A Deathday Remembrance of Thomas Merton by Ron Seitz

My Lord God,

I have no idea where I am going.

I do not see the road ahead of me.

I cannot know for certain where it will end.

Nor do I really know myself, and the fact that I think that I am following your will does not mean that I am actually doing so.

But I believe that the desire to please you does in fact please you.

And I hope that I have that desire in all that I am doing.

I hope that I will never do anything, apart from that desire.

And I know that if I do this, you will lead me by the right road though I may know nothing about it.

Therefore I will trust you always, though I may seem to be lost and in the shadow of death.

I do not fear, for you are ever with me, and you will never leave me to face my perils alone.

Thomas Merton

Thomas Merton: A Deathday Remembrance

(A close friend remembers America’s most famous monk on the tenth anniversary of his death.)

By Ron Seitz

The last day.

I drove down to Gethsemani from Louisville that morning. Too late to celebrate the farewell Mass with you and a few others in the hermitage. By the time I rolled my station wagon down the long, dirt road off the highway, then cut across the grass to pull right up to the door of the hut, you were finishing up your packing and putting the remaining belongings (very few) in order. After the suitcases were in the back of the wagon, you generously loaded me up with books and magazines and records that you wouldn’t be needing then, going on the trip, or later, when you returned. Books and literary publications sent you from poets and writers all over the world and a healthy stack of jazz albums (that I have played often these past few months). Then the most precious gift. A black-felt cowboy hat pushed onto my head with “Here, take this and wear it. Came from a southern preacher who’s been working with the Klan. A friend of Faulkner’s.”

We put the final bag in the wagon, walked around inside the hermitage to check the clean, empty look of it (a Virgin Mary icon on the wall, a hanging Zen calligraphy calender, the clean Victor Hammer handmade desk before the window, the empty rocking chair beside the fireplace, not much more). Then out the door and goodbye to the remaining Brother friend who had been helping you prepare for your journey. I started the car, but you had stopped a few feet from the hut and stood looking, to survey a last time this place that had held your silence, your solitude—this little chapel of prayer that had been chosen as a holy spot, “sacred space” for your life of contemplation.

Then you climbed in the front seat, and I turned the wagon around in a sweeping curve through the grass, both of us taking a quick glance out the side window at the Brother standing in the doorway waving, and we rolled onto the dirt road that wound down away from the hermitage, left empty now with the tall pines behind it.

Reaching the end of the rutted dirt road, you got out of the car to swing the wide iron gate open for me to drive through. Then closing it again, you stood a moment with your hands resting atop the gate and looked across the short, shallow valley to the Abbey Church and the rest of the monastery atop the hill.

“Say goodbye, Tom,” I shouted, leaning out the window.

You raised your arm, “Hai!” and turned away. Getting back into the front seat, laughing. “Heck, they won’t even know I’m gone, or care, before I’m back. Good riddance! ‘s what they’re saying.”

And driving that five-mile, two-lane strip of asphalt to the larger highway that takes us into Bardstown, we kept slowing down and gawking out the window, excited, pointing to objects and scenes that we’d like to photograph if we had the time. Especially the run-down wooden shacks and abandoned, clapboard, lean-to weathered barns, weeds growing out of rusting old autos, broken glass glinting in the sun. You had gotten me interested in photography not long before, and we were talking about doing some motion pictures when you got back. Both of us eager to give that a try and see what we could do with it (and I did, in fact, a month later; so anxious to show you and plan other things).

Then through Bardstown, another 30 miles, on into St. Matthews outside of Louisville, stopping at your doctor’s for a final check. Then to my house for lunch and a visit.

They were all anxious, expecting you, waiting for over an hour. You gave Sally a big wraparound hug “Hello,” then took each of the boys in turn, sat them on your knee, talking and laughing the innocent speech of children and poets. (And this is what little Sean Merton especially remembers, why he still looks forward to your return—no matter my explanations to the contrary.)

Then, after bringing in the books and records from the car, we sat down to a quick lunch Sally had fixed. Something simple, you had said; so just a sandwich and tea. But before you had taken the first bite, I said, “Hold it. Got to have music to eat by, just like you always say, Tom.” And I pulled out one of your albums and put it on the phonograph there in the dining room. “Now listen to this, everybody. Tom’s favorite.”

