The front gate gives onto the dingy tiled patio. I open and meet the noise.

I look around for it, as if its shape and the extent of its vitality could be determined. It comes from beyond the bedrooms, from an empty lot I’ve never seen, behind spacious house that faces a different street.

“It’s been like this all morning,” my mother warns from the kitchen threshold.

“What is it?” I want to establish, disconcerted.

“They brought a bus, turned on the engine, and left it running…”

The Silentiary by Antonio do Benedetto

I was recently gifted a painting, a larger painting 36” wide by 30” tall. I hung the image on a bedroom wall, at the foot of my bed, across a short distance. The image coalesces nicely with a series of smaller personal photos I had matted—no frames. The larger painting has come to represent the idea of purity: flowers in abundance, sunshine with shadows, a white door, cleanliness, order, and a blue (Marian) shuttered paned window–crosses–looking out to the exterior. The idea of an interior—a home, and an exterior purely harmonizing; a door, a throughway establishing a point of demarcation allowing passage, a brick path for walking. The battle of the flesh has always been an intense confrontation for myself. There is no escaping the matter, a humbling accepting of a vulnerability to sin. Reality, letting go of delusions of grandeur, embracing the spiritual life not for self-glorification or achievement, rather a desperate game of salvation. So much at stake and a sinner at heart–not the words of a winner, the pleas of a man scared of himself, afraid of his past, afraid of tendencies, afraid not of things of the world, rather fearful of himself. The man who once owned the painting, a recognized saint by a living reminder, struggled with similar difficulties as myself. His devotion, at times, I feel, as well as his love, and a sense he has identified me, assisting. It is not important, nor nothing to concentrate up, at worst a false nice idea, at best a gift from God. Either way, I am pleased with the image.

Last night, I experienced a dream that lingered throughout Mass; thoughts and images nicely roaming in my mind. I was visiting a Catholic family from my young adult years. I was friends with the eldest son. The mother and children of the family were hosting a gathering. Distinctly, I recognized among those attending a distant friend, Joe, a decadent leader of what we perceived as artistic expressive years—a time of experience, the enduring of lost innocence, desperately searching for identity. Joe was lying face down on the floor, not speaking to anyone, ignoring everyone. Polite conversation flowed otherwise.

In a dream-state fashion, I was reclining upon a comfortable couch, at ease with the conversation. The family always presented an amiable environment, encouraging conversation. There were three brothers and two sisters, along with the mother. The father was absent, passing away ten years or so in the past, collapsing on Christmas Eve while descending basements steps for the unwrapping of Christmas gifts. A cat was lying upon my chest. Upbeat, the cat began soulfully singing a Motown classic.

I remember mama said, “you can’t hurry love
No, you’ll just have to wait”
She said, “love don’t come easy
It’s a game of give and take”
How long must I wait
How much more must I take
Before loneliness
Will cause my heart, heart to break

The cat sang wonderfully. If it were not odd enough that a cat could sing, I noticed the cat never moved her mouth while singing. Her emotionally tinged words resonated in my mind, relaxing and putting me at ease. Her singing continued.

I looked to the mother of the family, complimenting her cat’s musical expression.

“You can hear her singing.”

“Yes.”

“Nice. Not many can perceive her precious vocal abilities.”

Ceasing her performance, the cat rose upon my chest, stretching, dragging her aged body off of mine. She walked back and forth upon the crest of the couch’s back. Lumbering, she difficultly made her way to the couch’s arm, and then the floor, walking in a circle, parading herself. I realized the cat was old, so old I feared she was near the end of her life. The cat halted her movement, staring into my eyes. I called for her. Awkwardly, she made her way back onto my chest. She spoke.

“My voice is young, innocent, hopeful, emotionally carefree, yet my body is old. My body brings forth a desire to die, to leave this world. I have lived nine lives, as they say, and now I am content with an end. However, buried deeply, I harbor regrets, longing for the days of my youth when I was arrogantly wise–stupid in fact, yet brave, sly, willing and agile. I want to relive my youth—to do all the same things over again—to be kinder and more considerate of others, less concerned with myself. Yet I accept that will never happen. Now all I have is my singing and that is limited since so few can hear the song within my mind and heart. The mother over there is a captive audience. She has always been able to hear me sing, even when I was the little kitten she first adopted.”

I looked back to the mother of the family, yet as it happens in a dream, things unrealistically changed. The mother was now the Virgin Mary. Our Holy Mother bowed her head in divine humility, raising her hands, palm upwards, as she lowered her face from sight. A tangible holiness spread throughout my dream perceptions.

The cat continued. “So…you see Her also. Excellent. I have something to tell you. Listen closely. You must understand that demons are lurking about, in fact a vast demonic patrol follows you around. They sense there is grace being dispensed. Their mischievous and jealous natures demand they interfere. However, with the Simple One of Grace so near they are blinded. You must comprehend the vitality of simplicity. Demons despise the simple. The simple ways of Jesus Christ, the Son of God, the Savior of Mankind, His simple ways confound and paralyze them. They command complexity, clamoring for chaos. Mary, the Handmaid of God, the Queen of Heaven, her simplicity also renders them useless and defeated. Where they call forth a battle, she returns nothing to contend with, simply and instantly crushing them. They desire details, dispute, debate, and confrontation, constantly seeking nooks and crannies in which to hide and lodge a base for their desperate need to challenge, their perpetual effort of usurpation. They thrive in an abundance of words and the proliferation of ideas. Remain simple, let your Yes be a Yes and your No be a No; refrain from too many words. Keep your words minimal. The more you speak, the more you present to the world, the more cracks and crevices you present to the demonic. Vanity of vanities, the more you try, the more you offer the demonic a niche in which to entrench themselves. You may think you are fighting against Satan, only to turn and realize he is right there next to you, urging you on with a passion.”

