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A Famous Monk’s Journey to Alaska, Fifty Years Later

(This commentary appeared on September 14, 2018 in the Anchorage Daily News.)

This is my 40th year in the 49th state, a good time to reflect on what keeps so many of us physically and spiritually bound to this dynamic land.

 

In spring 1978, along with millions of tired, hungry shorebirds from every continent, I arrived with a copy of John McPhee’s Coming into the Country, my first pair of hiking boots, and everything else I owned stuffed into two wheel-less suitcases.

Bursting with anticipation to see tall mountains, and a Pennsylvanian by birth, I felt no remorse migrating from my temporary home on Florida’s crowded, very flat west coast.

 

The monotonous days of sub-tropical sun and heat, the remaining slivers of waterfront being paved over for more condominiums, the ongoing family tensions — it was, in short, an inner malaise and a touch of rebelliousness which drove me north to Alaska, for the chance to find myself.

 

Fifty years ago this month, the most famous monk in American history, Thomas Merton (1915-1968), also bolted for the north, though it wasn’t something he ever dreamed up himself. An unexpected opportunity arose to embark on a 17-day sojourn to the young, still mysterious state. Wisely, he seized it.

Merton, a graduate of Columbia University with an advanced literature degree, had lived as a Trappist monk — albeit a provocative and unconventional one — in rural Kentucky at the Our Lady of the Abbey of Gethsemani for 27 years. The Commonwealth of Kentucky was known for its green knobs and knolls, which the monk and priest enjoyed and appreciated, but Kentucky’s highest peak stood at about 4,500 feet and was far away and nowhere in sight of his monastery.

 

As a bestselling author of 60 books, a compulsive journaler and a world-renowned spiritual thinker, Merton seemed to be re-calibrating his interior life precisely when the invitation to speak to the “freezing faithful” of Alaska materialized from Archbishop Joseph T. Ryan. As Anchorage’s first archbishop, Ryan was busy trying to establish the new archdiocese. Merton’s charismatic presence would be a welcome boost.

 

Through his Zen-like reflections on contemplation, a sense of place and the divinity of nature, Merton, in 1960s parlance, “turned on” many readers. His lyrical and powerful writings filled volumes — books that readers in secular and religious worlds held onto and cherished.

 

Years later, Anchorage’s second archbishop, the late Archbishop Francis T. Hurley, explained in an interview I conducted with him in 2007 that when he was a young seminarian, many considered Merton “the hottest thing around.” The more conservative Catholics of the day, however, found Merton’s interests and inter-faith comparisons upsetting, and his anti-war verbalizing too “un-contemplative.” Hurley also remembered Merton, aka Father Louis among the religious, sometimes being described as “Father Malarkey Merton.”

Though celebrated as a gifted and powerful writer, by the time Father Louis got to Alaska, he hungered for fewer words. He’d been immersed in Zen Buddhism, as were many poets of the time. He tried practicing a more direct way of seeing and being in the world, to acquire wisdom not from theories, doctrines, legalisms, and other abstractions, but to live more experientially. In Alaska, we call that survival.

 

By 1968, after writing so many insightful works on contemplation and regaining some of the lost traditions of early Christianity, the poet-monk was regarded as a “spiritual master,” a label he always shunned. Rather, the Merton who was on his way to Alaska and Asia in autumn of 1968 humbly saw himself as a curious pilgrim who had much to learn from everybody else. He wasn’t interested in agitating or instigating for any particular political point of view, cause, or social movement. He liked the direction he was now moving toward–to step out of the monastic and literary spotlight. To live more simply.

What better place than the icebox of the Last Frontier, with its calving tidewater glaciers, its ample, towering mountain ranges and its inconceivable grand and vast scale to adjust one’s outlook and sense of ego, self-identity and importance?

 

In the St. Elias/Fairweather range alone, 20 peaks reach above 11,000 feet. The highest and fourth-highest mountains in all of North America were in Alaska— Denali and Mount Saint Elias. Merton caught glimpses of them both and noted it on the pages of the working notebook he kept while on his dizzying far northern itinerary.

In his Alaska journal, he referenced mountains almost 70 times. There were more square miles of silence here to last any hermit to judgment day, he wrote.

Trappist Monk Thomas Merton. (Photo courtesy Thomas Merton Legacy Trust, Bellarmine University.)
Trappist Monk Thomas Merton. (Photo courtesy Thomas Merton Legacy Trust, Bellarmine University.)

 

Thomas Merton arrived in Anchorage, population around 45,000, on Sept. 17, 1968, when daylight was shrinking fast and most visitors had vanished to warmer climes. In that most violent and hostile year, perhaps the most unhappiest one in 20th Century America, a disillusioned public struggled with the cultural and political carnage saturating the evening news. One tragic event after another struck. Violent protests over Vietnam. Assassinations. Riots.

