montréal reflections: day two...

NOTE: we are on holiday for rest and reflection in Montreal before a new year of engagement, teaching and creativity begins. This is the second in a series.

From time to time I am asked, "Why is wandering without a plan and watching the day unfold in Montreal so renewing for you?" It is a fair question. Others, and myself at times, too, appreciate the silence and solitude of a traditional spiritual retreat. "To everything," sang the heart of wisdom, "there is a season and a time for every purpose under heaven." So here's what I have figured out...

It begins with a quote from the late Thomas Merton that has danced with my soul for decades. Once, upon leaving the monastery of Gethsemani in Kentucky for the city of Louisville, Merton wrote: "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 these people, that they were mine and I theirs, that we could not be alien to one another even though we were total strangers." I experience a similar epiphany every time we come to Montreal. Merton's celebration of incarnation and confession of solidarity sings in my heart. It animates my prayers. It energizes my body. And confirms a long held hunch that God is not only present within all things, but calls to me to embrace the holy in the totality of the human experience. Last night these words from Pierre Teilhard de Chardin rang out as an affirmation: "By virtue of the Creation and, still more, of the Incarnation, nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see.” 

After a long day of walking and watching yesterday, we went to a lovely upscale jazz club in Le Vieux Port: Modavie. It holds a sacred place in my memory with Di. At the finale of our shared sabbatical here four years ago, we watched as fire works magically illumined the St.Lawrence and the Old City. Just down the street we purchased our new wedding rings after renewing our vows 20 years into our marriage. And two years later, we would steal an early supper here after her exhausting CELTA/English as Another Language lessons came to a close. I cherish it as a place filled with a host of life-changing memories.

When the young woman server came to our table, she welcomed us in French. And as I often do I replied, "Merci beaucoup, mademoiselle, mais je ne parle pas plus français, un peu mais..." To which she quickly replied, "Ca va mais voudriez-vous pratiquer?" It took a moment for this to register but then I nearly shouted, "Mais oui. Oui! Merci beaucoup... mais un peu lentement?" To which she smiled and said, "Avec  plaisir, monsieur." And so we did: he was patient and kind and smiled upon us with affection. It was a grand meal with excellent wine. At the end, after taking care of le facture (the bill) I expressed my gratitude in halting phrases. She paused in silence, touched her heart and said (in my loose translation): "In the Old City most folk come in demanding and expecting to speak English. We do, of course, and always want to be helpful. But the arrogance... It was an act of respect and openness for you to try to speak my language so I wanted to do everything I could to help. Thank you." And she touched her heart again.

Tenderness and even embodied prayer in a jazz bar. Respect, vulnerability and meeting Christ in the other, too. "Nothing here below is profane for those who know how to see” indeed. Such benevolence and trust is particularly important these days for those of us from the United States. Given our current regime's boorish crudities, ugly and mean-spirited policies, and overwhelming arrogance and stupidity I sense a burden to advance the cause of loving-kindness. To be sure, we're open to such blessings wherever we go: Wal-Mart, the local package store, with our friends at L'Arche, at the public library. Yet it was in Montreal that I experienced a whole new layer of scales falling from my eyes. So, it feels like a pilgrimage of sorts to return with gratitude.

Montreal is also where I experienced my call out of the local church and into the wisdom and ministry of Jean Vanier and L'Arche. (More on this later.) Here too, during sabbatical, I felt for the first time in nearly 40 years what it was like to simply be me. Not me with a role. Not me with another's expectations. Not me with a public identity. Just me - the old guy with long, white hair who likes jazz and speaks crappy French - just me. (NOTE: one of the gentle and funny illuminations I had last night re: my crappy French came at dinner. Di told me that often my pronunciation is a weird mixture of Spanish and English accents. "Your vocabulary is ok and you clearly aren't afraid to jump into conversations. But, for example, you still say the word Saint as if you were in Tucson saying "San..." I could only smile and note that it was clearly time fro me to up my game in this realm.") In Montreal I experienced my calling into "horizontal" liturgy and spirituality - a calling into solidarity rather than leadership - purchased my contre-basse, worked on upright bass grooves and saw some of the old jazz masters like Wayne Shorter and Ron Carter.

And so we keep returning. Today we'll walk to another favorite neighborhood just to see what's going on. Tonight we'll head over to Diese Onze to take in Alex Bellegarde's jazz improv night with local young musicians sitting in with the old master. And we'll try to listen and look for the holy with ears to hear and eyes to see.