Coming back from a few days up north, I sat down last night to finish Merton's "New Seeds of Contemplation," and was struck by a memory of an incident at the cabin. When I had a local guy put the propane gas cylinder in when the cabin was being built, he pulled out a long string of copper tubing and attached a single canister to a single regulator, a pocket-book sized contraption that controls the flow of gas into the house. As an aside, he did not do a very good job, and some time later in colder months I suffered carbon monoxide poisoning in the form of cardiac cramping, which I took to be a problem of the esophagus until I noticed it intensified with exercise that gradually, after nearly 9 months, went away. If I had not had the window open a crack, I would have been found dead several days later, nicely preserved in the cold.
But that still left the singular regulator hooked up to one cylinder, not a good thing when that cylinder runs out under 5 feet of snow and you have to dig through, adjust, and hook up the spare cylinder, usually in the dark. So I went out last week to set up a double regulator with hood, one that instantly shifted the gas intake to the spare cylinder when the first went out. Remembering nearly dying a few years ago, I was understandably nervous: gas kills through leaks in the form of asphyxiation and explosion. But no one was willing to drive 30 miles out from town to the deep woods to do the work and, after all, the last "expert" had nearly killed me. Surely I could do the work myself.
Well: after getting a used contraption from town, I went through the trouble of hooking it all up, inspecting for leaks, finding several, tightening again, and finally, I thought, succeeding, until something told me to check the very top of the regulator for leaks. Spraying soapy water on top, I was instantly exasperated when bubbles began to form immediately. This portion could not be saved; I would have to drive back into town for a new regulator.
Still in a good mood, I made the long drive and went to put the new piece in. Unfortunately, it was of a different size, and the whole canister holder and hood contraption had to be dismantled. It was cold and getting dark and we needed the gas for that night. I swore. I cursed. Once in, my hands covered with gunk and a dozen small cuts, I found that just about everything leaked. I swore some more, searched again for the right wrenches, and finally, after several attempts, got the thing tight and secure.
But mad I was - about the crap first sold to me, about the trips, about the dismantling, about the rush in diminishing daylight. My wife stayed out of the way as the anger drained and I began to realize - what the heck? Why all the fuss over such a small thing? Why the intense anger?
And then I read Merton, who spoke in maddening truth about the realization of ultimate reality. For it is not good enough to have visions of glory, to have feelings of intense union, to have joy; no, these are things of human creation. No one passes the gate which such emotions, for none can relate to the unknowable nature of God. Anything - anything that is comprehensible or familiar - is not of God. One must first pass through the testing, the fire, the desert of not-knowing, of absolute desolation, of having nothing, of absolute hopelessness, before God can shine through in true radiance.
In this he reminded me not only of the Buddhist and Hindu idea of negative explanation for the Void, "Not this, not that," but also of Don Juan in the Carlos Castaneda books, where in one chapter, Castaneda asks the Don, "what is ultimate reality?" They were sitting at a small diner in Mexico, and Don Juan pointed to the items on the table. "None of these is the Truth. Point and name them." And so Castaneda pointed, naming as he did so even God itself. Still, Don Juan said, "That notion, too, is on the table. That, too, is only your small conception of reality."
And so it may well be, as the holy and wise men seem to agree throughout time and culture. And so it is that I, trying to grasp such things, explode like a leaky gas container when confronted with minor frustration. How far I am from any of this, this land across the desert. And yet - a force pulls, sensations stir, something still seems to be up and coming. It is, as Merton said, all up to God, as even the camel might pass through the eye of the needle.
And so it is left to most of us to have faith, for that is the only thing that brings hope. We are otherwise out of control, lost in our world of minimal perceptions, subject to the laws and movements and emotions of a reality we can hardly conceive.
I think I'll try better this faith thing, for in God all things are possible, even pulling this reluctant camel through a small hole. I do not want the desert, that fateful time before enlightenment of absolute desolation, but what more do I have at my hands anyway but a fool who gets mad at inanimate objects? FK
But that still left the singular regulator hooked up to one cylinder, not a good thing when that cylinder runs out under 5 feet of snow and you have to dig through, adjust, and hook up the spare cylinder, usually in the dark. So I went out last week to set up a double regulator with hood, one that instantly shifted the gas intake to the spare cylinder when the first went out. Remembering nearly dying a few years ago, I was understandably nervous: gas kills through leaks in the form of asphyxiation and explosion. But no one was willing to drive 30 miles out from town to the deep woods to do the work and, after all, the last "expert" had nearly killed me. Surely I could do the work myself.
Well: after getting a used contraption from town, I went through the trouble of hooking it all up, inspecting for leaks, finding several, tightening again, and finally, I thought, succeeding, until something told me to check the very top of the regulator for leaks. Spraying soapy water on top, I was instantly exasperated when bubbles began to form immediately. This portion could not be saved; I would have to drive back into town for a new regulator.
Still in a good mood, I made the long drive and went to put the new piece in. Unfortunately, it was of a different size, and the whole canister holder and hood contraption had to be dismantled. It was cold and getting dark and we needed the gas for that night. I swore. I cursed. Once in, my hands covered with gunk and a dozen small cuts, I found that just about everything leaked. I swore some more, searched again for the right wrenches, and finally, after several attempts, got the thing tight and secure.
But mad I was - about the crap first sold to me, about the trips, about the dismantling, about the rush in diminishing daylight. My wife stayed out of the way as the anger drained and I began to realize - what the heck? Why all the fuss over such a small thing? Why the intense anger?
And then I read Merton, who spoke in maddening truth about the realization of ultimate reality. For it is not good enough to have visions of glory, to have feelings of intense union, to have joy; no, these are things of human creation. No one passes the gate which such emotions, for none can relate to the unknowable nature of God. Anything - anything that is comprehensible or familiar - is not of God. One must first pass through the testing, the fire, the desert of not-knowing, of absolute desolation, of having nothing, of absolute hopelessness, before God can shine through in true radiance.
In this he reminded me not only of the Buddhist and Hindu idea of negative explanation for the Void, "Not this, not that," but also of Don Juan in the Carlos Castaneda books, where in one chapter, Castaneda asks the Don, "what is ultimate reality?" They were sitting at a small diner in Mexico, and Don Juan pointed to the items on the table. "None of these is the Truth. Point and name them." And so Castaneda pointed, naming as he did so even God itself. Still, Don Juan said, "That notion, too, is on the table. That, too, is only your small conception of reality."
And so it may well be, as the holy and wise men seem to agree throughout time and culture. And so it is that I, trying to grasp such things, explode like a leaky gas container when confronted with minor frustration. How far I am from any of this, this land across the desert. And yet - a force pulls, sensations stir, something still seems to be up and coming. It is, as Merton said, all up to God, as even the camel might pass through the eye of the needle.
And so it is left to most of us to have faith, for that is the only thing that brings hope. We are otherwise out of control, lost in our world of minimal perceptions, subject to the laws and movements and emotions of a reality we can hardly conceive.
I think I'll try better this faith thing, for in God all things are possible, even pulling this reluctant camel through a small hole. I do not want the desert, that fateful time before enlightenment of absolute desolation, but what more do I have at my hands anyway but a fool who gets mad at inanimate objects? FK
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