Wise Companionship from a Dead Monk.

I think a massive form of comfort in holding the tensions comes with the sense that others are, too. There's an odd solidarity between those who value solitude, those who long to be separate from things so they can be closer to God. As I was thinking and reading last night, I picked up Tomas Merton's Dialogues with Silence, and I had to read this entry like six times to let it sink in:

My God, it is to You alone that I can talk because nobody else will understand. I cannot bring anyone on this earth into the cloud where I dwell in Your light - that is, in Your darkness where I am lost and abashed. I cannot explain to anyone the anguish which is Your joy, nor the loss which is the possession of You, nor the distance from all things which is the arrival in You, nor the death which is the birth in You, because I do not know anything about it myself. All I know is that I wish it were over - I wish it were begun.

You have contradicted everything. You have left me in no-man's land.

You have got me walking up and down all day under those trees, saying to me over and over again: "Solitude, solitude." And You have turned around and thrown the whole world in my lap. You have told me, "Leave all things and follow me," and then You have tied half of New York to my foot like a ball and chain. You have got me kneeling behind that pillar with my mind making a noise like a bank. Is that contemplation?

Wow. I get that. It's good to know Merton was there, too. It's good to know my blogsiblings are wrangling some of the same questions. It's good to know God is HERE, and all that He is is good, and holy, and available. Again, Deo Gratias.