I moved my attention from the prophetess cat and her eternal words, focusing upon Joe lying prostrate upon the floor. He was miserable, forlorn and submissive. However, interiorly I knew an obstinacy ruled. He always needed to feel he was in control. The cat desired to be free of her aged body not to escape pain, yet to transform into that which was freedom–a higher state of being, maturity and moving forward. The cat respected her past, while remaining lovingly detached from it. Joe, collapsed within the futility of brokenness, never gave up on his delusions. He was dependently stuck in his past. His will had always, and would always, rule. In truth, his tenacious and ferocious will was the root of all his problem, yet habituation and stubbornness would never allow brutal honesty to call for a penetrating self-introspection. The freeing of himself from his dominating will could never be achieved. His vulnerability to sin had advanced to addiction, a dependence upon pride and consumption. Advancing into his elderly years, he was forced to consume the world with his bitterness and frustration, able to strike out only in the perversion of his mind. At a time when his heart should be growing softer, he forced it to grow hard: scirrhous, thorny, and calloused. His only solace was sin, and within the sin only torment—advanced unrecognized shame existed where shame had long since been corroded away; guilt replaced by a ceaseless blinding numbness. In the dream of a reconciling familial sharing, he could only collapse into a silent recoiling, unable to express himself or recognize others.

The dream inconclusively advanced into a lack of comprehension.

An image, a poem from my youth, has been entrenched in my mind throughout my life. The poem comes from Jim Carroll’s ‘My Basketball Diaries’, a high school read that elevated a self-destructive attraction to decadence, artistic pursuit through self-indulgence and worldly experience—big cities, punk rock, drugs, and an identity attached to being cool—detached, existential, removed from everything.

Little kids shoot marbles
where the branches break the sun
into graceful shafts of light…
I just want to be pure.

An internal response to the poem, as a bewildered young man, I wrote:

Falling faces,
Thinking thoughts,
Into little tiny pieces,
Form inner-circles,
As they inter-lock.

Jim Carroll died at 59. Today, I attended a funeral Mass for a gentleman who passed away at 59. My thoughts during the Mass drifted to the poem, admiring yet realizing the desire for purity is not enough. An artistic mind may envision the sweetness of purity, yet the boredom, lack of immediate gratification, and rigors of striving toward purity are other things. In momentary revelry, the desire for purity can overwhelm to a degree of eternal yearning, a thirsting for Truth, a hunger for goodness, an acquiescence to the total enveloping of divine peace, however, life moves forward in a rapid, yet slow pace—hours are long, yet years are short. We wake in the morning and the drudgery of life continues. Beyond the childishness concentrated upon identity, desires for esteem and recognition, the satisfaction of convictions being victorious, a craving for purity still permeates.

Purity is a pursuit demanding fortitude, so much more than a fantasy. The funeral Mass today; may the peace of Christ be blessed upon the individual’s soul, may his guardian angel be welcomed as a protector and provider, may Mary—Virgo Potens shed her ever-shining light upon his passage into eternity; may the funeral Mass provide the opportunity to mediate upon the finite nature of life. Death comes unexpected—life is short, eternity is long. Purity must be pursued here and now, while a prayerful appreciation for life is focused upon the eternal.

The eastern orthodox church tells the religious tale of a persevering brother. Afflicted with an inability to defeat sin of the flesh, the brother determinedly subjected himself to confession day after day. Authentic in remorse, contrite and sincere during confession, the brother would leave confession only to confound himself by once more falling to the sin of the flesh, his thorn, his cross, his affliction. Every time, the brother resolutely returned to confession. Every confession, God mercifully absolved him. This cycle continued for decades. Satan finally grew weary of the matter. Frustrated, he screamed foulness, declaring God as an unjust authority, a deceitful judge. Accusing God of betraying order and decency while continually granting forgiveness to this wretched habitually sinning man, while casting him, Satan, into the abyss of hell for a little breach of pride. Worked into a wrathful fury, Satan continued with his accusations: “Just because this man falls down before you confessing, after making a mockery of you day after day for decades, you are willing to forgive him time after time? You make no sense. You stifle all my efforts, never forgiving me. You are not a just judge. You make exceptions. You allow individuals to manipulate you, while thwarting the greater ideal of justice.” Bitterness, a dark black smoke, poured forth from the nostrils of Satan. God responded: “You wicked dragon. When this man turns to sin you are delighted, immersed within his indecency, then filling him with shame. You think you have him, yet he fights you, returning to me daily with a heartfelt confession, administering to his love for me, grateful for the price my only begotten Son paid through his death upon a cross. I will never turn this man away as long as he continues to return to me. He is gaining strength, and through his weakness and humility he will achieve victory over the sin that has strangled him throughout his life. Through mercy and love, I will win him over. Oh Seducer, you accuse me of being an unjust judge. On the contrary, I am just beyond all. In whatever moral state I find a person, I judge him. Observe this man, prostrate and admittedly broken by his sin. He conquers you with his willingness to confess his sins. He has battled all of his life. His fortitude will earn him eternal victory.

Shepherd me, O God, beyond my wants,
beyond my fears, from death into life.