Some Thoughts

I haven't written personally in a while now, because I've been busy. I've been busy and tired. Life is quite the force to reckon with sometimes. Especially when you aren't spending your time enjoyably. That is to say, that you aren't doing something you love. But then again, I think some aspects of maturity involve being able to prioritize things well in order to get to a better situation. Children want all good things to come at the same time, and our culture is very childish on that point. Billy Corgan (lead singer of the Smashing Pumpkins) said it best "Our culture is set on orgasm, and nobody is interested in the things that have led to a particular artist's greatest work, we just all want the best all the time." (that's a massive paraphrase incidentally). So before I head off to a job that I don't enjoy very much, and shut myself away from the sunshine and springtime for 7 hours.

Here's to the process!

Not the process from one job, house, or town to another. Not some social upgrade. But the process of Life. The grand winding Road that demands we follow. The Doors of opportunity that open and shut, closing whole realities behind them, and at the same time allowing other realities to blossom in all their' wonder or horror. Whatever happens, our final destination will so greatly over shadow the roads we've taken that it will seem as if it were all nothing. Shadows and dust scattered on the winds of eternity. One day, we will arrive home.

"The Trappist Cemetery-Gethsemani"

Brothers, the curving grasses and their daughers
will never print your praises:
The trees our sisters, in their summer dresses,
guard your fame in these green cradles:
The simple crosses are content to hide your characters.

Oh do not fear
the birds that bicker in the lonely belfry
will ever give away your legends.
Yet when the sun, exulting like a dying martyr,
canonizes, with his splendid fie, the sombre hills,
your graves all smile like little children,
and your wise crosses trust the mothering night
that folds them in the Sanctuary's wings.

You need not hear the momentary rumors of the road
where cities pass and vanish in a single car
filling the cut beside the mill
with roar and radio,
hurling the air into the wayside branches
leaving the leaves alive with panic.
See, the kind universe,
wheeling in love about the abbey steeple
lights up your sleepy nursery with stars.

~

God, in your bodily life,
untied the snares of anger and desire,
hid your flesh from envy by these country alters,
beneath these holy eaves where even sparrows have their houses.
But oh, how like the swallows and the chimney swifts
do your free souls in glory play!
And with cleaner flight,
keener, more graceful circles,
rarer, and finer arcs
then all these innocent attacks that skim our steeple!
How like these children of the summer evening
do your rejoicing spirits
deride the dry earth with their aviation!

But now the treble harps of night begin to play in the deep wood,
to praise your holy sleep,
and all the frogs along the creek
chant in the moony waters to the Queen of Peace.
And we, the mariners, and travelers,
the wide-eyed immigrants,
praying and sweating in our steerage cabins,
lie still and count with love the measured bells
that tell the deep-sea leagues until your harbor.

Already on this working earth you knew what nameless love
adorns the heart with peace by night,
hearing, adoring all the dark arrivals of eternity.
Oh, here on earth you knew what secret thirst
arming the mind with instinct,
answers the challenges of God with garrisons
of unified desire
and facing Him in His new wars
is slain at last in an exchange of lives.

Teach us, Cistercian Fathers, how to wear
silence, our humble armor.
Pray us a torrent of the seven spirits
that are our wine and stamina,
because your' work is not yet done.
But look: the valleys shine with promises,
every burning morning is a prophecy of Christ
coming to raise and vindicate
even our sorry flesh.

Then will your graves, Gethsemani, give up their angels,
return them to their souls to learn
the songs of attitude and glory.
Then will creation rise again like gold,
clean from the furnace of your litanies:
the beasts and trees shall share your resurrection,
and a new world be born from these green tombs.

~Thomas Merton