A kind of neurosis had set in as democratic ideals and values were being tested on every level. The country was spiraling into perplexing and troubling directions as society split and fragmented into factions and erupting violence.

Whatever center and foundation America had proudly kept–or imagined keeping–it was now sliding down a dangerous cliff.

 

The good-humored, workaholic monk, by this time something of a Catholic superstar, walked briefly without notice through the streets of Anchorage, relieved that the newly-established archdiocese kept his presence “below the radar screen.” Under orders from his abbot, no public lectures or television cameras were permitted as he traveled by chartered plane to remote Alaskan places.

The mood in the 49th state was practically the opposite in 1968. The latest economic news about the discovery of Prudhoe Bay oil was cause for much celebration, though the more jubilant atmosphere was soon tempered by critical public land issues begging resolution.

Merton recognized the state’s historical ties with Russia, but he disliked seeing evidence of the U.S. military’s buildup in the Cold War. And Alaska was full of military, as Merton made mention. In the early 1960s, he wrote about the threat of nuclear war, but his Cold War writings were censored by his religious superiors and not publicly released until years after his death.

Little did Merton know that in 1959, the year of statehood, in the Chugach mountains above Anchorage, a Nike Hercules Missile launch facility was built and operationally on alert 24 hours a day, ready to fire on any signs of Soviet aggression into U.S. air space.

 

Alaska impressed Merton. From his jet window, he made note: “Fine snow-covered mountains lift their knowledges into a gap of clouds and I am exhilarated with them. Salute the spirit dwellings. Spirit-liftings come up out of the invisible land.”

 

He marveled at the “snowy nails” of mountains, and the “beauty and terror” of Chugach mountaintops powdered with fresh, clean snows, and the “indescribable ice patterns.”

“The mountains are the finest I have seen anywhere. It is a GREAT land,” he wrote.

A bald eagle flies over Cook Inlet with Mount Redoubt in the background at Anchor Point on Sunday, May 12, 2013. (Bob Hallinen / ADN)
A bald eagle flies over Cook Inlet with Mount Redoubt in the background at Anchor Point on Sunday, May 12, 2013. (Bob Hallinen / ADN)

From the massive 1964 earthquake, he saw evidence of the huge lift of land, and everywhere he went during his intense explorations, he tried snapping high-quality, 35-mm photos of mountains he saw such as Mount Redoubt, Mount Iliamna, Mount Drum, Mount Wrangell, Mount Augustine, and O’Malley Peak.

 

It’s interesting that over the course of his life, Merton’s private journals do not reveal his ascent to ever-higher and assured stages of spiritual attainment. According to noted Merton scholar and editor, Jonathan Montaldo, Merton’s journals instead reveal the monk’s gradual descent into “a spiritual poverty.”

Merton’s interior journey was often one of struggling, stumbling, faltering forward. He was not the monk who had fully arrived, Montaldo believes. He claimed to be nobody’s answer to anything.

 

Thomas Merton preferred authentic dialogues between different peace activists, philosophers, South American poets, existentialist writers, and Russian theologians, to any dualistic, narrow-minded, “toe the party line” arguments. He reached across religious aisles with his ecumenical, open-mindedness. It was highly unusual for Catholics of his day to be in such deep conversations with Buddhists or Islamic thinkers.

 

To his Alaskan listeners, Merton willingly admitted to his complex, self-contradictory temperament. In the retreat talks he gave to priests and nuns, Merton called himself a “personalist.” He reminded local “Catlicks” that it was important to be in touch with the depths of one’s inner being. By calling himself a personalist, he was someone who firmly believed people should be people and remain true to themselves, and not be ordered, directed, alienated, oppressed, and defined by others. Or, for that matter, swallowed up like slaves or automatons in a dehumanizing political or economic system.

 

Merton was also concerned about the dominating forces of technology that he felt were destroying our basic humanity.

What would this astute social critic say about today’s pervasive media intrusions and distractions?

Had he lived long enough in the north, would he have reminded us to head into the mountains to combat the droning assault of lies, and to restore our need for solitude, solace and silence?

Would he choose to quietly and passively read about the country’s current divisiveness, or would he offer some well-reasoned, thoughtful and balanced responses in a more public way?

I tend to believe he truly was headed into a life of more purifying silence, an existence of less-busyness, a way to live in closer union with God. Maybe continue to write poetry, to scribble in journals, but to slow himself down more, and not be the Merton who said this, and the Merton who said that in an op-ed piece or in a critical essay.