It was Jimmy Smith and his organ, a funky-blues jazz rendition of “Got My Mojo Workin’.”

And on hearing the first note, you got up from the table and started a sort of shuffle dance, singing along, bobbing your head up and down, your own kind of “monk’s boogie.” “Mojo! Mojo!” you kept repeating with Jimmy Smith. All the while grinning as the boys laughed and clapped, until you waved your arms for them to “Come on, join in.” Which they did—hopping off their chairs and jumping around you in a circle, yelling “Mojo! Mojo!” and grabbing your hands. Some kind of a whirling-dervish dance that had all of us joyously “letting go.”

“Tried it in New York City … gonna try it out on you,” you sang, pointing at the boys. “Sprinkle you with goofer dust” with wide eyes and a whistle following. All of it ending on the last note of the record with everyone of us standing there laughing and clapping. And me trying to explain to the boys just what a mojo was: simply some kind of voodoo-magic love potion. “Ask Muddy Waters.”

Then, after eating, there was the hugging, kissing goodbyes to Dylan, Sean, and Casey. They were standing on the porch with Sally waving. And we were off to buy you some supplies for your trip.

I took you to a large discount department store, and we rummaged among overalls, boots, ponchos, etc. Trying on big hats in front of mirrors, looking goofy, laughing. Until we finally picked out a large hunting jacket, much too big but to your liking. Pockets all over the place.

“This pocket here is for my camera. These two for my notebooks. This one back here for my bottle of wine. Let’s see, fill this one with grapes in case I get hungry wandering around in those Himalayas.”

“And that little bitty one there on the side. Save that for your mojo.”

Both of us now wound up, laughing little Zen quips as you stood in the middle of that store turning around, modeling that huge hunting jacket for me and all heaven to see. Then going through the cashier checkout lane, unaccustomed to having money (much less buying anything), you pulled out a bulging roll of bills and dumped the entire amount on the counter, your whole bankroll to get you to the Far East. An innocent (very funny, to me) gesture that totally non-plussed the lady cashier. And after asking how much you owed her, you began sorting through the piled ball of bills until you came up with the right amount, then scooped up the remaining “change” and stuffed it into one of the large pockets of the jacket. You wore it right out of the store. And handed me your old jacket, saying, “Here, you can have this. It’s a good jacket.” And it was:  as good and stylish as an olive-drab monk’s going-to-the-city wardrobe can be expected to be.

Then we were off for a brief visit to the college library, to the Merton Study Center which housed all of the materials (manuscripts, photographs, paintings, etc.) which you had- willed them a short time ago. Just a small space, the Merton Room, the back of the library, and you spent a half-hour or so checking some correspondence for names (the custodian always had a tough time deciphering your pinched European script). A little embarrassed already, I think, at the concerned scholarship surrounding your works, you had to make a joke about the place as we left. Something to the effect that it could serve as an “on-the-road outhouse” for poets passing through. And I laughed, reminding you of my favorite poem (that had appeared in one of your journals) about your real outhouse at the hermitage, the one-line Zen poem that I took the liberty of titling Snake Of The Outhouse:

“Are you in there, you Bastard?”

(An immortal lyric koan which I silenced a much too formal poetry reading with one night.)

Then up the hill for a brief visit goodbye to our good friend Father John, longtime dean of the college. He was ill at the time and very happy to see you. Late in life he had come to appreciate your vision and was the one responsible for the Study Center. But the meeting seemed strained. John, so much wanting to express his affection and gratitude, but the silent, interior kind of person unable to do so. And I felt such an intruder as you stood facing each other, hardly speaking,

John’s eyes beginning to fill as you shook hands farewell.

Time for you to take a break, get some rest, and ready for that night.

The last night before you left. I won’t go into that much here. It was a difficult, trying experience for most.

We did have the final get-together dinner with a few of your close friends in Louisville. At a place called the Pine Room way out River Road on the Ohio. It was a night-spot restaurant too conventional (I thought), stiff and formal. (As we were being seated, I remember you surveying the place, noticing the plush red-velvet rococo decor, and, aside to me, smiling: “This place looks like a French bordello—are you sure we’re in the right place?”)

The situation was strained, the atmosphere tense, and several of us (trying to mute our emotions) behaved poorly. No one seemed relaxed (and this was especially sad because of the uniqueness of the occasion). In a word—many of us just didn’t hold up too well.

