Fourth and Walnut

Thomas Merton Square

I had only 15 minutes on the parking meter at Fourth Street in downtown Louisville, KY, just enough time to hastily walk up to Thomas Merton Square at the infamous corner of Fourth and Walnut Streets (now called Muhammad Ali Boulevard, however) where I could possibly bask in the energy that might still be present there –

This is the place where Trappist monk Thomas Merton – author, poet, contemplative, and spokesman for interfaith relations in the 1950s and 60s – experienced his sudden epiphany (or satori or mystical revelation) which he describes in his book Conjectures of a Guilty Bystander:

“In Louisville, at the corner of Fourth and Walnut, in the center of the shopping district, I was suddenly overwhelmed with the realization that I loved all those people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers. It was like waking from a dream of separateness . . . And if only everybody could realize this! But it cannot be explained. There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”

This is where it happened . . .

It occurs to me that this may be the only historical marker in America that is meant to herald something so intangible and un-provable as inner revelation. Most markers commemorate a Civil War battle or a political figure or the birthplace of someone famous. This commemorates the inner awakening of a sequestered monk on a street corner in 1958, one that would launch the remaining decade of his life in which he would travel the world and write primarily about social justice and the commonality of all faiths. We are all one, he said over and over until his tragic death in Thailand in 1968.

I expected much from the experience, and as it turns out I had just enough time to run up to the corner, hastily cross the street, snap a few pictures, then re-hastily cross the street from whence I came and return to the relative quiet of my car. The corner was so noisy, so full of the confusion of cars and people and street musicians and construction – or destruction – I don’t know which – for there was a lopped off cement head the size of a small boulder propped on the sidewalk where Merton must have stood and discovered oneness and love for all humanity. The head may have belonged to a gargoyle and may have fallen from the building above, who knows – for there was no body to claim it. I had to step over and around the thing to get my picture of the bronze sign clarifying the reason for naming this corner after the Trappist monk who wrote so many of the books I read in my youth and which had influenced me in so many untraceable, intangible ways . . . who knows . . . but perhaps I should have snapped a picture of the lopped off head staring up at me, for that was more reflective of my own state of mind at this time and place where I had hoped to bask in the revelatory moment of another man’s destiny.

A sample of Merton's few belongings

Only a mile or two from Thomas Merton Square is Bellarmine University where Merton’s few worldly belongings are collected – and I had only an hour there because the visitor parking space near the library warned me I could take no more. Once inside, my mood was quieted as the friendly, calm curator explained that since Merton had no family and had taken a vow of poverty at the monastery, his personal belongings were minimal – but what he did have was there in the library, all of it – his books, original manuscripts, letters and journals; his blue chambray work shirt and white cowl and farm boots and eyeglasses, that sort of thing; and the object that spoke loudest to me: his old Royal typewriter. I approached it with respect and awe – Thomas Merton’s typewriter, in plain view, not encased, and not off limits.

My pilgrimage was made worthwhile

I placed my own fingertips on the keys of Thomas Merton’s typewriter just in the places where he had done so and had thus composed the many books that meant so much to me as a teenager in the 1970s when I was stubbornly learning to bake bread and write and hone some kind of world view.  I used to save my babysitting money to send off by mail order for each book, one at a time as I could afford them, I told the curator. On the hood of the typewriter was taped a handwritten “guide” to what the number and symbol keys really meant – for apparently those keys were mixed up and didn’t correspond to what they said they were, the curator explained. “Rub your hand over it,” he implored me – “That is what Merton did when he placed it there,” and he made a sweeping motion across the typewriter with his own hand to demonstrate what he meant.  Some spirit rushed through me in that second when I did so – and then it was gone – but revelatory, satori-like, in my own private kind of way.

Miracle in Slow Motion

It started out as the practical task of cleaning the book shelves, something I do only once every several years or so – that is, taking books off the shelves, shooing out whatever dust balls are behind them, extraditing books I have outgrown, and reminiscing about others.  I won’t list the laborious titles I discarded, but many of them were a penciled and highlighted “self-help” variety of book, things that had absorbed me at the time before I absorbed them – or didn’t – and so let them collect dust.  Some of those books weighed heavily on me now; I no longer wanted them in my peripheral vision.  I ended up with two grocery bags full of books to discard in one way or another.

The way . . . dust particles pass through glass doors

As I chose my piles: which to discard, which to keep, which to peruse again and think about and later decide, I reminisced about the hopes and plans they gave me at the time.  But mostly I contemplated the mystery of dust balls – how they accumulate, why all those random particles comingle behind books on a shelf . . . and, more improbably, how dust particles must sometimes pass through glass doors before gathering into groups behind books on a shelf.

I thought . . . a single particle of dust must fall from who-knows-where and then hover at the shelf near the top of any given book. Then, by some volition either internal or external, it must traverse the top of the book, horizontally of course, before releasing itself to descend to the narrow bit of shelf space in back of the books which are lined upon it.

