“You’re going to have to get yourself a girlfriend,” he said, laughing. “You wouldn’t be the first.” He assured me that I wouldn’t notice the loneliness until probably mid-February. That night with the storm hammering the house, the feeling of vulnerability was overwhelming. And it was only the middle of December.
Is this what drives priests crazy? Is there a link between deviance and isolation? How many deviant ministers do we ever hear about among the Protestants? Effie and Sextus attribute everything to celibacy. Alfonso would have disagreed. Loneliness, he’d say, is the natural fear of extinction. It’s that simple. We are liberated from loneliness by the Resurrection, not by procreation or society. Deviance is a loss of faith.
I remember saying to him: Try explaining that like you really believe it.
He stared at me, half smiling. And you don’t, he said. It was not a question.
Today I’d ask him: What of idleness? What about the toxic mixture of idleness and isolation? Is this where deviance begins?
Mullins pretended to be surprised when I told him I was having trouble keeping busy. “Any time you’re feeling bored, come on down,” he said. “There’s lots to do here.” His best year was when Brendan Bell was there. “Took the load off in a dozen little ways. Reduced the grind. Be my guest,” he said. “Better still, be my curate.”
“Did anybody tell you Brendan’s out?” I asked. “He’s left. Up and got married.”
“Doesn’t surprise me a bit. Too much of a social animal for this racket, our Brendan Bell.”
The truth of the matter, he declared, is that there really isn’t much to do anymore unless you work hard to make yourself useful. Especially in a place like Creignish, where there’s no school or hospital or jail. No critical mass of misery. So you have to get out among them. Figure out their needs. Boredom is a luxury. “Though I’m not surprised you’d find it quiet there,” he said, “considering all the drama you’ve been involved in.”
The lashing snow obliterates the memory of kinder weather. Will there ever be another summer? I tried to picture the Jacinta, now high and dry, propped up proudly among her sisters, prow thrust against the harsh north winds. It is a relief to imagine her perched there on the shore, out of the fickle, racing sea. A boat is like a mistress, I imagine. Unpredictable in her moods and physical needs. You never know when she’s going to hit you with some new demand for attention or legitimacy. Not that I know much about mistresses. Or women in any capacity. Or boats.
But the name is perfect. Jacinta.
feb. 8. fifth sunday after the epiphany. fr. a. talking this evening about growing up. three brothers and four sisters. very poor, working a small piece of land for subsistence. puts my own growing up in perspective. but i want to know more about her. she’s a mystery, he says. comes from the mountains in el salvador. he thinks she might have once been married back in their own country. el salvador, the saviour.
I was developing a grudging respect for old Mullins. The isolation didn’t bother him. He could see that, maybe, I had too much on my mind. Maybe, he thought, I’m one of those poor fellows who thinks too much. Wallows in regrets. He told me straight out: You have to understand the feelings of a lot of people in the deanery. Those were difficult times for all of us. There are a lot of conflicted feelings about the way things were handled. But I shouldn’t take small quibbles personally, about my mysterious connections with the bishop, my mysterious involvement in certain … shall we say, disappearances. “You know what they used to call you?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied.
He laughed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean, then. But don’t worry. It’ll all work to your advantage some fine day. Monsignor MacAskill? Nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
But what would Mullins have thought
Is this what drives priests crazy? Is there a link between deviance and isolation? How many deviant ministers do we ever hear about among the Protestants? Effie and Sextus attribute everything to celibacy. Alfonso would have disagreed. Loneliness, he’d say, is the natural fear of extinction. It’s that simple. We are liberated from loneliness by the Resurrection, not by procreation or society. Deviance is a loss of faith.
I remember saying to him: Try explaining that like you really believe it.
He stared at me, half smiling. And you don’t, he said. It was not a question.
Today I’d ask him: What of idleness? What about the toxic mixture of idleness and isolation? Is this where deviance begins?
Mullins pretended to be surprised when I told him I was having trouble keeping busy. “Any time you’re feeling bored, come on down,” he said. “There’s lots to do here.” His best year was when Brendan Bell was there. “Took the load off in a dozen little ways. Reduced the grind. Be my guest,” he said. “Better still, be my curate.”
“Did anybody tell you Brendan’s out?” I asked. “He’s left. Up and got married.”
“Doesn’t surprise me a bit. Too much of a social animal for this racket, our Brendan Bell.”
The truth of the matter, he declared, is that there really isn’t much to do anymore unless you work hard to make yourself useful. Especially in a place like Creignish, where there’s no school or hospital or jail. No critical mass of misery. So you have to get out among them. Figure out their needs. Boredom is a luxury. “Though I’m not surprised you’d find it quiet there,” he said, “considering all the drama you’ve been involved in.”
The lashing snow obliterates the memory of kinder weather. Will there ever be another summer? I tried to picture the Jacinta, now high and dry, propped up proudly among her sisters, prow thrust against the harsh north winds. It is a relief to imagine her perched there on the shore, out of the fickle, racing sea. A boat is like a mistress, I imagine. Unpredictable in her moods and physical needs. You never know when she’s going to hit you with some new demand for attention or legitimacy. Not that I know much about mistresses. Or women in any capacity. Or boats.
But the name is perfect. Jacinta.
feb. 8. fifth sunday after the epiphany. fr. a. talking this evening about growing up. three brothers and four sisters. very poor, working a small piece of land for subsistence. puts my own growing up in perspective. but i want to know more about her. she’s a mystery, he says. comes from the mountains in el salvador. he thinks she might have once been married back in their own country. el salvador, the saviour.
I was developing a grudging respect for old Mullins. The isolation didn’t bother him. He could see that, maybe, I had too much on my mind. Maybe, he thought, I’m one of those poor fellows who thinks too much. Wallows in regrets. He told me straight out: You have to understand the feelings of a lot of people in the deanery. Those were difficult times for all of us. There are a lot of conflicted feelings about the way things were handled. But I shouldn’t take small quibbles personally, about my mysterious connections with the bishop, my mysterious involvement in certain … shall we say, disappearances. “You know what they used to call you?” he said.
“Yes,” I replied.
He laughed, shaking his head. “You know what I mean, then. But don’t worry. It’ll all work to your advantage some fine day. Monsignor MacAskill? Nice ring to it, don’t you think?”
But what would Mullins have thought
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