 

Perhaps the bigger story surrounding Merton’s motivation for visiting the 49th state was not to keep on talking and commenting, but to quiet down.

One of his greater, yet unfulfilled desires, was to seek a location where he could one day try and live as an outright hermit. He lamented that he needed deeper solitude, more simplicity. For the last few years of his life, he lived in a private, cinderblock hut one mile from the monastery’s main grounds where fans and visitors could easily track him down.

In the Last Frontier, if a suitable location were to be found, he could live more akin to a northern Desert Father under glacier-filled mountains. Somehow, in the days before the digital revolution, the noise from the outside world could be tempered, muted, and more easily ignored.

 

Had he lived long enough to return to this alpine sanctuary — and I certainly believe he would have come back — the challenges and extremes of Alaska might have been a real test of faith. Though a down-to-earth man in many ways, the energetic monk had never actually experienced being alone in the real wilderness.

Lake Aleknagik (Pete / ADN reader submission)
Lake Aleknagik (Pete / ADN reader submission)

He enthusiastically scouted remote parts of Alaska for potential hermitage sites, perhaps a bit naively. He liked the Eyak Lake area in Cordova and said that Lake Aleknagik near Dillingham “speaks to me,” though it reminded him of Siberia.

But truth was, he had not wandered close to brown bears, lived off a road system, depended on Bush planes to deliver precious supplies, dealt with raging avalanches and permafrost, nor relied on firearms, traps and fishing nets to help him subsist on whatever Mother Nature graciously provided. Doubtful he hoarded any rolls of duct tape.

 

Throughout the 1960s, however, he had grown more ecologically aware, and became more fully awake to his immediate Kentucky surroundings — to bobwhites and tanagers, mice and frogs — to the hidden wholeness and unity found in the woods and meadows. His ecological consciousness further deepened through the writings of Aldo Leopold, Roderick Nash, John Muir, and from his correspondence with Rachel Carson. And in the corpus of his journals, he referenced nature, often lyrically, an estimated 1,800 times, as another scholar calculated.

 

But his dilemma? Even as a praying monk in a small hut, he felt access to purifying solitude was harder and harder to find. Being a religious celebrity with his own literary agent, teaching, being an important revenue provider for the Abbey — the intellectual overload took its psychic toll.

In 1968, he longed to satisfy an inner restlessness, to explore what was out there beyond the status quo in his too-frenzied existence.

 

After 17 days of “running around Alaska wildly,” as he aptly put it, having concluded his eight eloquent conferences to priests, chaplains, and nuns, and having completed all his quick visits to Eagle River, Dillingham, Cordova, Juneau and Yakutat, Merton next ventured back to northern California. He spent a few days there before taking his big leap into the unknown across the Pacific to Asia and to northern India to meet His Holiness the Dalai Lama. And of course, to learn all he could from those far-out Buddhists.

It was a leap that would lead to his death by accidental electrocution outside of Bangkok a mere two months after his Alaska journey.

 

Alaska’s spiritual well runs deep, something that Merton immediately sensed.

The Great Land teaches transformative lessons–from cheechakos who flee the congested flatlands of Florida, to monks on the run from the Bluegrass State.

Spending time in mountainous solitude will teach you what the grind of daily existence often prevents. Only by treading across those undefined rocky trails within can we try and silence the chaos that’s blaring outside.

Thomas Merton & the Art of the Journal

49 Writers | 

If you write for God you will reach many men and bring them joy. If you write for men—you may make some money and you may give someone a little joy and you may make a noise in the world, for a little while.

If you write only for yourself, you can read what you yourself have written and after ten minutes you will be so disgusted you will wish that you were dead. ~ Thomas Merton, New Seeds of Contemplation

By the time he reached his fifty-third year, Thomas Merton strove for a purer form of solitude than his monastic life in rural Kentucky provided. He wanted to be a real hermit, instead of the half-hermit he was after being granted permission to live alone in a cinderblock hut within the wooded property of the Abbey of Gethsemani.

With an expansive intellect and insatiable curiosity, the renowned Trappist monk admitted he could gladly give up the business of writing and publishing books. But he could never quit poetry, he said. Nor could he ever abandon his devoted practice of journaling.

Many of the over 50 books Merton penned such as The Sign of Jonas and Conjectures of a Guilty Bystanderevolved directly from his journals. Merton considered his journals a serious literary practice and discipline, as books-in-the-making. Journals were also his refuge from a world teetering and faltering on the brink of mayhem and disaster. They were the way he privately worked out his thoughts to gain more than a wobbly foothold on his ideas and impressions.

