May 31: "Meadowlark Sings and I Greet Him in Return," Progress, "The Jetsons"

Mary Oliver contemplates progress . . . 

Meadowlark Sings and I Greet Him in Return

by:  Mary Oliver

Meadowlark, when you sing it's as if

you lay your yellow breast upon mine and say

hello, hello, and are we not

of one family, in our delight of life?

You sing, I listen.

Both are necessary

if the world is to continue going around

night-heavy then light-laden, though not

everyone knows this or at least

not yet,

or, perhaps, has forgotten it

in the torn fields,

in the terrible debris of progress.

Progress is not always a good thing.  Vaccines for deadly diseases, good progress.  Building condos and hotels that obliterate unencumbered views of Lake Superior, bad progress.  Electing a woman to be President of the United States, good progress.  Changing the recipe for Coca Cola, bad progress.

Of course, defining progress as "good" or "bad" is wholly subjective.  One person's progress is another person's environmental disaster.  I'm lucky.  I grew up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, about 20 miles from the shores of Lake Superior.  As a kid, I didn't have to worry too much about stranger danger.  There weren't drug dealers on the school playground, and school shootings were still anomalies, not daily occurrences.  I grew up in a much simpler time than my children.  When my mom and dad were schoolkids, they had to deal with the effects of the Great Depression and World War II.  Not simpler.

I was a child of the 1980s.  Good and bad progress were a little different back then.  For example, one of the greatest scandals of my young life was the exposure of Milli Vanilli as frauds.  My generation had Michael Jackson's Thriller, not Michael Jackson's child molestation trial.  When a famine struck the continent of Africa, Quincy Jones organized "We Are the World."  Instead of COVID, the '80s saw the AIDS epidemic.  Ronald Reagan cut social funding and welfare programs in the United States, and Mikhail Gorbachev inched the Soviet Union closer to democracy.

Since my middle and high school days, there have been some amazing advancements in technology and medicine and society.  An HIV diagnosis is no longer a death sentence.  Practically everyone on the planet walks around with tiny supercomputers in their back pockets.  The Jetsons almost seems like an animated reality show from 2023 these days.  So-called progress has been made.

However, the human race has fucked up a lot of things, as well, starting with the environment.  Every morning this last week, the sun has risen orange because of wildfires in Canada.  Disease forecasters estimate that there is a 27% chance of another global pandemic in the next ten years.  (These forecasters aren't crystal ball gazers--they're scientists and physicians.)  And Donald Trump still isn't in prison for inciting political insurrection, let alone for all the women he's raped.

As I said earlier, progress is subjective.  The fact that most people now realize that Saving Private Ryan should have won Best Picture instead of Shakespeare in Love is a step forward in my book.  The fact that some people think there are nanobots in COVID vaccines, five steps backward in my book.  I wish there were clear and easy ways to track progress.  Ones that everyone can acknowledge and accept.  Unfortunately, that isn't a realistic goal for humankind because we have free will and, therefore, can choose to be willfully stupid or ignorant.

Mary Oliver has the best answer here:  listen to the meadowlarks sing and realize that we are of one family with them.  What makes them sing in delight should make us sing, too.  What kills them, kills us.  We just need to stop this terrible degree of progress shit and listen to what the meadowlarks (and, therefore, the planet) are telling us.

Another sign of progress:  Saint Marty turned on the air conditioning last night.  (Good progress or bad--you decide.)

May 30: "We Should Be Well Prepared," Dress Rehearsal, Chicken Farmer

Mary Oliver prepares for loss . . . 

We Should Be Well Prepared

by:  Mary Oliver

The way the plovers cry goodbye.

The way the dead fox keeps on looking down the hill

     with open eye.

The way the leaves fall, and then there's the long wait.

The way someone says:  we must never meet again.

The way mold spots the cake,

the way sourness overtakes the cream.

The way the river water rushes by, never to return.

The way the days go by, never to return.

The way somebody comes back, but only in a dream.

This whole poem, every line, is a farewell.  Plover and foxes, autumn leaves and sour milk.  For Oliver, life is just a dress rehearsal for letting go.  As a poet, that idea appeals to my darker sensibilities a great deal.

If I treated each day as my last on this planet, I wouldn't sit in an office on an 85-degree day, grading papers or writing grants or responding to emails.  Nope.  I'd be Whitman lying naked in a field of wild grass with my lover.  Or Oliver gulping mouthfuls of water from Blackwater Pond.  Or even Frost pretending to be a chicken farmer.

Perhaps, the universe would be a much kinder, gentler place if everyone came down with a case of last-day syndrome.  Hospitals and classrooms would be empty.  Beaches would be packed.  Maybe there would be a shortage of frozen turkeys because everyone would be making special meals--one last Thanksgiving with family and friends.  Donald Trump would spend his last day golfing because nobody would give a shit about him or his agenda, and maybe Vladimir Putin would decide to binge-watch all the seasons of RuPaul's Drag Race instead of bombing Ukraine.  Last days put things into perspective.

