more from his students than they learn from him.  In my experience as a teacher, that is always the case.

I know that my extended absence from blogging has probably not really been all that noticed.  As a writer, I like to imagine that people wait for my posts the way that Victorian Londoners waited for the next installment of Great Expectations or The Pickwick Papers.  Of course, that isn't reality.  What I do in this blog will really change nothing in the world.  Perhaps there are a few disciples out there who find a kindred spirit in me.  Maybe I make some of you feel a little less lonely.  But, for the most part, these little musings I send out into the ether are just messages in a bottle.  I don't know if they sink or make it to a friendly shore.

The reason for my lengthy sabbatical was professional in nature.  Last week, in the City of Marquette, we celebrated Art Week, which is a six-day festival of poetry readings, concerts, art classes, sidewalk art, historical tours, and art exhibits.  It is a gargantuan effort, and, for my part, I spent all last week running from one event to another.  I arranged popup poetry readings and a gallery show of poetry broadsides.  Two concerts.  One spontaneous writing booth.  An embroidery class.  And I was commissioned to write a closing ceremony poem.

Then, on the seventh day, I didn't rest.  I traveled to Calumet, Michigan, and performed in a variety radio show, which I also cowrote the scripts for.

Monday night, I was literally brain dead.

But, the thing that kept me going was this:  I was literally surrounded by artists.  People of like mind and ideas.  Passionate dreamers.  And they care about making the world a better place though art.  It's sort of like Merton being surrounded by those souls filled with faith and simplicity.  These were my people, and it was an amazing experience.

Of course, life's problems don't disappear, even during Art Week or after.  In Merton's passage above, the specter of World War II looms large.  In my life, it's a struggle with someone close to me who puts my love to the test frequently.  Sometimes daily.  With Art Week, I feel connected and loved. With this person, I often feel the exact opposite--disconnected and unloved.

So, for the last seven days, I've been sort of living in both of these worlds.  And it has been a little draining.  It's difficult for me to integrate these two lives, because they are so dissimilar.  Tonight was particularly hard.  Without getting into personal details, all I will say is that I feel very alone.  And angry.  And betrayed.  And I don't know what to do about it.

Art is a way to work through difficult situations, especially writing.  I can't tell you how many times I've written my way back to center in my journal or through a poem.  Despite what some poets may claim, there's always a little truth of the poet's life in every poem.  I've been writing poems about Bigfoot for the last five years or so.  Bigfoot has become my stand in--smarter, stronger, emotionally more connected than me.  Bigfoot would know what to do tonight, and perhaps I should summon his spirit.  Or the spirit I've created for him.

So, tonight, after a long week of art, another evening of heartbreak, I reach out to my Bigfoot self.  Smell his hairy musk.  Stare into his yellow eyes.  Feel his Stonehenge presence.  

Saint Marty may be staying in Bigfoot's cave for a while, surrounded by his cave drawings.

June 20: Father's Day, Complicated, "To My Father's Ashes"

No Thomas Merton tonight.  Just a little reflection on Father's Day.

Fatherhood is a complicated thing, full of so many societal expectations.  I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, where the fathers I knew were fishermen, deer hunters, and car mechanics.  They wore flannel almost all year, and thought Chuck Norris films were the height of culture.  (Okay, I'm stereotyping here, but you get the idea.)  I didn't get these fathers.

Even my own father.  On the morning I graduated from high school, my father took me to his rifle cabinet and told me I could pick out any gun of his I wanted as a graduation present.  I never went deer hunting, had only fired a gun once or twice in my entire life.  But I picked out a rifle and thanked him.  I think he may have even hugged me and told me he was proud of me.

I know my father was proud of my accomplishments.  He didn't always get my poetry, but he was always in the front row of all of my readings.  And in the front row of every play I acted in or directed.  He supported me, even though he didn't understand me.  I was like none of his other sons.  We had a complicated relationship.

We didn't see eye-to-eye on a lot of things, politically or socially.  He was a member of the John Birch Society.  I would have been investigated by Joseph McCarthy if I had lived in the 1950s. (Joseph McCarthy--one of my dad's heroes.)  Yet, I know that he was devoted to his family and would have done anything for his wife and kids.  That was a lesson that stuck with me.  I also learned things I swore I'd never repeat with my own children.  Like I said, my father and I had a complicated relationship.

