Remembering Paul J. Borlik (+2006)

On November 9, 2006 Paul J. Borlik died in the dark, early hours of morning at his Grass Valley, California home.  It was not an easy passing.  He had gotten sicker, weaker, less able to move about; remaining in his own house may have been the only convenience and comfort he enjoyed during those last two months or so of hospice care. 

Ensign Paul Borlik, during WWII, around 1942

 So busy was I preparing for this particular journey (from Paris to Vichy) that I almost forgot the anniversary of my Pop’s death.   Just thinking on you, dear Pop… I’ve always respected and loved you as my father.  It’s more recently that I’ve come to understand and love you as a man.

It’s been five years now and I still relish the memory of this man’s unique characteristics as a person, his accomplishments, his simple manner, contagious humor, and so on.  But I’ll probably remember him even more fondly for his foibles!  He was a master of modern day “lament.”  Many complaints were understandable – he was terribly disgusted with the direction eventually taken by television broadcasting, professional sports, news media – all his former profession.  He could get moody and distant.  I know too that Pop was often down on himself, maybe disappointed with his own life in a way that only men can be.  More recently I find myself remembering so many people who over the years tended to gather next to and around him.  Despite the fact that Pop may have felt himself to be terribly shy and uncomfortable in his own skin, a lot of people (especially men) seemed quite at ease with him.  Before and after the funeral some of them spoke to me of how grateful they were to have even known Pop at all.  I used to wonder…what did they see?

I do recall an event, back in the late 1950’s, that for a couple weeks or so transformed our reserved, shy Dad into an unstoppable powerhouse of ideas, enthusiasm…and wonder.  He told us later that, because he had lost all appetite for food and worried that something was terribly wrong, he felt he had to consult with his doctor and parish priest. They were equally mystified but wise enough to prescribe patience, to just live through it, the doctor genially adding “maybe you’ll lose some of those extra pounds!”   

It seemed that suddenly and for no particular reason Pop had fallen in love with life – his own life.  He was overwhelmed with joy and new insights about existence, incessantly sharing about it in every single conversation with neighbors, co-workers, his wife and little children, pretty much everyone – especially with the Lord (from then on he seemed most himself in the presence of the tabernacle). 

Today I could describe it only as mystical union. 

Richard Rohr and many others speak often of these things, especially in the context of later life.  These mystical moments are experiences of enlargement and connectedness or union. You become suddenly a bigger person -- you no longer feel the need to condemn, exclude, divide or separate.  Interestingly these moments don’t often fit well with our faith-life in the sense that (unfortunately) much of our early “religious experience” placed us on a private path of perfection, something which none of us could achieve.   If you’re lucky (or “graced”) you’ll eventually find that the path of union is different than the path of perfection.

This kind of "perfection" seems to say that by pure effort or by knowing more things I can achieve wholeness.  But it’s also being separate from God, from anyone else, or from connection to the whole. It appeals to deeply/cultually-rooted individualism and our ego.  Maybe too much Western Christian history has been driven by such “private perfection” sending us on a self-defeating course marked by endless competition, win-lose thinking, conflicts and wars.  In any case, as a priest, it no longer surprises me that many people just give up—even many clergy and religious—when they see that this drive to perfecting my/our world just  isn’t working. Too many of us end up practical agnostics or practical atheists, perhaps staying faithful to form, repeating the “right” words and going to church, but there is no longer the inner desire and expectation that is possible with the path of union. Rohr says that it’s not mysticism that defeats the soul; it’s moralism that does.

Anyway, Pop’s shangrila (as he liked to call it) lasted for a couple weeks or so and eventually he “landed right back in the dirt.”  He never forgot that time though and, even if he couldn’t explain or describe it very well, Pop was always deeply grateful for it. 

We children tend to be hard on our parents, especially during our adolescence.  Our genetic ties might like a burden at times.   Eventually, though, we might be grateful to discover that those same parents’ gifts and deficits continue somehow in us.  For my part, I do hope so.

dpb

Vichy, France: getting ready for school (again)

Maison du Missionnaire, Vichy

After a rather smooth and comfortable 3 hour train ride from Paris (Gare de Lyons) to Vichy I am adjusting to a life quite different than what I left at our Maison Mère, a house and location literally in the middle of things in Paris.  