I've written 5,294 posts since I started this blog.  I can honestly say that, each time after I published another post, I thought, "Okay, that was my last one."  When I started Saint Marty back in 2010, I wasn't sure what my goal was.  To write every day?  Go viral and become an Internet star?  Be discovered by an talent agent and offered a six-figure book deal?  Labor away in obscurity and leave behind thousands of pages of writing for my kids and grandkids to read?  

Saint Marty has become a part of my daily life.  I actually feel guilty if I don't write some kind of post.  When I really do face my last day, I hope I have a chance to blog one final time.  Offer up one ultimate piece of wisdom.  Say goodbye.  Of course, I don't know when my last day will be.  It could be next week or month or year or decade.  Or it could be tonight.  

If it is tonight, I want everyone reading these words to know that I've lived a really good, complicated life, filled with joys and sorrows.  I love my beautiful wife and two smart, amazing children who make me laugh every day.  I also have been blessed by siblings whom I love.  That doesn't mean we got along all the time.  Far from it.  But love doesn't vanish.  It just changes from solid to liquid to gas to solid again, depending on the day, hour, and time of year.

I have been blessed to be a part of my wife's family for a very long time, too.  They are so much a part of me that they're like breath, picking up the pieces when I've fallen apart, cheering me on when I've crossed finish lines.  They understand and accept me for who I am--a broken weirdo with a thing for poetry.

It's impossible to name all the individuals who've made a difference in my life.  That would end up being one of those interminable "Afterwords" in a book where the author lists editors and writing group members and kindergarten teachers and pets and mechanics and therapists and hair stylists and agents and choir directors and AA sponsors.  People who have no idea how much of an impact they've had on me.  (I will brag that I have some pretty amazing nieces and nephews, as well as a great niece who is da bomb.) 

That is my last day message for Tuesday, May 30, 2023.  If I'm granted a tomorrow, I will undoubtedly have a different last day message.

Stay tuned.  Saint Marty may be back after these messages.

May 29: "From this River, When I Was a Child, I Used to Drink," Memorial Day, Freedom

Mary Oliver grieves for a dying river . . . 

From this River, When I Was a Child, I Used to Drink

by:  Mary Oliver

But when I came back I found

that the body of the river was drying.

"Did it speak?"

Yes, it sang out the old songs, but faintly.

"What will you do?"

I will grieve of course, but that's nothing.

"What, precisely, will you grieve for?"

For the river.  For myself, my lost

joyfulness.  For the children who will not

know what a river can be--a friend, a

companion, a hint of heaven.

"Isn't this somewhat overplayed?"

I said:  it can be a friend.  A companion.  A

hint of heaven.

I spent a good deal of time this morning and afternoon at cemeteries.  It's Memorial Day in the United States.  That's a day set aside to honor members of the country's armed forces who died in combat.  There are parades and concerts and VFW services all over the land, including my little piece of Michigan's Upper Peninsula.

I am well aware that I live a pretty privileged life.  I can write blog posts and poems and essays, freely expressing my opinions about MAGA hat-wearing bigots, pandemic deniers, homophobes, xenophobes, gun rights advocates, and misogynists (in short, Trump supporters).  I don't have to worry about being dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to be shot or thrown in prison for my beliefs.  Because there are individuals who sacrificed their lives to protect my freedom.  

Some people in the United States think that criticizing the government and elected officials is unpatriotic.  I'm here today to say the exact opposite.  When I say we need sensible gun laws in this country--when I speak out against censorship in libraries and schools--when I point out evidence of systemic racism--when I defend the rights of LGTBQIA+ friends and family members--when I call out people as traitors who violently storm the U. S. Capitol--when I want my daughter to be able to make her own decisions about her body and life--when I do any of these things, I am honoring those men and women who fought and died for my independence.

My father was ultra-conservative his whole life.  Staunch Catholic.  John Wayne was his hero.  He was a member of the John Birch Society and thought Joseph McCarthy was a great patriot.  The only Democrat my father ever voted for was John F. Kennedy.  Aside from that, he was a diehard Republican, right down to Donald Trump.

From a pretty young age, I was the exact opposite of my father, politically and socially.  He knew this.  I may have even said to Dad on more than one occasion that Jesus Christ was a socialist, not a capitalist.  We didn't agree on a whole lot of anything.  Yet, my father respected my right to hold opinions that were in direct conflict with his.  (He may have even appreciated me a little bit for disagreeing with him, although he would never admit it.)

So, on this Memorial Day, I want to thank all of the people who fought and died in battle so that I can be a free-thinking, antigun, prochoice, borderline socialist.  John F. Kennedy, my father's favorite president, once said, "As we express our gratitude, we must never forget that the highest appreciation is not to utter the words, but to live by them."

Saint Marty tries to live out this gratitude every day of his life.

May 28: "Invitation," Change-phobic, Christmas Tree

Mary Oliver hears an . . . 

Invitation

by:  Mary Oliver

Oh do you have time

     to linger

          for just a little while

               out of your busy

and very important day

     for the goldfinches

          that have gathered

               in a field of thistles

for a musical battle

     to see who can sing

          the highest note

               or the lowest,

or the most expressive of mirth,

     or the most tender?

