One Long River of Song

I recently finished a book of essays by Brian Doyle, One Long River of Song. I love his writing. He conveys a sense of wonder, a sense of delight in the world around him that I find contagious.

Doyle died of brain cancer in 2017, and this collection of essays was published in 2019. Let me share several passages.

In the essay A Prayer for You and Yours, he writes about growing up in the Catholic Church, then turning away, and then turning back (when he was a father and "needed a language with which to speak to my children of holiness and prayer and miracle and witness and hope and faith"). In my own faith, I've similarly contrasted gospel & doctrine against policy & procedure:

"I saw for the first time in my life that there were two Catholic Churches, one a noun and the other a verb, one a corporation and the other a wild idea held in the hearts of millions of people who are utterly uninterested in authority and power and rules and regulations, and very interested indeed in finding ways to walk through the bruises of life with grace and humility."

The essay His Listening describes his father's skill as a listener, and leaves me wishing I had such a skill:

"Among the many things that my father was very good at was this: when you said something to him, anything at all, anything in the range from surpassingly subtle to stunningly stupid, he would listen carefully and attentively and silently, without interrupting, without waiting with increasing impatience for you to finish so he could correct or top or razz you, and he would even wait a few beats after you finished your remarks, on the off chance that you had something else you wanted to add, and then he would ponder what you had said, and then, without fail, he would say something encouraging first, before he got around to commenting on what it was you said with such breathtaking subtlety or stupidity."

One last passage, this from The Final Frontier, an essay that begins with the scripture blessed are the poor in spirit:

". . . I got the general idea, that the word poor there is better understood as humble, but humble never really registered for me because I was not humble, and had no real concept of humble, until my wife married me, which taught me a shocking amount about humility, and then we were graced by children, which taught me a stunning amount about humility, and then friends of mine began to wither and shrivel and die in all sorts of ways . . . and I began, slowly and dimly, to realize that humble was the only finally truly honest way to be in this life. Anything else is ultimately cocky, which is either foolish or a deliberate disguise you refuse to remove, for complicated reasons perhaps not known even to you.

 ". . . All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference. Humility does not mean self-abnegation, lassitude, detachment; it's more a calm recognition that you must trust in that which does not make sense, that which is unreasonable, illogical, silly, ridiculous, crazy by the measure of most of our culture. You must trust that you being the best possible you matters somehow. That trying to be an honest and tender parent will echo for centuries through your tribe. That doing your chosen work with creativity and diligence will shiver people far beyond your ken. That being an attentive and generous friend and citizen will prevent a thread or two of the social fabric from unraveling. And you must do all of this with the certain knowledge that you will never get proper credit for it, and in fact the vast majority of things you do right will go utterly unremarked. Humility, the final frontier, as my brother Kevin used to say."

Okay, let me share one more snippet, just because it tickles my funny bone. One essay is titled 20 Things the Dog Ate, and it is just that: a list of twenty items that were not intended for consumption, but which the dog nevertheless consumed. Number 15 is "Most of a paperback copy of Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix."

I find number 15 to be very relatable. Our Homer (beagle number 2) loved books, and destroyed them with great relish. Somewhere I have a picture of Jim's scriptures, after Homer had "feasted" on them; if I find it, I'll insert it here. (Edited: Found it!)

Homer and his handiwork

Our Bernie (beagle number 4) has not shown the same affection for books, but he did tackle one. While on a work call one day, I heard a horrible thumping. As soon as I was able to end the conversation, I investigated and found Bernie chewing on - and here is the part that tickles me - Brian Doyle's novel Chicago. I wish I could write to Doyle, to tell him how much Bernie and I both enjoyed that book. 

Oh Bernie!