This Father's Day night, I hope that I have been a good father.  Hope that my daughter and son know how much I love them.  That I would do anything for them.  I've tried to make my relationship with my kids as uncomplicated as I could, because I don't want either of them to be writing a poem 40 years from now that ends with the line "Daddy, daddy, you bastard, I'm through."

I loved my father, even as I struggled with his more problematic characteristics.  I still love my father.  He worked hard his whole life, provided for nine kids.  That's a remarkable feat.  I struggle to pay the bills, and I only have two children.

Father's Day is not easy for many people.  Because of estrangement, death, abandonment, infertility.  I respect that.  Honor that struggle.  Pray for peace of heart and mind.  

Saint Marty hopes he never makes Father's Day a complicated day for his kids.  

And a poem for Father's Day . . . 

To My Father's Ashes

by:  Martin Achatz

Staring at your dust
in this black vase,
I wonder what of you
I possess. The cinder
that was your hands. watered
tomato plants every summer
until they swelled into orange
fists of starfish. Grains of your
crooked spine that kept
you from the missiles and grenades
of Pork Chop Hill and Pusan.
Or the pollen of your lips, tongue
that sipped Seven and Seven
all night until you didn’t remember
stoking the furnace with so much
wood that it roared, turned brick
red, almost reduced the house to char.
It could be the soot that was your testes,
scrotum, vesicles, the place
where the Y of me first swam
in white brine the night
you reached out, atlased
my mother’s body with yours.
Perhaps the ember of calf, shoulder.
Powder of ulna, incisor, humerus.
Or maybe it’s a part of you
I don’t know. The finger
that traced the arc of a neighbor
girl’s breast under a haystack moon.
Your grey eyes, the ones the cried
for two days when your daughter
was born with an extra chromosome
swimming in the pools of her nuclei.
An eardrum that heard Louis Armstrong
coax “La Vie En Rose” from his trumpet
one August night at the Paradise
on Woodward when the Detroit River
was a black tendon of water.
Or a mole on your chest that your bride
kissed over and over on your wedding
night until it blossomed to the color
of lupin.

June 17-18: Back to Christ's Altars, Communion and Catholic Bishops, Love

Merton finds peace in a noisy place . . . 

Yet the room was not quiet, either. It was right on a corner next to the stairs, and when anybody on our floor was wanted on the telephone, someone would rush up the stairs and stick his head into the corridor right by my door and yell down the echoing hall. All day long I heard those voices bellowing, “Hey, Cassidy! Hey, Cassidy!” but I did not mind. It did not stop me from doing twice as much work in that room, in one year, as I had done in all the rest of my life put together. 

It amazed me how swiftly my life fell into a plan of fruitful and pleasant organization, here under the roof with these Friars, in this house dedicated to God. The answer to this was, of course, the God Who lived under that same roof with me, hidden in His Sacrament, the heart of the house, diffusing His life through it from the chapel Tabernacle: and also the Office I recited every day was another answer. Finally, there was the fact of my seclusion. 

By this time, I had managed to get myself free from all the habits and luxuries that people in the world think they need for their comfort and amusement. My mouth was at last clean of the yellow, parching salt of nicotine, and I had rinsed my eyes of the grey slops of movies, so that now my taste and my vision were clean. And I had thrown away the books that soiled my heart. And my ears, too, had been cleansed of all wild and fierce noises and had poured into them peace, peace—except for that yell, “Hey, Cassidy,” which, after all, did not make much difference. 

Best of all, my will was in order, my soul was in harmony with itself and with God, though not without battle, and not without cost. That was a price I had to pay, or lose my life altogether, so there was no alternative but wait in patience, and let myself be ground out between the upper and nether millstones of the two conflicting laws within me. Nor could I taste anything of the sense that this is really a martyrdom full of merit and pleasing to God: I was still too obsessed with the sheer, brute difficulty of it, and the crushing humiliation that faced me all the time. Peccatum meum contra me est semper. 