          Their strong, blunt beaks

               drink the air

as they strive

     melodiously

          not for your sake

               and not for mine

and not for the sake of winning

     but for sheer delight and gratitude--

          believe us, they say,

               it is a serious thing

just to be alive

     on this fresh morning

          in this broken world.

               I beg of you,

do not walk by

     without pausing

          to attend to this

               rather ridiculous performance.

It could mean something.

     It could mean everything.

          It could be what Rilke meant, when he wrote:

               You must change your life.

You know, if we all listen close enough and hard enough, we can hear those goldfinches singing to us--an insistent chorus charging us to change our lives in some way.  And it's not just a polite suggestion.  The verb Rilke uses, and Oliver repeats, is "must."  We must change our lives.

The follow-up question, of course, is simple:  "How?"

Today, my wife and I took down the Christmas decorations in our house.  (Before you get all judgmental, let me say that, in the past, we have let our Christmas tree blaze in our living room until well past Independence Day.  So, we are actually ahead of schedule this year.)  The reason for ending yuletide season this Memorial Day weekend is quite simple:  it just felt like the right time.

I often let instinct motivate my decisions.  For most life-altering choices, I do a gut check.  If the idea of making some kind of change makes me uncomfortable, I interrogate that discomfort.  Any kind of switch in life can inspire a certain level of anxiety in my being, and I'm not a person who embraces change easily.  In fact, some might say that I am change-phobic.  

That doesn't mean that I reject the idea of change outright, given a choice.  No.  That means that I need more time than other people to adjust to shifting realities.  I'm not Billy Pilgrim, unstuck in time, leaping from one life situation to another with little to no preparation.  If I wake up tomorrow morning on the planet of Tralfamadore, I'm probably not going to have a good time.  

However, I can sense when a change is right and necessary.  The last huge change I made in my life was over three years ago.  At the time, I'd been working in the healthcare industry for over 20 years.  The first six or so months of the pandemic, I masked up, registered patients, and took temperatures at hospital entrances.  Then the adult programming position became available at the library, and I knew immediately that I wanted to pursue it.  I applied and was interviewed.  A couple weeks later, I was offered the job, and I accepted.

I like to think I helped a lot of people during my time in the healthcare field.  I was good at calming patients and families down in stressful situations, making them laugh and relax.  Some of my best friends still work in the medical profession, and I still make people laugh and relax for my job at the library.  Some things never change.

I always listen for the goldfinches in the thistle field.  They may be calling on me to start my next big adventure.

Or they may simply be saying to Saint Marty, "It's time to take down your Christmas tree."

May 27: "Sometimes," 90 Years, Tragedies and Miracles

Mary Oliver sometimes feels awe, sometimes sadness, sometimes love . . .  

Sometimes

by:  Mary Oliver

1. 

Something came up

out of the dark.

It wasn't anything I had ever seen before.

It wasn't an animal

     or a flower,

unless it was both.

Something came up out of the water,

     a head the size of a cat

but muddy and without ears.

I don't know what God is.

I don't know what death is.

But I believe they have between them

     some fervent and necessary arrangement.

2.

Sometimes

melancholy leaves me breathless.

3.

Later I was in a field full of sunflowers.

I was feeling the heat of midsummer.

I was thinking of the sweet, electric

     drowse of creation,

when it began to break.

In the west, clouds gathered.

Thunderheads.

In an hour the sky was filled with them.

In an hour they sky was filled

     with the sweetness of rain and the blast of lightning.

Followed by the deep bells of thunder.

Water from the heavens!  Electricity from the source!

Both of them mad to create something!

The lightning brighter than any flower.

The thunder without a drowsy bone it its body.

4.

Instructions for living a life:

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

5.

Two or three times in my life I discovered love.

Each time it seemed to solve everything.

Each time it solved a great many things

     but not everything.

You left me as grateful as if it had indeed, and 

thoroughly, solved everything.

6.

God, rest in my heart

and fortify me,

take away my hunger for answers,

let the hours play upon my body

like the hands of my beloved.

Let the cathead appear again--

the smallest of your mysteries,

some wild cousin of my own blood probably--

some cousin of my own wild blood probably,

in the black dinner-bowl of the pond.

7.

Death waits for me, I know it, around

     one corner or another.

This doesn't amuse me.

Neither does it frighten me.

After the rain, I went back into the field of sunflowers.

It was cool, and I was anything but drowsy.

I walked slowly, and listened

to the crazy roots, in the drenched earth, laughing and growing.

I think this poem is one of the few by Oliver I've encountered where she admits to breathless melancholy.  She doesn't often speak of that kind of darkness.  Of course, she experienced sorrow and grief.  She was human, making her way through a broken world.

Even people who seem very in-touch with their spiritual sides aren't immune to sadness or doubt or fear.  Like everyone else, these emotions are often mixed up with wonder or joy or or awe.  For me, every day is a grab bag of feelings.  I may wake up tired and sad, move on to excited after breakfast, transition to bored or anxious post lunch, and end up stunned or confused by bedtime.

