Thomas Merton

He was great man, muted to me. Words deep and rich from places important that spoke in nothing whispers and said nothing things. I wanted to hear him. To know him. Yet he was shadow man. Ghost of seeker that went from feeling to hiding and deeper into the feeling because of the hiding and ended up feeling so much that he was afraid of feeling nothing and everything at the same time. So he wrote.

He wrote to himself and for nobody and spoke to many but I could not hear him. Yet, he was there. Whispering. Words lost on some wind that warmed me and kissed him long ago and embraces him now wherever he is. On some Mountaintop. In some hole in the ground that is the place where he rested so he could travel in ways he knew would come but wondered if they would come as he imagined. He had to believe. He was wired that way.

He had to question. First himself. Then everything. Bombers. Lovers. Singers. Protesters. Warriors. Especially warriors. Dispatched to death by causes that hide true causes. So he questioned. Zen mind away and into and though and back again so that his questions were about his own nothingness and all that he was and we were and are and will be. He was like that.

I wanted to hear him. Maybe I did. Maybe I heard him before he spoke and now just feel what he was and what he said and have to add my two bits because we say the same thing in our own way. Maybe that is why I couldn’t hear him. He was right. I find that reassuring. Nice to know he was heard and is heard even though he didn’t say much to me. Even though I wanted to hear and feel him and came here inside. Inside to where my words were kissed and warmed by feeling without hearing.

He is a ghost. He was a man. He did his thing his way and linked to things that still need to know he was there and heard them and cared. Bombers still fly overhead. We still need those that see and question. We still need those that say why. He did not hide. He just went to a place where he could be in all of it since all of it was everywhere he went. He was a ghost while he was alive in a way. He is alive now that he is a ghost in a way. Meanwhile, bombers still fly and we have yet to hear their true payloads. We have yet to wonder who filled them and why they want to be so brave and go boom, boom, boom so that we can sleep at night while others wonder if they are our next target. He wondered. I wonder. Ain’t that wonderful? Not really. Not while the bombers still fly overhead, dead presidents still take bullets for us, and the land that we love becomes something less. Not really. Ghosts just want to be heard. So do people. When will we really hear? When will we really speak? When will we really have a ghost of a chance?