His literary wanderings covered an incredibly wide range of subjects and concerns of the day from the anxiety over nuclear proliferation and encroaching technology, to Zen Buddhism and circling hawks.

He used journaling to relieve inner conflicts and tensions. Or perhaps, all the decades of journaling compounded the daily pressures he felt to remain prolific, and to stay tuned in to his fellow writers and poets.

Journal writing stripped away pretentiousness. It also gave him a vehicle to discover his unfiltered narrative voice, the organic, raw, lyrical, and poetic voice that was truest—and to steer clear of inaccessible, turgid prose.

Overly-polished prose—prose that is too buttoned up, dry, and succinct to the point of being dull, the tonally cool and aloof academese—just wasn’t his style or cadence. Through such valuable writing practice that regular journaling afforded him, he found the voice that didn’t at all sound like writing.

Pen in hand, spontaneously writing in the infirmary (he was a frequent visitor) or near a crackling fire, he didn’t need to impress any hierarchies with his erudition. He could ignore the pushy and intrusive self-editor when freewriting. He didn’t need to finish anything in his journals. Shards of thought, random mosaics of this-and-that spilled across the pages without apparent purpose or pattern.

I, too, have filled my share of journals—over 50 of them, to date—but I didn’t begin this as a discipline until the year 2000, shortly before I began my traditional, three-year MFA program in nonfiction.

Merton diligently kept journals almost all his adult life. He was primarily an autobiographical writer, but through intensive journaling, he trained himself to see and record more deeply the details of life and nature around him. The journals were never about him, per se, they were a way to capture the milieu of the times, to be a witness, to record a mind awake in the dark. Or to stream the story of a modern-day conscience.

I owned few material possessions when I arrived in Alaska in 1978 beyond a camera and a few books. While preparing for my northern sojourn, I splurged to buy my first pair of heavy, all-leather hiking boots and climatically incorrect clothes for Alaska. More importantly, I packed the one hard-bound journal I had—the first I hoped to fill.

I began it the year before, in 1977, with notes scratched from Burwell, England. I was there for an indeterminate amount of time to visit my younger brother, Richy, who was based with the U.S. Air Force at Mendenhall. Richy paid my way across the Atlantic from Florida. Though this was my inaugural trip overseas, I fancied myself a carefree global adventurer, same as Merton did in his youth.

Enamored with Herman Hesse, I copied this memorable quote from Hesse on the pages of that journal:

 “A profound desire to travel is no different and no less poignant than the dangerous yearning to think without fear, to turn the world on its head, and to obtain answers from all things, persons, and events. It cannot be appeased by plans or books; travel means more and costs more, and we must put our heart’s blood into it.”  

I had the heart for it. I was ready to go and planned to see as much of the world as possible, maybe become a freelance journalist. At first, I thought of that journal as mainly a travel log. Nothing of great literary importance. A place to dump facts, figures, superficial details, historical happenings, dates, and place names. Diaries, on the other hand, were for love-sick adolescent girls who liked to write with lots of curly-cues in purple ink.

I wasn’t a doodler and can’t remember writing any laments about forlorn loves. After an excursion with Richy to see the mysterious stone pilings of Stonehenge, I pulled out the journal and scribbled a few more pages. It’s funny now to see that most of my entries were written in second-person, as in: “You are gazing up at the shapes, marveling about its existence when a peculiar feeling hits you.”

A fledgling writer, I was timid and hiding somewhere. I didn’t know enough about the “I” to even recognize that the real “I” was non-existent on those early pages. Who was that person? The “I” lurked somewhere in the rubble of her mistaken identities. She begged to be made visible, to come out from under it all and be set free, but I had a long way to go and too much to learn.

I arrived in Alaska carrying the same half-filled journal. I wrote how pointless it was to try and describe the sovereign power of Alaska’s mountains.

I wrote volumes upon volumes of throwaway lines.

I recorded old Russian sayings like this one: “Never pronounce that you will always escape poverty and prison.”

Every now and then, I attempted poetry, most of it not worth reading again: “In December / on the plot of land where my garden grew / the solstice night digs in / I  smile to remember / once did I paint / the color of the wind.” I wrote one poem imitating Robert Service.

I journaled erratically, half-heartedly, more like an occasional note-taker, and years passed, and the kids grew up, and I took to journaling more and more, though I was never as driven about it as Merton.

I liked to hear those stories about mountaineers stuck in their tents at base camp for days on end during raging snow storms and howling, dangerous winds often wrote in their notebooks to kill time. It always surprised me to talk to writers who claimed they didn’t journal.

I didn’t start taking journaling more seriously until around 2000, right before I started my traditional MFA program.

