Pardon Me

We exchanged formalities and banalities.

It's a pleasure to meet you.

Likewise.

Nothing about the weather, more along the lines of how was your trip, your accommodations, how are you enjoying the conference and our pastoral tourists-attracting environs.

From his side, very little, holding his cards close to the vest.

Are you from here originally?

Tell me your role again.

And then, I stopped parrying and went for the heart of the matter. His heart.

What do fellow bishops call you? How about fellow priests? How does your secretary address you? Your excellency? Father Theodore? Theodore? Is that as far as the informal reaches: first-name basis?

Then: What did they call you as a kid?

He halted. He sat back in the ancient two-armed paisley, upholstered chair. He closed his eyes, took in a long breath. I waited.

Teddy.

He opened his eyes. A curtain lifted. His face softened, its pallor lightened.

May I call you Teddy?

The ancient grandfather clock, its pendulum swaying. His dolorous eyes pleading, fixed on my eyes. Hands folded in his lap. 

You may.

We had opened a door and entered a room, a dark one with sagging purple velvet drapes and the fragrance of burning candles and stale wine.

Teddy.

May I call you Paul?

Of course.

And I entered a confessional with the same velvet curtain, a kneeler, and a sliding screened door in the window.

How many times, son?

I lost count, Father.

How many times, Paul?

Self-abuse? I tried to count. Mortal sins. I didn't want to commit a sacrilege of the sacrament by leaving out a mortal sin. 

I don't know. It's only been two weeks, Father. Fourteen. Give or take.

Fourteen?

Maybe fifteen. Let's say seventeen, just to be safe. (Safe from what? Eternal flames.)

I'm not coming back, Teddy. How many times for you, Teddy?

I lost count.

But more than fourteen, give or take, right, Teddy?

I lost count.

Teddy.

Paul.

May I call you Paulie?

I prefer not.

Teddy, what are we talking about here?

I prefer not to say.

Is it safe to say it ain't the same as my fourteen-year-old's transgressions, the ones they labeled mortal sins, the Inquisition's torture chamber of shame and remorse for the normal tides of testosterone, Teddy?

You're quite the poet, Paul.

And you're quite evasive, Theodore.

The screen closed.

I parted the curtains. I walked out, to the pews. Or was it the communion railing? It was an odd feeling. I had been give no absolution and therefore no penance.

The silence shrouded me. I longed for the cloudy fragrance of incense. All I got was unlit candles.

Anno Domini

Forty years ago today, Thomas Merton died.

Here was a man who truly mattered, who matters now.

Traditionally, a saint's feast day is celebrated on the day of his or her death.

We are blessed by his presence, by his absence, by his eloquent silence.

Vac Vacancy

I am on vacation.

Vacation from what? a skeptic or cynic or demurrer would opine.

Speaking opine, as we speak and listen and blog, I am at the Pine Tree Inn, in Brantingham, New York, at this moment.

Can you find it, or me?

There must be dozens upon dozens of Pine Tree Inns or Lodges or Motels in these parts.

Many other years, while I was fully or partially or pretendingly and gainfully (as well as stressfully and tensely) employed, I pined for a woodsy retreat. A getaway. Now I'm sort of restless, although I revere the scenic drama, the butterfly on the flower, the dragonfly on the leaf, the mile-plus walks.

Restless, because I'm not making money as a self-employed entrepreneur.

Maybe it's the Protestant capitalistic work ethic thing, Max Weber-style.

Or an ancient Catholic guilt.

Or an urban yearning.

Time to go.

Maybe we'll talk later in the week.

Oh. I do have something to write home about. I finished a crossword. The first one, with maybe a few errors, in thirty years or more. You'd think a worldly wordsmith would be good at crossword puzzles, but you should remind yourself of Pawlie Kokonuts's attention deficit-surplus syndrome.

The puzzle was from New York magazine. I'm looking forward to seeing the answers in the next issue. A few parts were puzzling.

But no blank spaces.

We like that illusion, do we not? All the blanks filled in? (In relationships, jobs, games, transactions.)

A deception, surely.

Croagh Patrick Triptych

Croagh Patrick, County Mayo, Ireland, on the road from Louisburgh to Westport, with an elevation of 2,513 feet, overlooking Clew Bay, scene of pilgrimages today and August 15 and Reek Day (the last Sunday in July), where St. Patrick is said to have fasted and prayed for 40 days in Lent in 441, where I climbed part of the way last October, and where I strayed from the path looking for a shortcut to a mysterious bowl-shaped landform, only to encounter boggy, soggy meadows of green and a rock with shamrock-shaped lichen, and where, back on the "normal," rocky path, Fintan with a flinty smile and walking stick told me,"You don't want to be doing that, I've tried it, and anyway that's where Patrick cast the demons."


Three Haiku

misty cloud shadows
simmering sunlight bursting
verdant moss islands

Clew Bay horizon
invigorating crispness
birthday calls Stateside





Patrick's spirit lurks
pilgrims trekking up and down
gleeful light airy

All blessings on St. Patrick's Day.

For a splendid biography, I recommend The Wisdom of St. Patrick, by the inestimable Greg Tobin.

All photos, text, and blarney copyright 2007 by The Laughorist.