Stating in my last blog post ("Enough Thought to Last for a Time"), on March 2, 2019, that I was, "Happy to do nothing today or to write volumes. It's all the same to me," I did nothing. Okay well I've done tons, but no blogs and very little poem writing. That summer, Jackson graduated from high school and the family journeyed to Italy/Sicily in what was something of a pilgrimage for me. Then ensued the past five years. I've written the occasional poem. I have remained active in administrating the Concrete Formalist Poetry group on Facebook and attended poetry readings now and then. I was very active in assisting Endi in the launch of her third book of poems, Oh, Orchid O'Clock, and traveled with her to her many readings. But this activity was conducted as a husband and friend, not as a poet. Not really. I have not thought about writing for a while now. I have not and do not suppress ideas or a desire to write. Instead, I have been carrying through with my focus on the Church, sharpened during the trip to Italy in the summer of 2019 and by prayer and study before, during, and after.
I was unsure, at the time, what the effects or result of this "focus" would produce, I only knew that it was necessary in order to come to any sort of real understanding, or to allow my faith full range to effect whatever understanding it could produce in me. I came to this decision over time, since my baptism and confirmation at the Easter Vigil in 2012, as I realized that being Catholic meant very much "living" the faith, not merely knowing something about it. The Mass, the Divine Office, the Rosary, Adoration - the Solemnities, Feasts, and Memorials - the lives of the saints, the innumerable prayers - the readings and lessons and meetings associated with the Dominican Laity - and certainly the sights and experiences of our trip to Italy, especially spending time at San Domenico in Bologna and San Marco in Florence - all this was enought to convince me that "being" Catholic in a thorough-going sense was the only means for me to understand what it meant to "be" Catholic at all. Thoughts of poem-writing, any ideas of that sort, simple ceased to occur. I spent my spare time, for the first 18 months, reading St. Thomas Aquinas' Commentary on the Gospel of Matthew (St. Dominic was devoted to Matthew's Gospel). That immersion gave me the contemplative underpinnings, as it were, that I was hoping for. I was then able, over the next few years, until now, to broaden my readings and consider how best to engage with others in my community in light of the precepts and charism of the Dominican Order.
There is so much to say which, at the same time, seems perfectly reducible to plain statements of fact. One thought and feeling that occurs to me - and has occurred frequently over the past five years - is amazement at how the Catholic faith has threaded through every aspect of my life, my actions, opinions, and dreams. To say that I am comfortable in my faith is a plain statement of fact. To say that I love the Church is another. To know what it is to be genuinely, thoroughly, no-holds-barred Catholic was a point of motivation that shifted or evolved over the course of time into a deeper, more authentic desire, I think, to act on that knowledge, to know myself as being Catholic and to see myself acting on that belief.
But all this happened - and continues to occur - in steps and stages. Knowledge is not acquired and acted on in linear fashion. A better model would be agricultural. A seed is planted, germinates, takes root, grows, matures, and bears fruit. Another seed is planted and the proceess is repeated. How or where the seeds are planted may form a pattern, and that pattern may be interesting to contemplate, perhaps even telling, in some way, but the pattern is not the activity of planting, germination, and maturation. One is bound to one's personal narrative, its timeline and effects, in ways that are informed but not much influenced by mere recognition.
And so, I suppose I was bound to write again someday, but only once I could look with hope, even excitement, on whatever words would come out of me when writing poetry. I have no idea what to expect.
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