Much of my forthcoming book, We Are All Poets Here, which partially tells the story about Thomas Merton’s 1968 trek to Alaska, and which covers his Alaska journal and itinerary, grew from the pages of my journals. And most of my published essays have evolved the same way—from journal bits and notes.

Once I discovered Merton, I made journal entries in response to Merton’s journal entries. I wrote reactions to his works. I recorded the details about my book’s highs and lows. I wrote about my meandering, haphazard spiritual journey. And no matter where I went, I took along a notebook with the caveat that I wouldn’t allow myself the luxury of choosing a new one until the “old” one was completed.

Merton became a famous man in 1948 with the onslaught of success his spiritual autobiography stirred in the reading public. Other bestsellers followed lock-step. Merton might have had a premonition that the precious volumes of his personal journals dating back to the early 1930s betokened historical significance.

Yet, according to his explicit wishes stated in his will, he strictly forbade his journals be made public until 25 years after his death. They were edited and cleaned-up and made more “publishable” for general readers and the most damaging or titillating details—whatever negative comments he might have said about his fellow monks or the too-conservative Catholic Church—were removed.

Merton’s Alaska journal was, in fact, different than all the rest as Merton died before he ever had the chance to edit any of it.

As a naturally gifted and widely published author, Merton did not view his personal journals as a way to further illustrate his verbal virtuosity. Of course, the future readers of those journals, such as myself, turned to them for their brilliancy, passionate insights, and yes, for their literary firepower.

Each journal was a highly creative act. He was most himself, the genuine Thomas Merton, expressing the very core of who he was, when he pulled out his journal, forgot all about himself, and engaged his mind in wherever it wanted to take him.

Over time, I learned to think about my journal this way, too, as a place to make straight forward observations in whatever I saw around me. And to be on the lookout for the exacting, telling, intimate details, as well. That’s a standard reason many writers do journal.

But from Merton, I learned that a journal can also connect you to a spiritual realm when you least expect it. There are moments when I’ve been alone in silence, lost in a timeless space journaling, that I’ve felt in touch with a deeper reality.

Merton was a great humanist who journaled tenaciously not out of self-love, to edify himself or his celebrity. He didn’t do it to merely hone his literary skills.

He journaled out of love. Love for the world and for God. He often relied on personal writing to help him with his inner transformation. I finally learned something about that.


A Harvest of Wisdom—Lessons from a First Book

49 Writers | 

I signed the contract for my first book in an east Anchorage home exactly one year and ten months ago, on December 16, 2015 at 10:30 p.m. in the middle of a Christmas party while nervously sitting in the host couple’s master bedroom.

During the holiday cheer and chatter, my publisher, Vered Mares (VP&D House), and I stole a few minutes of private time to talk. We sat on the host’s bed amid big piles of winter coats and scarves stored there by the many guests. Time was short because early the next morning, Vered was leaving on her second trip to Havana, Cuba and it would be almost a month before she returned to Alaska.

The irony that a hard copy of my almost 400-page draft was going to be hand-carried in and out of Castro’s Cuba by a woman born of an Israeli mother and Latino father was not lost on me. Thomas Merton ventured to Cuba, pre-Castro, as a young man in the 1930s and fell instantly in love with the place. He commented on it frequently in his journal, and later, after becoming world-famous, he developed a close kinship with Latin American poets.

As jubilant as I was to be signed as Vered’s 14th author, I exited the holiday gathering—attended mostly by poets and writers—with surprising restraint, without screaming at the top of my lungs,“Hey everybody! I did it! I did it! I finally signed a book contract!

By New Year’s Eve, after receiving a gracious invitation to stay at a friend’s home outside of Las Vegas, a place I always avoided, I took off on a whim to celebrate. I found myself on the Vegas Strip walking through the Bellagio Hotel’s ornately decorated lobby, watching the fireworks show with the best-dressed partygoers. In the surreal atmosphere of blinking slot machines, I lifted one-too-many champagne toasts.

Reaching this long-awaited milestone of signing a book contract was either a test of true grit and endurance, or proof that after ten years of focused work, I might finally be cured of literary psychosis. (Little did I know it would take another 22 months of writing, revising, editing, and design before the book could be physically realized for its shipment to press this November.)

Prior to signing on with VP&D House, an independent, boutique publisher, I faced rejections by 14 different publishers.

The University of Alaska Press turned down my spiritual memoir, as did the medium-to-larger houses such as HarperOne San Francisco. Prestigious religious/spiritual publishers such as Loyola Press and Paraclete—both Catholic oriented—politely passed. And of course, the over 25 highly targeted agent query letters I sent through the years to NYC and other locales led to dead-ends. Such is the fate of an obscure writer from the hinterlands, one with a personal story about how a mystical and intellectually-charged Trappist monk became her spiritual guide.