After the dinner, and after saying farewell to each of your friends in turn, you left with Sally and me. We were to drive you back to the college where you would spend the night. It was raining, and we all sat in the front seat, Sally in the middle. And as we wound our way along the wet, shining curves of River Road, with the rain beating so hard against the windshield that we could hardly see, you began to loosen up some after the uncomfortable pressure of the evening. You were leaning forward in the seat talking excitedly about your departure in the morning and the adventure of the long journey ahead of you. For months out at the hermitage you had been poring over travel books and maps of the countries you were going, to visit, and now, finally, you were just a few hours away from the realization of those long plans.

We started joking about how one of those snakes was going to get you over in India, and I (in jest then but, now, thinking back, maybe a little fearful) said: “You won’t be coming back here, Tom. You’re gonna disappear in one of those jungles over there, and all they’ll ever find of you is a little wooden cross marking your grave.” The thought not so humorous to Sally, but you laughing: “That’s all right with me. Wouldn’t be too bad a way to go. But that snake just might not bother to put up a cross when he’s finished.”

And then Sally and I were talking about our European trip four years ago. How we had planned to make Majorca our base from which to travel the length of Europe visiting all of the poets-philosophers-artists on the list you made up for us before we left. And I was to write big novels in a cheap pension on the Mediterranean: some kind of Fitzgerald-Hemingway romantic dream that I had been nurturing for ten years. All of it to come crashing down when baby Dylan (ten months old) got dysentery in Spain, and Sally (four months pregnant with Sean) got bounced from her seat onto the floor of a bus as we careened through the streets of Barcelona. That trip was one big self-indulgent fiasco (on my part) that ended with us flying straight back to the States, stopping at New York, only to continue on to further misadventures in Hollywood. What I’m coming to here, Tom, is what I reminded you of then riding home in the rain. When we finally did get back to Kentucky and out to Gethsemani to tell you of our “adventure abroad,” of all the pathos and near tragedy of it, you remarked (laughing and slapping your knee): “What a glorious experience!” (meaning, I now know, how enriching it was for us in terms of wisdom gained, etc.). And I felt like punching you right in the stomach for such a response to my harrowing tale of near disaster and shattered dreams.

“So don’t come back here in a few months with any sad stories, or you’ll get the same sympathy. I’ll play the Zen master this time,” I told you as we pulled into the college. And goodnight.

I would see you early in the morning. Time to catch your plane out.

6:00 a.m. At the airport.

We had a big breakfast, you kidding the waitress oyer the menu, feeling good. Getting more excited, checking the time. Then hurrying to get a copy of The New Yorker (one of your favorite magazines and where you got so much material, checking all of the ads for slogans to insert into the poems of your Cables To The Ace— the manuscript of which I so arrogantly refused to type because I thought it “sloppy, not good enough” compared to your earlier work, again always at least five years behind in understanding what you were about in your poetry).

Then, luggage checked, ticket confirmed, we found the right gate, and you were one of the first in line. “Want to get a seat by the window so I can see everything.” Always the eye of the poet: to sky-view the landscape calligraphy as you passed over the huge bulge and roll of the continent westward.

And now you a little anxious to get up and off and on with it. I just stand there awkwardly, out of words. Goodbye, have a nice trip, said the last time. Then, involuntarily, without thinking, I repeated what I had said the night before: “You won’t be coming back. You’ll stay over there.” Still playful but (with unwanted intimations) it came out more serious.

And you smiled, “Naw, I’ll be back. Can’t get rid of me that easily. Anyway, the Abbot wouldn’t allow it.”

I shook your hand a last time—so long, Tom.

Suddenly, I was weary. I felt exhausted and spent. There was nothing more to be done. I wouldn’t wait to see your plane off. You were still standing in line as I turned and walked away, out the door and to my car.

And that was the end of it. The last time I would ever see and be with you.

It’s afternoon now, almost three o’clock.  Time to call a halt to this.  Nothing more to add.

You’re gone, Tom. And I’m left with the reminders.

On a nail, at the foot of the steps behind me, hangs your old jacket. Upstairs, on the mantel in the living room, are stacked your books and records. About all that’s left of those good days together, here remembered. Except for the big, black western hat that you gave me when you left and which (silly gesture; always the fool) I put on this morning to write these last words.