“Now this improbability must happen thousands and thousands of times over before a dust ball can be formed,” I said to a person in casual conversation about what I had done that day.  Only then did I begin to understand in myself the miracle and meaning I gave to it.  I was only talking about cleaning dust behind books on a shelf when I spoke to this person, mind you – and only later did I realize the significance of my contemplative task.

This improbability must happen thousands and thousands of times over . . . I thought this to myself the remainder of the day and the day after that too . . . traversing improbable odds before gathering and coalescing to form a dust ball behind a strip of books on a shelf . . . What a miracle!  It was a contemplation of dust balls and the gathering of random particles – not really a task of cleaning out books and dusting shelves.  Dusting behind things is a thankless job no one will ever notice when it’s done anyway.  Those others will not arrive home and announce, “The dust particles that I never saw are now gone.”  It is a vision and science known only to those privileged few who partake of such hidden work.

The lessons they hold . . .

To get rid of the books one no longer needs because the promises or lessons they hold have been absorbed into one’s life – or were never meant to be absorbed at all – that too is a miracle traversed over time.  It was a miracle in slow motion – the way all those books’ meanings and lessons and insights became part of me – one small change at a time, brought about from the inside or outside or an interaction of both – gathering and coalescing, like dust particles traversing the tops of books and landing upon a narrow strip of space behind them – hidden, dark, insignificant, unseen by most – until we excavate and look behind the apparent, until we see what has gathered over the course of time.  That‘s how miracles happen, I suppose – a painstaking accumulation of causes and effects, the way dust particles gather behind books on a shelf. 

Iconography, Day 7: Correction

One of the few choices given us came at the end of the last day – the choice to make Mary’s eyes gaze downward to her infant – or to make them gaze slightly outward to the world in front of her.

I intended to make Mary’s eyes gaze only at her infant – through means of placement of those white moon slivers near each iris.  I intended to place them at the top of the iris so she could appear looking downward.

But once I was home, and a day had passed, and I gazed at it thoughtfully – that’s when I strangely realized that I’d done it just the opposite of what I’d intended!  It was a mystifying experience because I had been so conscious of wanting to make it this way – gazing down at her infant.

I experienced a few moments of disappointment at my error – almost wondering if I’d picked up the wrong icon. This was one of the few choices given to me and I had messed up – until I realized that I preferred it this way, the way I had erred.

After all, a woman, albeit devoted to her infant, should also gaze outward to the world.  I much prefer it this way.  What if I should have made it the way I intended – eyes only for her infant – what disappointment I might have experienced in the days and years henceforth as my own life struggles to look forward.

A mother – or woman, or human – should keep her eye upon the world as well as her infant.  Even in the Tenderness Icon, she is part of the world.  I’m glad of this ‘mistake’ – not a mistake at all, but a correction made – or given – in spite of me.

Iconography, Day 6: Acceptance

There is a spectacle that happens when an iconography workshop is coming to a close and everyone stands back to look at their own icon or to walk around the room to look at others’ icons.  No one says, “Wow, I did a great job," or “Yours is better than mine.” Instead, the two phrases heard over and over again are: “Wow, how did this happen!” and “Wow, they all look so different!”

Iconography is not about taking control and creating something that is not there. It’s about letting go and seeing what is there. Even though we all write the same icon and follow the same steps, somehow each icon is very different.

“Every icon is a surprise,” our instructor (who has been writing icons for 23 years) said. There is no iconographer who can say they would not have done something differently if given the chance – but that is looking backward.  We accept what is, and by doing so we accept where we are in our individual spiritual journey.

If we struggled with one particular stage of the process, then that struggle helps us identify particular problems in our own spiritual journey. For example, trouble with drawing straight and trouble free lines could indicate a struggle with creating order in one’s life.  Conversely, if the lines are too harsh, perhaps it’s time to loosen up a bit in daily life.

From the first day I felt intrigued by the infant’s hand that clasped at its mother’s headdress. I felt intrigued because, as I said at the time, “that’s what babies really do.”  But I also know that ‘the pull’ doesn’t end with infancy.

Our instructor had a different take on that tiny hand: she said that the Divine is always trying to engage us, always drawing us into the realm, always tugging at us . . .

Many Iconographers of old did not sign their work, and those few who did, have done so on the backside of the panel.  We use a phrase, written in Greek letters, which means through the hands of . . .

When we inscribe through the hands of . . ., we are not saying, “I did this icon.”  We are saying, “I accept this icon.”

Iconography, Day 5: "Ozivki"

I don’t think a person can possibly extract as much intimacy with an image they’ve stared at daily as from one they’ve spent a week in creating through their own hand by brush, eye, intent, and contemplation . . . that is the magic of iconography.

I’ve intimately witnessed this image emerge from a blank board.  At one point, deep in contemplation about the curve of a fingernail, I thought of the old tradition given to women to wash the deceased’s body – to handle and cleanse, to understand and know, and to dress and groom the body of one no longer able to speak.  These women must have learned more about that life when it was gone than they had ever known about it in waking – an intimacy beyond words.  I thought of this while washing and brushing my image – witnessing its ‘life.’