It lacked juicy, dramatic commercial appeal. A spiritual topic was a death knell for the academically-minded editors. I had a highly-polished, well-thought-out book proposal that took years to refine. But I was a nobody writer. My “platform” rested on nothing but gusts of glacial air and dreams.

I received valuable feedback from several of those rejections, however. Sometimes, you have to thank God for unanswered prayers. All the rejections, the wrong turns, and the agonizing delays were a kind of shock therapy that I didn’t know I needed. At this moment in time, I feel the deepest deep gratitude my book was overlooked.

So there I was, full circle, finishing 2015 with an unexpected acceptance from a small press based under the shadow of the Chugach Mountains in the state I love.

What timing! One month earlier, after a decade of dedicated research and work, after filling over 40 journals of raw reflections and miscellaneous observations and notes, after re-tracing Thomas Merton’s steps in five states and traveling back to Russia, I concluded it was time my draft manuscript and book proposal went to the dust bin for a while. In this case, back to the covered plastic totes I had always lugged my files, notes, and drafts around in.

I desperately wanted to finish this book before it finished me. But I knew I had lost my perspective. What was I doing? I quit my full-time job with benefits after five years as the first Program Coordinator of UAA’s new low-residency MFA program to work on The Book.

Though I never stopped writing ever since I completed my MFA in nonfiction at the University of Pittsburgh in 2005, The Book languished.

I engaged in all the conventional literary maneuvers along the way. I applied to various writers’ residencies to find solitude to write. I built up serious publishing credits in journals, magazines, blogs, and anthologies.

Grad school friends and acquaintances, many of whom had gone on to publish popular books, including Rebecca Skloot’s wildly successful, The Immortal Cells of Henrietta Lacks, eventually stopped asking me about The Book, imaginary as it seemed. Writer-friends regularly met me in coffeeshops to shore up my spirits while listening to my tales of angst and woe. I laughed at the truth behind such questions as: “Hey, how’s the War & Peace of memoirs coming along?”

My family was sick and tired of hearing me talk about The Book. There goes Mom dragging her boxes and laptop to somebody’s borrowed cabin again to write. They couldn’t understand how or why The Book took so long and why my kitchen table constantly looked like the desk of a scatter-brained professor.

Couldn’t I just self-publish on Amazon, make it an e-book, and be done with it? Couldn’t I produce a YouTube video or a podcast to attract some much-needed attention like musicians and singers do, or blast social media to find the right publishing match?

Right before I introduced my project to Vered via the book proposal and sample chapters, I thought the best course of action was to pull back and re-evaluate everything. Maybe if I put The Book aside for a while, I’d gain more literary clarity, understand what its structural flaws were, what it was I was trying to say and apparently not saying well enough. It dawned on me that I was having trouble because I wasn’t going deep enough in the narrative.

But then along came this one-woman dynamo, this incredible entrepreneur and risk-taker, the tenacious Vered Mares who, all while she has been working with me, is also overseeing the establishment of her independent bookstore on Spenard Road called The Writer’s Block Bookstore & Cafe—set to open before the end of 2017. Before construction began,  she had to tear down a former sex shop to make way for the new business. I wondered if Thomas Merton would get a kick out of that?

Last weekend, we met at her house, as we so frequently have. We sat in Vered’s living room and drank Cuban coffee and discussed the forthcoming release of The Book. Her cat Tabby was nowhere to be found, though this summer, she used to sit on the piles of my manuscript pages I stacked on Vered’s couch during our seventeen editorial work sessions.

Vered is the furthest thing from having a Simon & Shuster type of publisher/editor, but she comes from an impressive literary lineage. Her father, Tony Mares, was a well-respected New Mexican poet and widely published essayist. Her uncle, Melvin Kinder, wrote the bestseller Smart Women, Foolish Choices and her father’s brother, Michael Mares, wrote a thick tome on the history and ecology of deserts. Her 82-year-old step-mother, Carolyn Meyer, is still working non-stop as a professional writer and has over 60 books to her credit.

It’s autumn and Anchorage has seen at least three frosts already. I miss the summer days when we took breaks in Vered’s spacious backyard. She’d grab a smoke and I’d lean my head back in the sun or watch her toss mealy worms to her chickens running loose over the grass and in front of tall thickets of raspberries.

The roof and walls are now up on The Writer’s Block Bookstore & Cafe. Things are moving faster and growing more complicated. We needed to discuss last-minute details before We Are All Poets Here goes to the galley stage. We had all the marketing to think about, and when we should plan the book launch party. (To date, Don Rearden’s book release for his novel, The Raven’s Gift, remains my favorite such event.)

