Today, a new chapter, the penultimate, in "Hurricane River" under the same name in the website, titled "Henry."
It is May, thank God, and all is growing and with that, all needs to be done: cut brush, till the garden, mow the lawn, split wood, build a shed - all the stuff that has waited patiently for my energy all the long-winter. It is a pain sometimes, but I am glad for it overall, and it makes me think sad thoughts about the latest book I am reading, "Therese of Lisieux" by Monica Furlong.
Therese is often known as the "Little Saint," for she was a quiet girl who died aged 24 in a French convent at the turn of the last century - 1897. Hers had not been a life of torment a la "Les Miserable" of Victor Hugo's writing, but rather one of bourgeoisie comfort in a large, very Catholic French family. All her young life she longed to live in the convent, along with two of her older sisters, and at age 15 she was admitted - far too early for most. She had had to petition and beg for such an early entry.
I am in the first pages of the book, but have already read how much she loved the monotony and hard work of convent life. I also already know that she would become sickly and have visions of the Holy Virgin, whereupon her Mother Superior would order her to write of her life and holy experiences. She was made an official saint in 1925, and since has become a force of great importance to millions, because of her quiet devotion - because of her "Littleness."
The author reads some Freudian psychology into her life, and some feminism, but not too much to be cloying. Rather, it gives to her experience a kind of sadness, of being unfulfilled, even as she herself seems perfectly happy. And there is the problem - from our perspective, she SHOULD be unhappy and unfulfilled. The month of May with all its newness and energy reminds me of this - of all the hub-bub and glory that the Little Saint missed in her short life. But we do not understand, clearly we do not understand.
I got the same feeling, although not as strongly, with Thomas Merton's book on his first ten years in the monastery. Not as young, but still too young, he gave up so much to live within a few acres, apparently (from my perspective) waiting to die. But no one forced him to stay. He was of age and American, and he could have left at any time, but he did not and would not - he loved the life infinitely more than that of his former life - which was not tragic or difficult at all. In fact, he was on the verge of becoming a writing success. And of his own free will he gave it all away, forever.
It is obvious that we who look in from the outside do not understand. We seek out cultural anomalies or psychological problems in an attempt to learn why anyone would give up his freedom, the love of family, fame or fortune or just a beer in front of a football game for something so grim as a monastery, but we are often off base. We are often just plain wrong because we haven't a clue.
In this blog I often talk of the quiet space and of the quiet voice, but Therese and others like her have gone much farther than I can seriously contemplate. What is it that drives them? We might also ask, what is it that has a 10 year old practice piano 6 hours a day? Or an athlete run and lift weights for 5? Or, for that matter, a historian spending all his free time in the library archives to search out everything ever written by or about, say, James Madison?
One writer called the saints the "Athletes of the Spirit," and this is as good a way to look at it as any. And while athletes give us some momentary pleasure, the saints have given millions the very meaning of their lives. Some even believe that the saints keep the world going, keep the world in touch with the Divine,with that which imparts life itself. And it is this last that perhaps they feel - compelled to connect with the highest mountain of them all to make of life something worth living.
With me, a spring day might suffice. I will see what the book gives us, but a spring day will someday become a winter day, and we must be sustained then as well. Perhaps this is where the saints work their miracles. FK
It is May, thank God, and all is growing and with that, all needs to be done: cut brush, till the garden, mow the lawn, split wood, build a shed - all the stuff that has waited patiently for my energy all the long-winter. It is a pain sometimes, but I am glad for it overall, and it makes me think sad thoughts about the latest book I am reading, "Therese of Lisieux" by Monica Furlong.
Therese is often known as the "Little Saint," for she was a quiet girl who died aged 24 in a French convent at the turn of the last century - 1897. Hers had not been a life of torment a la "Les Miserable" of Victor Hugo's writing, but rather one of bourgeoisie comfort in a large, very Catholic French family. All her young life she longed to live in the convent, along with two of her older sisters, and at age 15 she was admitted - far too early for most. She had had to petition and beg for such an early entry.
I am in the first pages of the book, but have already read how much she loved the monotony and hard work of convent life. I also already know that she would become sickly and have visions of the Holy Virgin, whereupon her Mother Superior would order her to write of her life and holy experiences. She was made an official saint in 1925, and since has become a force of great importance to millions, because of her quiet devotion - because of her "Littleness."
The author reads some Freudian psychology into her life, and some feminism, but not too much to be cloying. Rather, it gives to her experience a kind of sadness, of being unfulfilled, even as she herself seems perfectly happy. And there is the problem - from our perspective, she SHOULD be unhappy and unfulfilled. The month of May with all its newness and energy reminds me of this - of all the hub-bub and glory that the Little Saint missed in her short life. But we do not understand, clearly we do not understand.
I got the same feeling, although not as strongly, with Thomas Merton's book on his first ten years in the monastery. Not as young, but still too young, he gave up so much to live within a few acres, apparently (from my perspective) waiting to die. But no one forced him to stay. He was of age and American, and he could have left at any time, but he did not and would not - he loved the life infinitely more than that of his former life - which was not tragic or difficult at all. In fact, he was on the verge of becoming a writing success. And of his own free will he gave it all away, forever.
It is obvious that we who look in from the outside do not understand. We seek out cultural anomalies or psychological problems in an attempt to learn why anyone would give up his freedom, the love of family, fame or fortune or just a beer in front of a football game for something so grim as a monastery, but we are often off base. We are often just plain wrong because we haven't a clue.
In this blog I often talk of the quiet space and of the quiet voice, but Therese and others like her have gone much farther than I can seriously contemplate. What is it that drives them? We might also ask, what is it that has a 10 year old practice piano 6 hours a day? Or an athlete run and lift weights for 5? Or, for that matter, a historian spending all his free time in the library archives to search out everything ever written by or about, say, James Madison?
One writer called the saints the "Athletes of the Spirit," and this is as good a way to look at it as any. And while athletes give us some momentary pleasure, the saints have given millions the very meaning of their lives. Some even believe that the saints keep the world going, keep the world in touch with the Divine,with that which imparts life itself. And it is this last that perhaps they feel - compelled to connect with the highest mountain of them all to make of life something worth living.
With me, a spring day might suffice. I will see what the book gives us, but a spring day will someday become a winter day, and we must be sustained then as well. Perhaps this is where the saints work their miracles. FK
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