I'm like Oliver, standing on the shore of a pond, seeing something I can't quite identify emerge from and glide along the surface of the water.  Not a cat.  Not a lillypad.  It's a part of creation completely new to me, yet also as familiar as the scar on my pinky.

At church tonight, we celebrated the ninetieth birthday of a longtime parishioner.  She was in attendance with her extended family.  At the end of the Mass, the priest raised his arms and blessed her.  After Mass, she lingered at the front of the sanctuary, posing for pictures and basking in the love and attention.

This woman was born in 1933.  Adolf Hitler was just coming into power.  FDR was sworn in for his first term as President of the United States.  It was the height of the Great Depression, with the unemployment rate hovering around 25 percent.  That means one in four people didn't have jobs.  The original King Kong was the number one movie.  Prohibition was repealed.  

In her 90 years, she's experienced several wars, the Hiroshima and Nagasaki bombings, many genocides and famines, a worldwide energy crisis, race riots, global warming, and a deadly pandemic.  She's also witnessed humans walking on the surface of the moon, the rise of the Internet, Star Wars and Harry Potter, and the first African American to serve in the Oval Office.  

All lifetimes are filled with these kinds of tragedies and miracles.  Creation and apocalypse.  Sometimes, we don't even know how to describe or name these things.  Atom bomb.  Holocaust.  Apollo 11.  Google.  iPhone.  AIDS.  Artificial intelligence.  They're all catheads in the dark dinner-bowl of the pond.

Mary Oliver's three rules for living a lifetime are pretty simple and profound: 

1.  Pay attention.

2.  Be astonished.

3.  Tell about it.

Something astounding happens every day.  Small and large wonders.  

The lilacs in my backyard just started blooming.  I am surrounded by their scent.  Two days ago, they were just ideas, tiny little green fists waiting to beat the air up with beauty.  Tonight, my little portion of the world is drunk with purple.  

Saint Marty paid attention.  He's astonished.  Now, he's telling you about it. 

May 26: "The Orchard," Memorial Day Weekend, Ambition

Mary Oliver on apples and time and ambition . . . 

The Orchard

by:  Mary Oliver

I have dreamed

of accomplishment.

I have fed

ambition.

I have traded

nights of sleep

for a length of work.

Lo, and I have discovered

how soft bloom

turns to green fruit

which turns to sweet fruit.

Lo, and I have discovered

all winds blow cold

at last,

and the leaves,

so pretty, so many,

vanish

in the great, black

packet of time,

in the great, black

packet of ambition,

and the ripeness

of the apple

is its downfall.

This season is all about accomplishment, time, and ambition.  Young people graduate from grade school to middle school, middle school to high school, high school to college, and college to whatever awaits.  Outside, the trees graduate from bare to green, and everything begins to open and become sweet.  You can taste ripeness with every deep breath.

It is the Friday of Memorial Day weekend, which, in the United States anyway, marks the beginning of the summer season.  For my international disciples, Memorial Day celebrates and honors members of the armed forces who sacrificed their lives in battle.  It's a national holiday in the U.S., although the majority of people overlook or forget its true significance.

I always find this weekend a little melancholy, because it's wrapped up so much in farewells and closing doors and remembrances.  Many tears are shed this time of year.  Perhaps I'm too sensitive, but I can't help it.  I'm a poet and spend a good deal of my time reflecting on shit like this.  

This afternoon, I screened Steven Spielberg's film The Fabelmans at the library where I work.  I first watched this movie in January of this year, when I was stuck at home with COVID.  It's a beautiful piece of art.  Sort of a love letter to cinema and family and growing up and pursuing your dreams.  In short, a perfect celluloid metaphor for what I'm talking about tonight.

Having ambition is a good thing.  Accomplishments are wonderful.  In the larger picture, however, they are also very temporary.  When I graduated from high school, I was voted "Most Likely to Succeed," but nobody defined that success.  When I stepped outside that high school auditorium in my cap and gown, I wanted to be a bestselling author.  Pulitzer Prize winner.  Nobel laureate.  People Magazine's Sexiest Writer Alive.  That was the definition of success.  (By the way, I would have settled for the Pulitzer and the Nobel.)

Tonight, I sit here on the cusp of another summer, and success looks very different to me.  Making enough money to pay all my bills.  Having healthy, happy children.  Writing a new poem every now and then.  Finishing this blog post tonight.  Feeling happy.  Laughing a lot.  That's all success.

As I've gotten older, my ambitions have just become more . . . realistic.  As Oliver says, the riper the apple, the sooner its downfall.  I don't think my apple is ready to fall just yet.  I have a few more things to learn, a little fuel left in my tank.  Every once in a while, I still write something that's not terrible, and eventually I'd like to finish reading Finnegans Wake (although that may be shooting too high).

So, if anybody from the Swedish Academy or Nobel Foundation is reading this blog post, Saint Marty is alive and kicking and waiting for that phone call.

May 25: "Mornings at Blackwater," Pissed, Suffering Puppy

Mary Oliver drinks from Blackwater Pond . . .

Mornings at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable 

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond, 

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

This poem is Oliver's call to action.  It's all about living in the present moment and choosing what that present moment will be.  There is no sitting back and letting life simply happen around you.  It's about taking deep, deep drinks of whatever pond or river will quench your longing and need.