When all this was done and the image was as complete as I thought I could make it, that’s when our instructor told us about ozivki – the Russian word for “life giving lines.”  Ozivki are those two or three wispy streaks of nearly translucent white paint that emit from the outer and inner corners of each eye, the corners of the mouth, the tip of the nose, the tips of the ears, the top of the head, and even the fingernails – an internal light so brilliant and alive that it can hardly be contained and must somehow find its way out.  Ozivki can be observed on virtually all icon figures if looked at closely enough.  It’s a Divine light that emits spontaneously from the inside and cannot be boarded up.

This was the tiniest stroke of paint that wasn’t even difficult to do – and my image seemed to take on a life of its own – “just the thing it needed,” I said to myself.  My image was suddenly alive!

As I made those sacred lines I thought about the Pinocchio story in which a puppet made of wood and string and cloth is suddenly given the spark of life to become “real.”   A real little boy, he is called henceforth.  What is it that makes life? It’s a spark, something beyond us.

Iconography, Day 4: Silence

The mouths of icon figures are intentionally made small in proportion to the rest of the face. That is because icons are silent. Their wisdom is beyond words. The icon speaks to us through light.  Therefore, the eyes are proportionately large – because it is universally accepted that the eyes are windows to the soul.  Icons are frequently referred to as “windows” – as in, the gateway to a world beyond our human understanding.

The blank gesso board represents inner silence, emptiness, and potential. It is white and empty, and yet it paradoxically contains all colors. On this emptiness we place pigments made of natural earth elements.  Natural pigments have crystals which give off light.  Prismatic facets catch light, just as the soul gathers experience and reflects facets of itself into the world.  Synthetic pigments cannot do this.  With the application of color, we 'open' the light within the gesso board.

Tempera painting is the earliest type of painting known to man. The wall paintings of ancient Egypt and Babylon are tempera, as are many of the paintings of Raphael, Botticelli, Leonardo da Vinci, and many others. The pigments are collected from nature: earth, plants, minerals, and even insects.  These pigments are mixed with the contents of an egg yolk sac, the symbol for life and creation.  Our pigments for the class had already been gathered and neatly processed into powders for our convenience, though a fellow student brought many cartons of eggs from her backyard chickens for the mixing of our paints.  

Writing lines around the eyes and lips and other facial features is about establishing order. Once order is established and color is applied, then light can 'pour' into the icon.

The practice of “praying with icons” is not a matter of standing or kneeling before it and speaking a rehearsed set of words. The practice involves attendance – that is, attendance – simply being before the icon and allowing it to speak to us. The icon is there to quiet and calm the mind, to bring stillness into everyday life.  Often in stillness, words come . . .

When I was in Russia five years ago, I saw more icons than I could appreciate or comprehend.  Many which I saw, I'm sure, were written by the famous Russian iconographer Andrei Rublev from the 14th century.  Unfortunately I had no understanding of iconography or of Andrei Rublev at the time, and so I most likely passed right by those treasures without knowing -- but I will always remember the overwhelming stillness of those vast rooms.

Iconography, Day 3: Darkness to Light

Icons move from emptiness to fullness, always building from dark to light, and never descending from light to dark. We are separating darkness from light. This represents consciousness, understanding, self knowledge, and inner light becoming manifest.

Icons always look forward in hope. Likewise, if we make a mistake, instead of spending time trying to correct it (which is going backwards), we must trust in the ability to transfigure it. In other words, there’s always another chance “to make things right.”

The purpose of the icon is to reveal what is already there, not to create a beautiful painting. I think of the quote by Michaelangelo who insists, “Every block of stone has a statue inside it, and it is the task of the sculptor to discover it.” He worked on the premise of revelation, not invention.

There are two illnesses among iconographers, according to our instructor. The first is perfectionism: getting absorbed in correcting small details, trying to be better than we are. This is an illness of the ego. The aim here is to suspend the ego, to be exactly what we are.

The second illness is that of disorderliness: a complete absence of structure, unconscious movement, reactivity, the refusal to follow rules. Icon writing is a symbolic art, so every movement is laden with meaning. One must be aware and conscious of every movement of the hand and brush.

Perfectionism is apparent among most of us in attendance – a line gone wrong quickly evokes the muffled or clear sounds of disappointment and self-reproach. Emotions come to the surface as several people suddenly remember and recount the reprimands they had received as young children in art class. Our group of 15 includes two retired neurosurgeons. I found it interesting that both these men accepted apparent errors with quietude and often smiles.

None of us can ever be perfect. It is hubris to even think that our work will be perfect no matter how long we practice. Writing the icon is about accepting exactly who are, right now, and moving from there.

Although iconography is about following the rules and aligning the ego with a greater truth, the paradox (one of many) is that following the law perfectly does not produce perfection!  Laws and rules cannot heal human life, our instructor reminds us repeatedly. Only light and grace can heal.