Over the course of researching and writing the draft manuscript, my personal life unraveled, my over 30-year marriage broke up, one of my former professors and close friends committed suicide, and four close family members died.

While working on “my project” I had three different operations for skin cancer. I moved seven times, including to a foreign country for almost a year—Poland—where I went solo and sight-unseen to a rental in Krakow. My oldest son got married and two grandchildren quickly followed.

As she generously filled a plastic grocery bag of apples for me from her backyard fruit tree, Vered reminisced about what we’d gone through in the past two years of working together. She’s traveled back and forth from Alaska to Cuba six times (including being there for Hurricane Irma) and eventually married a Cuban man named Yovany.

She lost her beloved dog, finished her MFA at UAA, and sold her family home in New Mexico to help financially underwrite the costs of her new enterprise. While personally working with me on The Book, she drowned in a tangled morass of infinite government forms and documents involving U.S. Immigration attorneys over the problems and approvals for her husband’s visa to move to Alaska. At any day, she may have to fly to Bogata or to Havana for their final immigration interview that keeps getting pushed back.

“Can you believe we’re finally at this point?” I said. “The Book is 99% done. Just a few more small details to wrap up. It’s doesn’t feel real.”

“Yep, we’re finally here,” she said. “We’ve worked closely and more personally than most writer-editor relationships. At bigger publishers, editors are usually juggling many titles at-once. And they don’t always get the book, not on such an intimate level, the way I feel I know your book. The way I understand Merton’s legacy now.”

I showed up at her house recently, a bag of nerves, wound-up, frenetic, speaking literary gibberish about the future of The Book.

“Vered, tell me the truth, do you think I’m insane?”

She laughed and assured me that everything was perfectly normal.

 


Listening to a Literary Monk: Balancing Writing with Silence

49 Writers | 

THOMAS MERTON AT HIS HERMITAGE, ABBEY OF GETHSEMANI. (PHOTO COURTESY OF THOMAS MERTON CENTER, BELLARMINE UNIVERSITY)

Thomas Merton chose to live on the margins. As an isolated Trappist monk, he joined a strict and austere religious order as a deep and profound act of cultural resistance. He entered the Abbey of Gethsemani on December 10, 1941 at age 26, a newly confirmed Catholic and recent graduate of Columbia University with a Master’s degree in literature.

The young, disillusioned Tom Merton traded his active, secular, literary life for a different kind of existence altogether—one of celibacy and prayer in quiet, peaceful monasticism in the backwoods of Kentucky. He basically renounced the perilous and mutilated world with its spiritually vacant values as he perceived it at the time.

The following decade would witness a second world war, the mass carnage caused by atomic bombs, totalitarianism, the horrors of the Holocaust, and the United States’ increasing dependence on materialism.

Thomas Merton, born of two artist parents and from a privileged background, gave up his material possessions to drop out and be an obedient, devoted monk. And by taking such a drastic course, he assumed he would put down his pen and paper forever, for writing was not part of the Trappist tradition. His former writer-self, the side of him that had tried in vain to write the Great American Novel, and the side that wanted to be popular and recognized as a respected man of letters among his intellectual friends, would naturally disappear in the monastery, or so he thought.

But seven years later, his obscurity ended. He became an international, bestselling author with the publication of his acclaimed autobiography, The Seven Storey Mountain in 1948.

From that point forward, his literary fame skyrocketed. By the 1960s, his writerly output was astonishing—over 40 books with many bestsellers among them. From behind the walls of the monastery, he worked constantly to keep up with current events via personal letters to a wide range of correspondents. Merton wrote to a friend about the “air of absurdity” surrounding America and how the “country was going nuts” not only with the war in Vietnam but also with its radicalism and war protesters setting themselves on fire.

His cultural resistance and social protest continued not through demonstrations and marches as he wasn’t permitted to participate, but through the written word.

For the last twelve years, I’ve been immersed in the life and thoughts of Thomas Merton. As a writer myself, I’ve tried to understand his remarkable literary trajectory.

One of the reasons that I, perhaps, ended up writing memoir for my first book, though it was never my original intention, was because, like Merton, I needed to do some major interior cleaning-out. I needed to find out what held at the center for me when the world and America no longer made much sense. It was as if I needed to sweep away years of accumulated debris and piles of falsehoods. The act of writing served as the powerful leaf blower to get down to the bare asphalt of the soul.

As I began working on “my project” things further fragmented and fermented internally. I heard echoes of the Sixties in myself. Just as in Merton’s earlier and more youthful form of contemptus mundi, there was much to dispute and protest in the 21st century.