First, before I write anything more, I am going to apologize.  This post is going to be angry.  Actually, it's not going to be just angry.  It's going to be pissed.  So, if you are having a bad day, I would suggest skipping today's epistle from Saint Marty and streaming something wholesome and uplifting on Disney+.

As longtime disciples of this blog know, a few months ago, my little puppy, Juno, was attacked by a 90-pound dog.  The dog that attacked Juno was supposed to be a support animal, although it turns out that she never went through the training to be certified.  As a result of that attack, Juno had torn muscles and ligaments in her neck, abdomen, back, leg; a slight pneumothorax; and a dislocated hip.  She underwent two hours of surgery the day of the attack.

Juno has been recovering these last couple months, and today she had a second surgery to try to fix her dislocated hip, which has never healed properly.  She's been pretty much hopping around of three legs since she was able to walk again.  The vet who operated on her today did what is called an FHO procedure, which entails the removal of the femoral head and neck of the femur in order to eliminate bone-on-bone contact.  Pretty much, Juno will never regain full mobility of her hip and is going to require physical therapy to buildup the muscle in the injured leg.

I'm pissed because my puppy (I call her a puppy because she's three-years-old and only weighs 17 pounds) has been suffering, and will continue to suffer, for many months to come.  I'm pissed because the owner of the other dog hasn't offered to pay any of the medical bills so far and hasn't even inquired about Juno's health.  I'm pissed because the owners of the business where the attack occurred have offered to pay half the medical expenses and, thus far, haven't provided any money.  I'm pissed because, ever since the attack (which I was in the middle of, trying to save Juno's life), I've been experiencing moments of severe anxiety that stop me in my tracks.  I literally have to stand in place and take deep breaths to control my racing heart and breaths.  

I am pissed.  That is the cup of pond water from which I'm drinking currently.  I'm done struggling to pay bills that I shouldn't have to pay.  It's the summer, and the paychecks from the university have stopped.  The vet and medical costs are topping out at around $5000 so far, and that doesn't include the physical therapy Juno is going to need.  I want someone to stand up and take responsibility for this shitty situation.

Now, I somehow have to come up with a kernel of wisdom or crumb of happiness that will make what I'm saying today uplifting.  Anger is an emotion that I don't usually indulge.  I always try to be understanding and compassionate.  Everyone struggles, and I try not to contribute to these struggles.  At the moment, however, I find myself unable to shake the red dragon that's been breathing down my neck all day long.  My palms are permanently scarred.  A fingernail on my right hand is still black.  My puppy is probably looking a months of recovery.  Panic stalks me every day.  

Just before I sat down to write this post, I sat by Juno for about 15 minutes, petting her ears in just the right spot to make her relax.  Before she fell asleep, she opened her mouth and licked my hand a little with her tired tongue.

This tiny moment of grace brought to you by an angry saint this evening.

May 24: "Night Herons," Unpredictability, Icebergs

Mary Oliver contemplates the unpredictability of life . . . 

Night Herons

by:  Mary Oliver

Some herons                              and that was the end of them

were fishing                               as far as we know--

in the robes                                though, what do we know

of the night                                except that death

at a low hour                             is so everywhere and so entire--

of the water's body,                   pummeling and felling,

and the fish, I suppose              or sometimes,

were full                                   like this, appearing

of fish happiness                      through such a thin door--

in those transparent inches      one stab, and you're through!

even as, over and over,            And what then?

the beaks jacked down            Why, then it was almost morning,

and the narrow                         and one by one

bodies were lifted                    the birds

with every                                opened their wings

quick sally,                               and flew.

The scene Oliver paints is lyrical and dark, the herons gobbling up fish in shallow tide pools.  As with most of her poems, Oliver doesn't ascribe any negative or positive connotations.  The fish are doing what fish do, and the herons are doing what herons do.

Oliver does meditate a little on the unpredictability of life and death, in an Emily Dickinson way.  Because the fish could not stop for Death, Death kindly stops for them.  The fish have no idea they are about to become heron bedtime snacks.  They are just full of fish happiness as they are plucked one by one out of the water.

None of us know what the future holds.  We like to think we do.  That's why we plan trips one or two or three years in advance.  There's no guarantee that any of us will be around in one or two or three years.  Or even one or two or three days.  We are just full of fish happiness, enjoying the moon-shot shallows, not worrying about night herons.

I'm not saying we should approach every day as an iceberg ready to sink our Titanics.  No.  But we should approach every day as a gift.  Another chance to breathe lilac air.  Eat an ice cream sandwich.  Walk along a beach, hunting for agates.  Or simply do everyday things, but take the blinders off and celebrate butter on a bagel or sunlight in a field of goldenrod.  Even a blister on a foot or papercut on a thumb is a gift.  Because those small wounds are reminders that we are alive in this messed-up world.