Yet, in spite of all that, there was in me the profound, sure certitude of liberty, the moral certitude of grace, of union with God, which bred peace that could not be shattered or overshadowed by any necessity to stand armed and ready for conflict. And this peace was all-rewarding. It was worth everything. And every day it brought me back to Christ’s altars, and to my daily Bread, that infinitely holy and mighty and secret wholesomeness that was cleansing and strengthening my sick being through and through, and feeding, with His infinite life, my poor shredded sinews of morality. 

Here it is.  Merton finds peace in this place, because he is reciting the Divine Office, and every day he is "brought back to Christ's altars, and to my daily Bread."  He's praying, going to Communion, and removing things from his life that have acted as roadblocks in his faith journey.  Like Merton, every individual finds his/her own way to God, no matter what name or form God takes.  Yahweh,  Jesus.  Nature.  The Universe.  It's a very personal thing.

Something happened today that bothers me quite a bit.  The United States Conference of Catholic Bishops voted (not unanimously) to draft a document that may, if adopted in November, be used to deny individuals, who hold public office and support abortion rights, the ability to receive the sacrament of Communion.  The document hasn't been written, and the final vote hasn't been cast by the bishops.  However, this step seems to cross the line, using a deeply personal and spiritual act as a way to influence public policy.  And that, in my book, goes completely against what I know about Jesus Christ and his teachings.

Abortion is a very personal matter.  Laws can be made to protect it or make it illegal.  Abortion is not going away, no matter what politicians or bishops or judges say or do.  I am not a woman.  Therefore, I have never had to face that terrible choice in my life, and, rest assured, any woman who has faced that situation has agonized and suffered over the decision.  Making abortion illegal again doesn't mean abortions will stop.  They will simply become more dangerous and life-threatening.  

Now, perhaps you're of the mindset that a woman who chooses to have an illegal abortion deserves to become sick or die.  Again, I'm a lifelong Catholic, and that thinking really doesn't gibe with the Jesus Christ I know.  If you are against abortion, I'm fine with that.  Then you also need to do something to make sure that all mothers have social, financial, and medical support, not just for the term of the pregnancy, but until their children are fully grown.  And you need to provide for those children, too--make sure they are healthy, cared for, eat well, get good educations.  In short, you need to be in it for the long haul, not just nine months.

Using a sacrament of the Catholic Church as a way to influence public policy and servants is tantamount, in my mind, to going against something Jesus Christ said to Pharisees or Herodians or the spies of the chief priests:  "Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's, and unto God the things that are God's."  This rebuke appears in the books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke in one form or another.

In short, at least in my thinking, the bishops who support the drafting of this document regarding Communion aren't trying to spread the Body of Christ, which, if you are a Christian, can be a force for great spiritual healing and understanding.  Reread that passage from Thomas Merton, if you don't believe me.  No, these bishops are using Communion like an allowance that's being withheld as punishment.

As I said earlier, abortion is a deeply personal matter, made between a woman, a medical provider, and whatever support system she has.  No law is going to change that.  The law is there to protect citizens' rights, to allow them to make good or bad choices (depending on your point of view).  I don't believe in abortion, would do everything I could to help someone facing that decision, and love her no matter what.  That's my choice.  My neighbor who lives down the street may believe in abortion.  That's her choice.  Both of those choices are protected.  Render unto Caesar the things which are Caesar's.

Communion is a deeply personal, spiritual matter, something that happens between you and God.  It can heal a broken heart.  Bring someone back to church.  Change people's minds and souls.  Nobody has the right to stand in the way of that.  Render unto God the things that are God's.

I'm not trying to sway anyone's opinion with this post.  You may disagree with me.  I respect that and still love you.  Because that's what it all boils down to, if you call yourself a Christian:  love.  Love is love is love.

Saint Marty grew up singing that song:  "They'll know we are Christians by our love . . ."  He tries to live by those words every day of his life.

June 16: Drink Poems, Recite Prayers, Earn Tenure

Merton finds a new way of living . . . 

But I am getting ahead of my story. For in these days, in the late summer of 1940, it was not yet that way. The Breviary was hard to learn, and every step was labor and confusion, not to mention the mistakes and perplexities I got myself into. However, Father Irenaeus helped to straighten me out, and told me how the various feasts worked together, and how to say first Vespers for the proper feast, and all the other things one needs to find out. Apart from him, however, I didn’t even speak of the Breviary to any other priest. I kept quiet about it, half fearing that someone would make fun of me, or think I was eccentric, or try to snatch my books away from me on some pretext. I would have been better off if I had been acting under the guidance of a director, but I had no understanding of such a thing in those days. 

