nobodysgod

February 11, 2011.

As I wrote my last post, I was pleased to be able to recall readily the details of my confirmation by Cardinal Bea. But after the blog was posted, my brain fastened on the fact that while red-letter events of my years as a Catholic are vivid to me even now, I remember little about, specifically, what I believed–and thought–then. I remember how ardently I believed in God, but all that says to me now is how passionately I believed in my belief itself. But what about when I thought about God, Jesus, being Jewish, chastity, the "meaning of life"–what was I thinking? (Please note that the emphasis is not on the last word, as in "What was I thinking?)

Curiosity nagged at me. Not being able to remember, that nagged at me even more. By concentrating hard, I could recall a feeling–and then the thought–that nothing around me looked the same once God was in my life. Nothing was "everyday" any more. But while I was determined to become a person whose life reflected her faith, I was equally determined not to change. To remain my parents’ daughter. Beyond those tissue-thin recollections, I could remember only extraordinary joy, which was barely tempered by a sporadic sense of anxiety about going all the way, so to speak, and being baptized.

Coincidences are not part of my belief system. Checking for possible clues in the bookcase where I keep old drafts, I noticed a bulky brown envelope. At once, I knew that manila envelope held poems from the time immediately before my baptism. I am no poet–but even as I held the unopened envelope in my hands, the reason I wrote those poems blithely bounced back into my head.

I laughed. I had written these poems because there was a gap in my days I needed to fill–not among the top ten reasons a poet writes poetry, I’m pretty sure. But it was mine–because seven months before my rescheduled baptism, I lost my job. With no movie-going or meeting-a friend-for-lunch money, I had to find some way to occupy myself that didn’t cost anything. Chastity was writ large for this catechumen, so any "filler" activity had to take place sitting up. That was why, every day when I returned home from noon Mass at St. Paul the Apostle, I would–I remember now!–read a little of some confident convert’s autobiography. The rest of the afternoon hours, I filled by writing a poem. Then, or more likely, later, I stuck the lot of them in the manila envelope I now held.

I opened it. Dozens of pages came tumbling out. On each was a poem, typed on unemployment-thin paper. I gathered them up from the floor and braved them.

My first observation was that the poems confirmed that any gift I have for poetry is scrawny indeed. Far more importantly, reading them did reveal some of what was on my
mind back then. They offer evidence of how serious was my determination to remain myself. One promise kept. Another find:: once an asker of questions, always an asker of questions. The poems are stiff with questions. Chronically curious, I wasn’t cured of that happy ailment. Moreover, even when I was in the early-days-heat of my love affair with God, I made jokes. Making jokes is something I do a lot now–but was surprised to find poems that are funny. Well, I was did have to amuse myself. Nonetheless, the poems, both decent and pretty dreadful, reveal how quickly I understood that having a relationship with God wasn’t a joke. Or easy.

That I knew that is evident in this very short poem, titled "On the Nature of Faith:

Have faith.
Have half of this peach.
Have fun at the beach.
Have faith.

Here’s a short one on "The Eucharist":


Bland blessedness,
Muted and dim:
Five real wounds less
Than wholly Him.

I was not a believer long before I understood how deceptive religious language can be. As you read the next poem, called "Sweet Jesus," picture a mother in the park, whose child has fallen and cut open his knees. See in her outstretched arms the sweetness of her love?


Impaled upon the cost,
Your coaxing arms uncrossed,
That welcome is not lost
Upon us, Sweet Jesus.

Heart-long toward that grace
We race, to take our place
With You–and find spared space
Up there. Thus.
Sweet Jesus.

The next poem was written after making the Stations of the Cross. It’s about the tenth station, which shows Jesus being stripped..

Mirror, mirror, on the wall,
Who is the barest one of all?

In any Catholic church, the Virgin Mary is always in sight. My curiosity, disinclined to pause for breath anywhere, had "A question for our Lady":

Mary, ever virgin, in life before in name,
Didn’t it hurt you, girl, to miss that dazzling pain?

Here’s one called "An Old Tree,"which hints to me that I might have given some thought to the risk-laden tree in the Garden of Eden:

The rings around the trunk, they say,
Are the way to gauge an aged
Tree’s longevity. But how, pray,
Calculate when the tree’s engaged
In backing up a dying God?
Yet see that tree on Calvary,
Those are no soft twigs, those die-hard
Planks nailed tight to Sanctity.
But the heart of an bold old tree
Which would have chosen otherwise
Than thus revive cold memory
Of when it stood in Paradise.

I’ve said that I was in need of "free" amusement during those money-tight months before my baptism. "Conversion: One Version" was obviously written for that purpose:

Becoming a Roman,
When a full-grown woman,
Holds lots of surprises.
But I think first prize is
Snatched from the myriad
By a late period.
Quelle temptation to pander
To delusions of grandeur.

And last, another serious poem, written from my lifelong desire to understand more than I can.

Calvary

It is hard as nails
To grieve a God. First-born
Price God set impales
Himself. Unadorned, worn
Thin by slim hope held tight,
A prophecy comes true
To death: accounts set right
By a diligent Jew.
In squinting toward the kill,
Our eyes blink smarts enough
To salt that wounded hill.
But tears strike blindman’s buff
At truth, for all faith knows
Of how God comes, or goes.　

Enough. Indeed, probably more than enough of my "brown envelope" poems. Though I had packed these poems away with small if any intention of ever looking at them again, what I discovered in reading them now was that, even in the early days of my belief, I hadn’t packed my mind away. That’s the main reason I’ve shared them. But also because putting them out in the blogosphere makes me feel gutsy.