As I said earlier, the future isn't guaranteed.  Today was the thirtieth anniversary of the death of my wife's mother.  A wonderful woman who was taken away far too soon.  She loved her family fiercely, especially her three daughters.  Had a laugh that could melt a glacier.  I had the privilege of knowing her only five or six years.  Not enough time.  But I learned something really important from her in those days:  never pass up a chance to say "I love you."  Because love (not money or fame or success or music or poetry), above everything else, can change the world.

That is the one guarantee that Saint Marty is sure of.

May 23: "Coyote in the Dark, Coyotes Remembered," Magical Thinking, Book Ban

Mary Oliver believes something into reality . . .

Coyote in the Dark,

Coyotes Remembered

by:  Mary Oliver

The darkest thing

met me in the dark.

It was only a face

and a brace of teeth

that held no words,

though I felt a salty breath

sighing in my direction.

Once, in an autumn that is long gone,

I was down on my knees

in the cranberry bog

and heard, in that lonely place,

two voices coming down the hill,

and I was thrilled

to be granted this secret,

that the coyotes, walking together

can talk together,

for I thought, what else could it be?

And even though what emerged

were two young women, two-legged for sure

and not at all aware of me,

their nimble, young women tongues

telling and answering,

and though I knew

I had believed something probably not true,

yet it was wonderful

to have believed it.

And it has stayed with me

as a present once given is forever given.

Easy and happy they sounded,

those two maidens of the wilderness

from which we have--

who knows to what furious, pitiful extent--

banished ourselves.

Mary Oliver convinces herself that coyotes talk to each other, even though she knows it probably isn't true.  I think we have all done things like that.  It's called magical thinking, where we believe that certain thoughts or ideas or words or rituals can influence the reality of the world.  Almost as if we, through sheer faith, can will something into being.  For Oliver, it's talking coyotes.

Having just experienced a President of the United States who engaged in magical thinking every day of his administration (from believing a plague would magically vanish to believing a violent insurrection was a peaceful protest), I am highly suspicious of any form of magical thought right now.  Simply saying something is true doesn't make it true.  Saying it twice doesn't make it true.  Repeating it over and over does not make it true.  

Tonight, at the library where I work, we dealt with magical thinking.  A patron decided that a certain book should be removed from the shelves of the Teen Zone.  Of course, the volume in question is an LGTBQIA+ title.  Said patron, in the complaint, threw everything but the kitchen and bathroom sink into the argument, including, among other things, the book encouraging statutory rape, suicide, sexting, and the "normalizing" of anal sex.  

I am not writing this post to convince anybody of anything.  I don't care if you believe Donald Trump is the best president since Abraham Lincoln.  I could give two shits if you don't believe Barack Obama is not a United States citizen.  Everyone is entitled to their own ideas and beliefs, not matter how wrong-headed, false, bigoted, racist, homophobic, or xenophobic I think those ideas and beliefs are.  The United States is a free country, where freedom of thought and speech are guaranteed (for now).

When a person exercises those freedoms, it's a privilege.  However, with privilege comes a certain amount of responsibility.  In high school, my government teacher taught me a lesson that I will never forget.  Here it is in a nutshell:  your right to swing your fist ends where my face begins.  That means you can say and do what you want, as long as it doesn't infringe upon or harm my (or anybody else's) rights.

The United States is a country founded on the idea of freedom.  Unfortunately, our history doesn't demonstrate that we've always followed that ideal.  Slavery.  Institutional racism.  Antisemitism.  Misogyny.  Islamophobia.  Homophobia.  Transphobia.  You-name-it-we-have-it-phobia.  It's all there.  An almost 250 year history of intolerance and brutality.  (Don't get me wrong.  There are a lot of things the United States has done right, too.)

How do we get to a place where any kind of intolerance is acceptable?  Magical thinking.  Repeating untruths until others start believing them.  That was what the meeting tonight at the library was about.  And a packed room of concerned citizens showed up and, in very clear terms, supported love, compassion, understanding, and tolerance.

The request to remove the book was voted down.  Freedom won.

As one very young speaker at the meeting said, "If you all want to protect kids, start talking about climate change and gun violence."  No magical thinking there.

Saint Marty doesn't have anything else to add.

May 22: "The Gift," Storytelling, Singing Bowls

Mary Oliver finds a small gift from the sea . . . 

The Gift

by:  Mary Oliver

After the wind-bruised sea

     furrowed itself back

          into folds of blue, I found

               in the black wrack

a shell called the Neptune--

     tawny and white,

          spherical,

               with a tail

and a tower

     and a dark door,

          and all of it

               no larger

than my fist.

     It looked, you might say,

          very expensive.

               I thought of its travels

in the Atlantic's 

     wind-pounded bowl

          and wondered

               that it was still intact.

Ah yes, there was

     that door

          that held only the eventual, inevitable

               emptiness.

There's that--there's always that.

     Still, what a house

          to leave behind!

               I held it

like the wisest of books

     and imagined

          its travels toward my hand.

               And now, your hand.

Oliver finds the Neptune and gives us its story as only she can--full of wisdom and astonishment.  Everything and everyone in this world has a story, from the tiniest of seashells on a beach to the Himalayas.  It's very easy to walk through a day without thinking of any of those stories.  Let's face it, human beings are pretty self-absorbed creatures, myself included.

