ALL OF A PIECE
I think I used my life as writer to hide from everything else. I know I did. When i was high on my horse, and I am used to being on high horses, I retreated into the creation of the word and, as a result, ended up with a lot of dead words. I lost the ability to say what I needed to say on the page the moment I lost the ability to speak to the people around me.
But this gift, this thing we call writing, what does it do? Where does it end? Well, firstly, it is a gift. I've been thinking about that. I went into the cloister out of college with the idea of vocation, the calling, the task God has set for you. I went in as a monk and came out as a writer and so the storytelling, the work of being a poet is a sacrifice and not one of those whey faced, martyred looking sacrifices, but really a joyful choice you make forsaking lesser ones. And it is a gift, a gift from God. Now where does a gift from God go? It goes back to God. How does it go back? Through everyone he made and loves and so everytime a poet walks down the street or does even the simplest thing in love he is giving that gift. It is far more than being a good writer. We are talking about being good, being excellent people. About being pure and not vain and letting go of what holds us back.
The poet is to her people what the soul is to the body,
--Gabriela Mistral
We ride a bus all across town. As it whizzes I think of my newest book, my finest book. On the frontispiece it reads, "To Ben..." to the one I am sitting beside. My best work belong to the whole world, but before that it belongs to my best friend. After all this time there is no separation between being a good man, a good writer, a good Catholic. It is all love. Love throughout. It is all of a piece.
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