Meanwhile, I put on my best blue suit and hitch-hiked out to St. Bonaventure and spoke with Father Thomas Plassman, who was the president of the college, and the picture of benevolence. He listened kindly and soberly to my answers to his questions, filling a chair with his huge frame and looking at me through his glasses, out of a great kind face built on pontifical lines and all set for smiles paternal enough to embrace an archdiocese. Father Thomas would make a wonderful prelate, and, as a matter of fact, all the students and seminarians at St. Bonaventure held him in great awe for his learning and piety.

Back in Olean his reputation was even greater. Once I had someone whisper to me that Father Thomas was the third best educated man in America. I was not able to find out who were the other two ahead of him, or how it was possible to determine who was the best educated, or what that might precisely mean. 

But in any case, he gave me a job at St. Bonaventure’s, teaching English, for it fell out that Father Valentine Long, who wrote books and taught literature to the sophomores, had been transferred to Holy Name College, in Washington. 

In the second week of September, with a trunkful of books and a typewriter and the old portable phonograph that I had bought when I was still at Oakham, I moved in to the little room that was assigned to me on the second floor of the big, red-brick building that was both a dormitory and a monastery. Out of my window I could look beyond the chapel front to the garden and fields and the woods. There was a little astronomical observatory out there behind the greenhouses, and in the distance you could tell where the river was by the line of trees at the end of the pasture. And then, beyond that, were the high, wooded hills, and my gaze travelled up Five Mile Valley beyond the farms to Martinny’s Rocks. My eyes often wandered out there, and rested in that peaceful scene, and the landscape became associated with my prayers, for I often prayed looking out of the window. And even at night, the tiny, glowing light of a far farmhouse window in Five Mile Valley attracted my eye, the only visible thing in the black darkness, as I knelt on the floor and said my last prayer to Our Lady. 

And as the months went on, I began to drink poems out of those hills.

I love the last line from this Merton passage.  In particular, I love the phrase "I began to drink poems out of those hills."  Merton has found some peace of mind after much chaos and disappointment.  He is learning a new way of living, and, by so doing, a new way to God.  Through prayer, teaching, and poetry.

I usually start my day with prayer of some kind.  Sometimes, it sort of goes like this:  "Oh, my God, not another day!"  Other days, it's a little more positive:  "God, thanks for not letting me die in my sleep!"  Or, "Wow, I never saw that one coming!"  These thoughts are laced with self pity and self absorption.  However, I'm still talking to God.  It counts as prayer.

In everything that I do every day  , I teach, whether it's creating programs for the library or lesson plans for the university.  It's all about educating people about some subject, whether it's cooking brown rice asparagus bean salad or conjugating an irregular verb.  I can check this one off my list, too.

And, of course, all of my days are filled with poetry.  It's my passion and joy.  Writing and reading poetry is always a part of my day.  Usually, after I finish my morning prayer, I read or listen to a poem.  This practice grounds me and provides inspiration for the rest of my day.

So, considering Merton finds his way to God through those three things, I should be well on my way to sainthood.  At least, that's the way I see it.  And, if canonization is not in my future, I should at least be able to win the Nobel Prize in Literature.  And, if THAT is out of the question, how about a full-time professorship at a university?

I'm not asking for much--just sainthood, a Nobel Prize, or tenure.  One of those things shouldn't be too tall of an order.  It's not like I'm praying for world peace or a winning lotto ticket.  (Well, actually, the Nobel Prize is worth about one million dollars.  Plus, you can pretty much pick which university to teach at, including immediate tenure.  So, it's sort of like winning the lotto, with a fancy ceremony, diploma, and a dinner.)

Tonight, however, after a pretty long day of work that started at 7:30 a.m. and didn't end until almost 11 p.m., I'm too tired to think about any of that.  I'm just going to drink some poems from Natalie Diaz and go to sleep.  

Maybe Marty will dream of becoming a tenured saint.