Perhaps that's why I like hanging around poets and writers.  Poets and writers train themselves to tell stories that nobody else may notice or care about.  In a poet's hands, a tiny shell on a beach suddenly becomes an astounding odyssey of survival akin to anything that Homer sang about.  (Yes, I just used the word "akin."  I'm a poet, so I'm allowed.)  There's real power in storytelling, because it's difficult to dismiss the worth of anyone and anything if you know the "once upon a times."

This evening, I attended a session of singing bowls meditation.  If you don't know that that is, don't feel bad.  Until a couple years ago, I had never even heard the term before.  Singing bowls are bowls made out of hammered metal that, when struck with a mallet, create a ringing and chiming.  The sound creates vibrations that are supposed to heal and relax.  When you have many of these bowls (and gongs) singing together in a space, it creates an energy difficult to describe.

The most amazing part of a singing bowls meditation is that the bowls make different sounds, depending on the people present.  Each individual brings a unique story and energy to a place, and the bowls respond to that story/energy.  The gentleman who led the meditation tonight told me a story.

Once upon a time, he was leading a singing bowls meditation at a local Episcopal church.  He set up his bowls and gongs in the basement of the building at first, and they did their thing, singing and vibrating.  But then he moved into the sanctuary of the church.  When he began striking his instruments, the man said, "The energy was so powerful."  The pastor of the church told him, "When you pray in a place for over 100 years, that prayer has to make a difference."

Think about that.  All the sick and dying relatives.  Griefs and joys.  Baptisms and funerals and weddings.  Christmases and Easters.  All those stories swirling around you as you sit in a pew.  When I attend Mass at my home church, I can sometimes still hear my mother's soprano voice above the organ, feel my father sitting in his place in the choir loft.  Their stories are still there, the wisest of books, as Oliver says.

The singing bowls vibrate with those stories.

We should all do the same.  The next time you see a homeless person sitting in a library or outside a gas station, remember that person has a story, just like you, full of happiness and heartache.  When you see a dandelion growing on your lawn, think of the impossible process of photosynthesis that allows it to exist.  Your story.  My story.  The dandelion's story.  The homeless person's story.  They're all chambers of the same Neptune shell.  Chorusing and humming.

Saint Marty hopes you all sleep happily ever after tonight.

May 21: "The Other Kingdoms," Memory, Letting Go

Mary Oliver contemplates the kingdoms of the world . . . 

The Other Kingdoms

by:  Mary Oliver

Consider the other kingdoms.  The

trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding

titles:  oak, aspen, willow.

Or the snow, for which the peoples of the north

have dozens of words to describe its

different arrivals.  Or the creatures, with their

thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze.  Their

infallible sense of what their lives

are meant to be.  Thus the world

grows rich, grows wild, and you too,

grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too

were born to be.

Somehow, Mary Oliver seems to be a part of all the kingdoms in this poem:  trees and snow and creatures.  In her poems, at least, she has an "infallible sense" of what her life is meant to be.  She is an observer.  Grace seeker.  Nature lover.  In short, she's part of the poetry kingdom, as am I.

I spent most of the day planning for a poetry workshop that I led this evening.  The theme I chose was "memory," since next weekend is Memorial Day.  People will visit the graves of lost loved ones; place flowers by headstones; and attend parades and programs to honor members of the armed services who sacrificed their lives in battle.

As most of you know, I've been struggling with sadness and grief for some time now.  In the last eight years, I've lost three siblings and both of my parents, plus one of my best friends.  Those are my dead.  They are with me all the time, and I try to honor their memories in everything I do.

I just took my puppy out for one last stroll before bed.  As I stood in my backyard, letting her do her business, I listened to the chorus of spring peepers filling the night.  I've been hearing them for a week or so now, a sure sign that the winter of 2023 is slipping into memory.  (As a Yooper, I make this statement hesitantly, because I have seen huge snowstorms blow in at the end of May.)

The world outside my window is growing rich and wild.  Pretty soon, my lilac bushes will be heavy with purple.  Kids will be graduating from area high schools in a couple weeks.  It is a time of transitions.  White to green.  Spring to summer.  Childhood to adulthood.  It's all about letting go.  And being a little haunted.

Saint Marty wrote these haunting little poems tonight.  Think of them as snapshots from the kingdom of poetry.

Five Spring Haiku

by:  Martin Achatz

Trilliums in my backyard

unfold their white bodies

like teenagers on Spring Break.

I tiptoe through backyard grass

until my sneaker discovers 

the scent of my dog.

Beneath my feet and hands

the pipe organ moans,

A lovesick whale in the Pacific.

Orange sun boiled

in a kettle of clouds.

Leftover pizza for dinner,

bite marks on the crust

from the hungry night.

May 20: "At the River Clarion," Pieces of Divinity, Stunned Stupid

Mary Oliver goes down to the river . . . 

At the River Clarion

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

I don't know who God is exactly.

But I'll tell you this.

I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a 

     water splashed stone

and all afternoon I listened to the voices

     of the river talking.

Whenever the water struck the stone it had

     something to say,

and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing

     under the water.

And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me

     what they were saying.