I felt, and continue to feel, a strong impulse to drop out and move to my own slice-of-the-pie sanctum somewhere, and to write ever-so-quietly in my journals for the rest of my days. I want to grind the inner and external noise to a halt. To detox from all devices. To turn off the news streams, at least for a few months, in order to replenish and rejuvenate from the droning talking heads, the same-old propaganda assaults, the endless daily damage control required by the current White House.

As brokenness and alienation have seemed to engulf us, I’ve tried to make sense of warring political parties and a political climate in which a U.S. president has been publicly described as a “pussygrabber,” a narcissist, and a disgrace.

Absurdity and chaos abound. Men horde assault rifles and randomly murder innocents. Mentally ill, disillusioned young men fire at school children. Nuclear war has become a real fear again, as it was in Merton’s day and throughout the Cold War. Fewer and fewer people want to tear themselves away from their cell phones long enough to engage in real conversation and dialogue. America’s “greatness” is in question.

And another question is: what, as a writer, should I do?

My first book, We Are All Poets Here, will be released in late November, yet I’m at an existential crossroads, similar to Merton’s back in the 1940s.

I’m fighting myself over this tendency of wanting to withdraw at exactly the time I should, as a new author, plan to be more visible.

There is moral courage in dropping out as a writer, but so, too, is there moral courage in staying in—to passionately pursue the real. To stay in the game.

By the dawning of the turbulent 1960s, as Merton himself later admitted, he no longer recognized that prideful, judgmental part of himself that had first joined the Trappists. He carried out voluminous correspondence with poets, thinkers, and writers from all across the map in many different religions, countries, and cultures.

As I evolved into being kind of a Merton guru, my admiration for his beautiful and biting prose kept increasing, as when I came across his Auschwitz poem found in his poetry collection Emblems of a Season of Fury, 1963. The poem, “Chant to Be Used in Processions Around a Site with Furnaces,” contained savage political irony. If it was spiritual fluff I wanted, I knew I had come to the wrong monk.

By the time Merton made his surprise sojourn to Alaska in autumn 1968 (which is partly the focus of my book), he had reached a new level of spiritual maturity. At the same time, though, he was mentally exhausted by the sheer force of his intellect and literary craftmanship. Part of his inner conflict toward the end of his life was how to balance the relentless writing with the need for an even purer solitude and contemplation than the monastery had provided for his previous 27 years.

How to take a step back from his non-stop writerly duties and responsibilities as a designated spiritual master while remaining socially, politically, and culturally informed? What would Alaska teach him?

During the last few years of Merton’s life, and as he prepared to embark on his trek to California, Alaska, and Asia in 1968, in that “year of everything horrible,” he began to turn the lens full circle back to his interior life’s journey.

The best form and act of resistance, Merton believed, was to not live on myths and illusions and lies. It was, first of all, to speak truth to yourself.

He wanted to travel even deeper into his interior self, away from the illusions of being an internationally famous monk, teacher, and a spiritual cause celebre.

He was less and less interested in external results, in his big-shot reputation, and in what the intellect was forever butting in to say. Or in what negativity the latest news headlines injected.

Translated as a writer into today’s terms, it didn’t matter how many op-eds you published, or how many blog readers you attracted, or how many bestsellers you wrote to capture the attention of grassroots political activists, and the power elite and establishment.

The time for making political statements through poems and essays, for trying to create real political change and to raise the social consciousness was for Merton receding. It was time to take a step back.

The Trappist Superstar was growing weary of words.

In one of his poems, he said, “I will try to be my own silence.”

Today, when the world is everywhere encroaching, when we are being assaulted on all fronts by media fatigue and obfuscation, it’s interesting to ponder that, as a writer, my best form of resistance and protest might be to put down my pen and paper, and not to contribute more words and loud talk-talk-talk.

Though I have a first book about to launch, and I will need to turn my attention to the whole self-centered social media marketing machine, the book talks, updating my author’s web site, etc., maybe the best course of action right now is to first sit in silence. Sit in silence awhile. Allow whatever more important truths I might feel and see to be made manifest.

Lately, I’ve joked with my friends about my new, daily motto: I don’t know anything about anything anymore.

I still haven’t broken up with the monk. I continue to examine Merton’s literary life from many different angles. As Merton said in one of his journals, “One must get along without the security of neat and simple, ready-made solutions. There are things one has to think out, all over again, for oneself.”

Like him, I feel a deep urge to drop out from conventional living in order to give more serious focus to developing right relationships and practices, and to care more about honest, authentic community.

And in the precious time I have left to write, to sit in silence longer to allow all the good to rise up and be heard.