The Vincentians of the Province of Toulouse sponsor their Maison du Missionnaire (Missionary House) as a comfortable and welcoming house of studies for confrères, seminarians, and other men and women religious who are studying French.  Founded in the early 1920's by Père Henri Watthé, C.M. for ailing missionaries (he himself had ministered for years in China), the Maison du Missionnaire has a long and interesting history and even its own Wikipedia article.

Père Aimé Goliet and Père Blaìse Lalarivony

Happily the superior, Père Aimé Goliet Bernard and the resident missionary, Père Jean-Eudes Blaíse Lalarivony are remarkably welcoming and compassionate Vincentians – and love to talk!  And to make the house even more true to its name P. Goliet was a missionary for two decades in Madagascar and P. Blaíse is a missionary here, native to Madagascar.  In addition, most everyone I’ve met here at the house are “travelers” outside their home culture as well.  

First impressions of places are always memorable even if they turn out to be inaccurate.  But it appears to me that Vichy really is a small town; some describe it as a “ville,” founded upon its thermal springs and healing waters industry (and the spas and hotels servicing them) as well as few universities that seem more directed at professional careers.  Le CAVILAM, where I’m to study, specializes in la langue françsaise but it also offers teaching degrees through a larger university.  I went exploring this morning, testing the 15 minute walking route to the school where I’ll be spending a good deal of time, and it only took me 35 minutes (after characteristically getting repeatedly lost, even with the map!).  On the way I found the streets in the shopping district to be eerily empty from mid-morning until noon.  Perhaps it’s that we’re out of the tourist season, I thought, but by late afternoon (5:30 or so) I returned and could barely make my way through the dense crowds: young and extended families gathering at cafés and kiosks, groups of teens and pre-teens besieging the multiple street-level malls and departments stores, old-timers (like myself) just strolling.  Marvelous.  And no one seemed to be in a rush -- something else they say about Vichy -- here (unlike in le Cité, Paris) drivers rarely honk their horns and seem genuinely willing to wait for pedestrians.

Weather is generally moist, they tell me – perhaps this is because much of the town is built adjoining Rive and Lac L’Allier -- mornings here are often bleak and foggy.  Like other places in France this size, Vichy is a nice place to settle, especially if you’re a member of the growing French senior population.  The town is just as famous for its pampered pets. I was warned repeatedly (in Paris) about being careful where I step while walking the streets here, to practice what we called in the seminary “modesty of the eyes” i.e. a good look out for la merde de chien. 

Vichy continues to be known throughout the Republique as the Thermal City -- I'm looking forward to trying out some of the spring waters, so often recommended.  However, even today, just the mention of “Vichy” (especially in other parts of France) is bound to produce averted or downcast glances, sometimes even anger or sadness expressed at a past government that many considered run by traitors and puppets.  Although nominally a neutral regime, its officials were unquestionably collaborateurs with the German forces during World War II.

In a nutshell, from July 1940 until August 1944 the État Français (“French State”) collaborated with the Axis powers after France’s military defeat was recognized by the previous government, the “Third Republic.” That Republic’s prime minister had been Marshal Pétain, actually a hero of World War I; he now created a new regime, the Vichy Regime.  Even though the Vichy government was the officially recognized French government during those war years (yes, even by the Allied governments, like the USA), many described Petain’s regime as reactionary, rather paternalistic, and even fascistic in its cooperation with Germany’s racist policies. Vichy was the administrative center of this French regime until the early 40’s.  Thereafter the German Wehrmacht strictly administered the entire southern region like the rest of France.  It does seem that Petain’s government for a time had allowed French citizens (especially those residing in the so-called Free Zone) to continue living their lives relatively untouched by the occupation.  Except politically, spiritually, culturally, and in every other way that counted.  In any case the exiled General Charles de Gaulle never stopped challenging the legitimacy of Vichy France and Petain’s government throughout the war and, as events began to favor Allied forces, the Vichy regime gradually lost any remaining support of its citizens.  After the war, of course, its leaders were imprisoned or executed. 

All in all, it remains a painful memory for the French; a deep wound still awaiting healing.

DPB