To God the Father

Eve After Falling Into Sin, Johann Koler, 1883

Love, again you have found me in the call of birds, the sound of wind thrumming in my ears.

I know that all the world was meant to be green in this way, that lushness was to overwhelm and sedate us into the dreamlike torpor of Adam.

Fill us with a potency. Make us leap from out ourselves towards you, nearer by death-and-life-giving.

Here in the barren land we wait for lushness, for fervent murmur of running waters, for the full welling of slow rivers.

Break us for our yolk.

Keep us till we sleep our fathers' sleep and give out the new full self.

Fiction: "Strannik: A Vision"

Herbert James Draper, "The Lament for Icarus"

Written by Jonathan Torres
Edited by Ross J. McKnight



Mother.

You were the first to point me towards the desert star. I looked up and never turned my face away. To have, to hold, to consume - this is all I ever wanted. In searching I have found who I am. I am your son. As I wander, I hear you calling my name. Strannik. I wander. I hear your call. I will never turn away.

Your love is my staff. I do not wander alone. The further I walk, the further I stumble, the further I crawl, the sand cuts harder, the winds flow faster, but the star burns ever brighter. I do not wander alone.

In my first three years of traveling I have met my brothers and sisters, yet have met none like me. I mentioned the star on the horizon and they smiled. Yes, they saw it, but they did not want it. They did not love it. They claimed the sands were too rough, the winds too wild, and so they turned away just as the star burned brighter. I will never turn away.

My brothers and sisters traveled with me for a short time, pretending to want it, pretending to love it. One by one they fell. One by one they came to me and wept. They told me they were sorry. I forgave them, and let them return to their homes. All of them, they turned away.

The last to turn was my first brother. As we crested the high dune in the West he collapsed. Grabbing sand sweat and blood I pulled him to his feet. He grasped my shoulder and looked at me. Our eyes met and I understood. He whispered my name. Strannik. I wander, and I hear you calling. He was so close, so close, mother. So close. He spoke to me one last time. I did not understand his words.

I let him go. I never looked back. The journey is almost complete.

I use all of my strength to place one foot ahead of the other. The winds scream against you, mother. I curse them, damn them to Hell. The star wages war against me, and I weep. The violent sands begin to stir. One foot ahead of the other. Mother, stay with me! Alone, I drop my staff and continue without it. The sand-star bursts out in rage. My veins are full of fire. I turn my face to the ground, looking at my feet full of blood. One more step and I will touch the star. Mother, stay with me! One movement from my body. I lean forward, I look up. My face burns red. My voice disintegrates. The sand turns to glass. The ground shatters and my body is dismembered. My soul flies to the star, and the star catches what was always its son.

The nova of my life twinkled in the midnight sky. My brothers and sisters looked up and smiled, and they turned away.

I never turned away. I never turned away.

The Importance of Death

Woody Allen and Death

Recently, I watched a documentary on Woody Allen. He is quite an interesting character. If you do not know much about his life and work, go look him up. I had seen a film or two written and directed by Woody Allen and I had heard talk of his thoughtfulness and intelligence, but until I took the time to view the documentary, I had not understood the depth in his work. One of the subjects that struck me was Woody Allen’s appreciation for death.

His explanation for why he turned from being a sweet infant and toddler, to a sarcastic and slightly mean boy is that he learned of death; he realized that he was not going to live forever and the happy world around him would become irrelevant. He decided that the way one lives his life is largely determined by how he responds to the reality of death – to what degree is an individual creating an illusory world that allows him to ignore the fact of his own death? Woody Allen responded with irony.

Woody Allen’s ironic stance towards the world allows him to be funny; because he can lampoon those things that most other people take seriously, but know they are silly for doing so. That same ironic stance also allows Woody Allen to be a serious thinker and to understand and express the depths of meaningful human relationships.

The ironic approach towards life that Woody Allen takes on, because of his view of death, gives him a form of detachment. He accomplishes a sort of secular detachment, as opposed to detachment motivated by religious beliefs.  Although Woody Allen is not the ideal role model in many ways, this essential bit of an interesting man offers food for thought.

Anyone familiar with the Benedictine religious order will know that an important piece of guidance offered in St. Benedict’s Rule is to “keep death always before your eyes.” This maxim is appropriate for any Christian attempting to walk the straight and narrow. Woody Allen had it right – we all must face the reality of death, and we all must respond in some way. For a Christian, death is a reminder of the life after death, which in turn encourages detachment from earthly things.

Detachment, however, is not the end, for one still must live out his time on earth. Similar to Woody Allen’s growth from a simply satirical young man to one who is a serious thinker, with interest in the complexities of human life and relationships, Christians must mature from an initial experience of detachment to a posture of detachment that appreciates the good, the true, and the beautiful so marvelously found in human experience on earth.

Death is important. Death keeps things in perspective. Death helps bring new life. In our culture that hates and hides death, yet actively promotes and produces death, we not only must labor to respond well to death as an idea, but also work to strengthen our courage and the courage of others in facing the reality of a culture obsessed with death. 

A Eulogy for My Son

Yesterday, I buried my unborn child, Charles Dominic.

In these latest days, I have often been Theoden at Theodred's tomb. Simbelmynë I have planted in my imagination, ever minding the loss of his brief and bright life.

This great-souled little one has gone from us almost as soon as his arrival. The fiery joys set and burst at his coming have been swallowed at our grasping like will-o'-the-wisps, leading me on to an empty place forlorn.

More than ever, I am alone in that I know and honor the dignity of his life like a child with a raggedy plush that no one wants. Only the child can see its worth. And who in this world will see his worth?

With the same conviction, I know that he is my son. We felt it, and we named him before we knew the Feast of St. Charles would soon follow his death. My first born too early born.

That he was too early for this world is clear. He wanted only one thing, and only one thing I taught him without knowing -- or myself and my ancestors taught him by striving. To seek God only. He learned too well for my weakness.

He has died after the fathers who made his death seem insignificant, and so he has died alone. Laid to rest alone, he sleeps in an open field beneath the stars and simbelmynë, who, like me, only mind him ever -- only we mind. Because the watchful flowers have covered his grave after and before his fathers. They are gone and cannot see him.



My son. Why?



Like you, purpose has come and gone like so much uncaring wind. It did not stay for a fortnight.

Dreadful purpose fulfilled in weeks, to send you where I am to -- I was to -- and would send you to again and again and call you back wanting you without wishing.

Tiny intercessor. Stronger than soldiers. Having suffered the greatest loss -- the loss of even a worthy and blessed trial, a worthy and blessed love of the earth. How could you have despised what you did not know?

Your brothers and sisters will not forget your name, nor your mystery, wisest of us. Love me, son. Please love me from where you are.

Wish me so much pain that the miracle of my empty hands may teach your siblings what I somehow, unknowing, taught you.

Oh my son.

Charles, do not rest while we waste in this vale of tears. You have gone to the house of my fathers. Let them make your spirit great for the wars. And do not forget your weary father. Be ever mindful -- with the fair bright eyes in the grass! -- and await the opening of the world for me.

Poetry: "All Souls' Day, A.D. 2013"

The trees shed from lissom limbs
the fruiting season's bloody glory.
Burgeoning berries perk, plump and fall --
a short journey from seed to oblivion.
These on the ground no hand will grace with lips
or fanciful loving the veins of death
unique, unrepeatable.

Oh! beloved by God.