And in the breast pocket of my shirt: the postcard. The one that arrived in the mail just yesterday, two days after your death. It’s dated December 3 and posted from Ceylon. It tells me how happy you are, that “there is no place on earth to compare with these mountains. A real paradise.” And more. To conclude with the startling statement (the pure irony of it all): “Would love to live here!”

But you gave me much more than this, Tom. And what I’d like to pass along to my children and anyone else interested.

To begin, Tom. You always knew a lot more about me than I did you (as was the case with most whom you touched).

Enough said already about Merton the Writer, Merton the Artist, Merton the Social Activist, and what else. The entire portrait of all that will be given later in your “official” biography.

My say here will be no more than a “memory proem.” A Thank You! (more or less).

What I’m after here, Tom, in these few words, is the spiritual seed that you planted in my

The vision that nurtured my “conversion” was your living the incarnation!

So many times, in that excited kind way of yours, you would keep reminding me that (as best as I can catch you):

“Okay, easy. Now, let’s see if we can get it right,” you would say.

“Indeed, if God is really in this room, this place, as we know he is, eh—we can’t be in too much trouble, now can we?

“See. Either we are one with the Holy Spirit or not, eh. And if the Incarnation, the Word made flesh is a living reality, then the whole cosmos is sacramentalized, is redeemed, is sacred and holy. Is really church, see (laughing), and you can’t get out, eh, can’t escape that, even if you wanted to.

“So, you see, you don’t really need to get anywhere or be anybody—all that so-called ambition and going somewhere thing. … You’re already who you are and where you are: home! Really. God’s house, eh? Creation.

“Now, we’ve got to stop all this stuff about ‘just-i-fi-ca-tion.’ Let go and become who you have always been! That’s the one-time, most important thing you’ve got to remember to remember. That’s the real and true meaning of Resurrection—a return to your original source. Go home to God.

“So stop trying to be other than who you are by erecting monuments of your achievements— such things as books, artworks, great ideas—you know, evidence to prove your worth and justify your existence to God. . . . That’s all so much waste.

“See. That’s the true meaning of hope … to trust in the ultimate goodness of creation. Hope doesn’t mean an anticipation or expectation of a deliverance from an intolerable or oppressive situation or condition. That’s what most of us are doing most of the time: wanting something other than what is. As I said, true hope is trusting that what we have, where we are, and who we are is more than enough for us as creatures of God.

“To appreciate this, you’ve got to know that revelation is all around you all the time … Revelation expressing itself as beauty, truth, goodness, and especially love! Creation is lit up with the numinous. Numinous: that’s God saying ‘Hi!’ (laughing).

“And faith is the surrender to this great gift of love: Life!… To be alive in creation … Submit to it—not in the sense of passive resignation—but in acceptance and participation in being!

“I give up. Take me, you say in prayer. You give back, in sacrifice, what was never yours.

“So, you see, it’s something like this, to use an image or a metaphor. After all, I’m a poet of sorts, not a philosopher or theologian, eh?

“In total inhalation, in the act of Eucharist, you eat the Mystical Body, the Cosmic Christ by accepting, by participating, by celebrating, in joy, the total charity of your being in creation! The ‘I’ of you does to one; you are, in the truest sense, what you eat.

“And in total exhalation you offer up, give back, go home in redemption. You do this by curing the inner split between you and God the Incarnate Creator, what we oftentimes call in Mystical Theology original sin.

“That’s why you go to the monastery, the primary reason anyway. It’s to do that, to heal the illusion of separation, the separation of you from your true person, from the world in creation, and especially from God.

“It’s all, we’re all one!

“So relax. Quit apologizing.

“God loves you or you wouldn’t be … eh?

(laughing)

“Sure …”

You were a Bodhisattva*, Thomas Merton. That I know. And you were around here to tell me and others the above.

 

*Bodhisattva: “in Mahayana Buddhism one who having attained enlightenment (bodhi) is on his way to Buddhahood but postpones his goal to keep a vow to help all life attain salvation.”

 

—this article was taken from US Catholic magazine, December 1978.  I found it inside the cover of a copy of Ron Seitz’ book, Song for Nobody: A Memory Vision of Thomas Merton, 1993, in the Cardinal Stritch Retreat House, Mundelein, Illinois while at a Transforming Community retreat in April, 2013.