Jupiter Bound, a Used
Of H o n k s a n d O w ls
Book Review
By Margi Curtis
By David Robinson
'
(1IJ T H E .
V
The Asian Journal of Thomas Merton
(New Direction Books, 1968, $7.50 (Used))
USEE»
The road is better than the end. So wrote
Cervantes. So lived Thomas Merton. For many
pilgrims along the subterranean way of the
spiritual life, Merton's lamp shines brightly.
Spelunking in realms seldom seen in the
daylight of ordinary conciousness, Merton leads
his readers to those deep waters usually found
only by contemplatives willing to transverse
below the crust of creed and credential.
His last writing before his death in 1968,
published posthumously, is The Asian Journal.
Like stumbling onto a glass ball on the beach, I
found a like-new copy of Merton's journal in a
hole in the wall used bookstore in Cannon Beach;
glad to pay only $7.50 for the treasure.
Thomas Merton, 1915-1968, entered the
Catholic Trappist order at Gethsemani Abbey in
Kentucky at age 26. The world was at war. A wise
Abbot encouraged the young novice to write.
Through the middle decades of this violent
century, Merton the writer mined the rich
depths of Christian pacifism, social justice and
prayer.
Trappist monks take a lifelong vow of stability,
meaning they stay at the monastery for life. A
Trappist monastery is a cloistered community of
monks set apart from the highways of this world
to better devote their attention to the interior
highways of the life of prayer in spiritual
journey with God.
Strange then that Merton's last several months
on the planet found him on the road across Asia,
through India, into Himalayas, to Ceylon and
across to Thailand. The Asian Journal is Merton's
personal diary of his road trip.
Crammed with snippets from a wide range of
eastern authors, interspersed with Merton's
laconic reflections on daily life in a foreign land
as well as his own black and white photos, and
laced with detailed notations on little known
aspects of even lesser known schools of eastern
religious thought, The Asian Journal serves up a
sumptuous feast for the soul.
Attached to the Journal, call it a publisher's
padding if you like, are annoyingly helpful
annotations, a glossary of terms to bring us
western illiterates on board, and complimentary
reading in the appendixes full of Merton's
lectures and letters written while on pilgrimage.
His last lecture, printed in full in The Asian
Journal, entitled "Marxism and Monastic
Perspectives", was delivered on December 10th,
1968. A few hours later, Merton was found dead
in his Bangkok hotel room, having suffered a
severe electrical shock from a faulty wire.
Thank God Merton wrote. How many millions
of us in Bookland have found our footing along
the road with the assistance of this wise guide.
More than a guide, Merton was ever an explorer,
challenging all who dare read his stuff to
discover the adventure of journeying the
pathways of the spiritual life with God.
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Sunday, April 2nd, our little Coaster Theatre
was host to the Gyuto Monks of Tibet. Those
present were invited along to another plane as a
small group of holy men chanted prayers for
World Peace. Probably 90 minutes elapsed, but
time was a blurry element. It is not surprising
that "chant" is the root word of "enchant". These
prayers did.
The Gyuto Monks are on the edge of becoming
another endangered species, one which has the
ability to produce a full 3 note chord in on single
projection of the voice. This ability has been
recognised by those who study such phenomena
to be a unique occurance anywhere in the
known world. Nevertheless, Tibet's neighbors,
the Chinese, are agressively involved in
destroying their native culture in the effort to
steal their land. Another (not another!) story of
lambs against the Lion.
The Monks came to America, hoping to raise
money by sharing first-hand what they are
about, and in so doing saving their way of life.
Before the chanting began, I looked around
the sold-out theatre, to the faces of the waiting
folk. Most of whom were the light skinned
Western type, and probably a good many raised
up under the auspices of Christianity. It was
Sunday too. Here we sat, in our comer of the
world, sometimes referred to as God's Country',
and what was it we were hoping for? Why had
we come? If it were only to contribute to a good
cause, that could be done without attending.
Open-minded and spiritually hungry,
malnourished on the empty calories of a material
culture?
Shortly after this experience, I scanned a new
science book directed toward school-aged kids
titled 'Spotted Owl, Bird of the Ancient Forests'.
On the cover, a picture of this hapless little bird.
It looked so small, so vulnerable, so innocent. ..
Another image, an engine sales and repair shop
(chainsaw dealer, among other things) in a
logging/mill town. On the shelf sits a somewhat
dusty box labeled "Spotted Owl Stew Mix ,
supposed to be humorous in a mean bitter way,
i.e. "We eat those bird for dinner!"
Will we ever find the balance, where the
strong and powerful can appreciate
characteristics which they themselves don't
possess? It would take sacrifices on the part of
the comfortable to protect the vulnerable. Seems
to be virtually impossible to legislate compassion.
In the Gyuto Monks' program, it was explained
that this single voiced chord is only possible to
emit when the individual has attained spiritual
enlightenment. It must be a thrill when the
student monk finally gets it, when the sound
happens after hours (years?) of intense practice.
To know this signifies one is where one wants to
be, a small way to measure the immeasurable. I
find myself envious of this simplicity and
wondering at the magnitude of what else we ve
already lost.
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