December 15, 2008

Entering the first entries onto my 2009 calendar.

Reading Mariani’s new biography of Gerard Manley Hopkins, I'm struck by two things. One is that Hopkins’ taste for form exceeds mine as the heavens are high above the earth. I do not make much distinction between the efficacy of the host in an Anglican church and that in a Catholic one. I do not think that the dissimilarities in procedure from one church to another, or even one religion to another, make much difference in the long run, and would be just as happy throwing orchids into a lava flow as an act of devotion as I am genuflecting to a cross. Whether this is a flaw in me or an unnecessary rigor in him I don’t know. Perhaps the distinction is mostly in the times, though it is hard for me to believe regular people made too much of such rarefied gradations at any time. Having decided upon Catholicism, he seemed disgusted by the Anglican rituals which filled his soul a year before. I too had my Newman moment (in Syracuse) when I considered that Roman Catholicism was the end toward which my soul was evolving. Two things stopped that process short: one was the Pope, the other was the conclusion that I was trading sky blue for robin’s egg and it probably wasn’t worth the fuss.

The other thing that strikes me is Hopkins’ joyful reception of the beauties of the world, taking their utterance as his private vocation. I did the same at the age where he is in the biography so far, and reading of him makes clear to me how much I have wandered from that path. What was once visionary gleam is largely now anxious planning and resentment when the plans go awry, a profession rather than a vocation. Did the same thing happen to him? I don’t know yet, but I rather think not. Had I died when he did, perhaps I too might have remained pure. As it is, I have become a careful little functionary, laying down the pen and the brush when they are not rewarded as I think they should be, pushing the next inspiration away because the last one didn’t pay off, using a bad review as an excuse to stop the show. I’ve become so attached to the fruits of my labor that I begin to think that the fruits were the goal all the time, and it was foolish ever to think otherwise. I have become a worldling. I remember when I believed myself immune to that, and for a while I was. The journey became too hard, the failures too bitter, and that’s my excuse, but leaving that splendid road may be more bitter than the hardships on it. The Gleam is not gone, but pushed into a closet where you put things whose depth of longing and visionary intensity may lead to embarrassment. I have made friends who look away when such things are mentioned. I have filled my life with business and busy-ness that outshout the Voice. I think I can get back on the road–though perhaps not tonight. There are many habits to break. Rest before labor.