By Jake Willard-Crist
Pedant of incandescence, parser of brilliancies—the poet in paradise tunes his eye to gradations of radiance. Here is the poet as heliologist. Light steps forward from light, light separates and light dances, dervishes into chandeliers, files into candelabras. Light is identified, named. Light speaks. The poet listens. The poet sees.
It’s easier for the eye to distinguish darknesses, to untangle shadows, and to adjust to night vision. But staring at the sun who adjusts? Who does not flinch and turn away with a proliferation of suns burning in front of them, all of which look the same? Stare at the sun long enough and a garland of souls appears on your eyelid. Can you name them?
Remember Thomas Merton’s Louisville epiphany: “There is no way of telling people that they are all walking around shining like the sun.”
Oh the insensata cura of mortals! The senseless strivings, the insensate concerns, the vocations, the careers, the careering of the mortal round! Why do we do what we do? Why do we not do what we not do? O, angelic Aquinas, why can’t we all just rocket up here and be a segment in the resplendent scholastic glowworm? What kind of sun shall I be?
We waver between the Franciscan and the Dominican, between seraphic ardor and cherubic splendor, between fiery action and illuminating reason, between passion and order. (Are these the tonsured equivalents to Apollo and Dionysius?) Torn, I ask, “If I agree to give up all of my possessions, does that mean the books, too?” Torn I ask, “If I agree to illuminate the Word for my fellow men and women, will I be able to preach to the birds, too?” Will brother wolf bend its knee to a professor? Will stigmata come to Dominic?
All are born a sun rising (XI:50-51). There’s just a lack of solar attentiveness.