Said the river:  I am part of holiness.

And I too, said the stone.  And I too, whispered

     the moss beneath the water.

I'd been to the river before, a few times.

Don't blame the river that nothing happened quickly.

You don't hear such voices in an hour or a day.

You don't hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.

And it's difficult to hear anything anyway, through

     all the traffic, and ambition.

2.

If God exists he isn't just butter and good luck.

He's also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.

Said the river:  imagine everything you can imagine, then

     keep on going.

Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God)

     would sing to you if it could sing, if

          you would pause to hear it.

And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn't sing?

If God exists he isn't just churches and mathematics.

He's the forest, He's the desert.

He's the ice caps, that are dying.

He's the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.

He's van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert

     Motherwell.

He's the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing

     their weapons.

He's every one of us, potentially.

The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician,

     the poet.

And if this is true, isn't it something very important?

Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and

     each of you too, or at least

          of his intention and his hope.

Which is a delight beyond measure.

I don't know how you get to suspect such an idea.

     I only know that the river kept singing.

It wasn't a persuasion, it was all the river's own

     constant joy

which was better by far than a lecture, which was

     comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.

3.

Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.

Let us live it, gesture by gesture.

When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?

And should we not thank the knife also?

We do not live in a simple world.

4.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill.

One by one I watched the fires go out.

There was nothing I could do

except to remember

that we receive

then we give back.

5.

My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest,

     she is given back.

But the river Clarion still flows

     from wherever it comes from

          to where it has been told to go.

I pray for the desperate earth.

I pray for the desperate world.

I do the little each person can do, it isn't much.

Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.

6.

Along its shores were, may I say, very intense

     cardinal flowers.

And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them,

     for heaven's sakes--

the lucky ones:  they have such deep natures,

     they are so happily obedient.

While I sit here in a house filled with books,

     ideas, doubts, hesitations.

7.

And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river

     keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its

           long journey, its pale, infallible voice

               singing.

This poem celebrates the tiny pieces of divinity that exist in everything--the rivers, birds, rocks, mosses, people.  God is everywhere, Oliver says, from the greatest works of art to a fatal tick embedded in the flesh of a beloved pet.  The Lord gives, and the Lord takes back.

I spent most of today with one of my best friends, working on a creative project.  I don't often have the opportunity to immerse myself that fully in friendship and art.  It was a gift, like sitting on a wet stone in the middle of the Clarion, listening to the water, rock, and moss sing.

Then, in the evening, we played games with the same friend and his family.  There was pizza, chicken wings, chips, salsa, bean dip, and chocolate.  And there was laughter.  A lot of laughter.  By the time the games were done and food put away, my cup was overflowing.

It was one of those days where I felt abundantly blessed.  (Don't get me wrong:  I'm always abundantly blessed.  But, like every other person on this planet, I'm not always aware of the riot of goodness that surrounds me.  It's so easy to be distracted by the aches and pains of daily life.)

I'm not a wise person in a lot of ways.  I need to be clubbed over the head often with reminders of all the little pieces of God singing around me--from the flowers growing in a neighbor's yard to the gummi bears my friend brought to game night.  Even Oliver admits to getting distracted--by books, ideas, doubts, and hesitations.  It isn't until I'm stunned stupid by blessings that I remember to give thanks for all the holiness in my life.  The stones and branches, sparrows and dandelions, friends and laughter, poetry and music.

Saint Marty listened today and heard all the voices of God.

May 19: "Mysteries, Yes," Astonishment, Agonal Breathing

Mary Oliver prefers mystery . . . 

Mysteries, Yes

by:  Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

     to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

     mouths of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

     in allegiance with gravity

          while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will

     never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

     scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

     who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

     "Look!" and laugh in astonishment

     and bow their heads.

This poem is all about choosing astonishment over answers.  Oliver distrusts people who have the kind of self assurance that leaves no room for mystery.  Think about the first time someone told you that Santa wasn't real.  It may have been your mother or father, but, more likely, it was a friend/classmate/peer who was trying to make you feel childish and stupid.  Who was trying to assert some power over you.

People who have all the answers bore me at the very least and piss me off  in the extreme.  Don't give me the science of light and refractions and atmospheres if I comment on the brilliant blue of the sky.  Tell me that you can see your father's eyes looking down on you from above.  If I'm sitting in a hospital room with my dying sister, I'm not interested in the biology of agonal breathing.  I want to hold her hand and tell her that mom and dad are waiting for her.

Mystery is more comforting.  Mystery helps us live with the unanswerable and frightening.  I think that's why I ended up becoming a poet instead of a computer programmer.  You may be surprised to know that I have undergraduate minors in math and computer science.  Four credits away from a BA in computer science.  I took classes in abstract algebra and calculus, artificial intelligence and computer graphic design.  I could write a line of code with the best of 'em.

However, I finally realized--after about four years of classes and a nervous breakdown (literally)--that I didn't need to know all the answers.  I preferred to be dumbfounded on a midnight beach by Lake Superior under a curtain of auroras than reading about electrically charged particles entering the Earth's thermosphere at very high speeds.  Mystery over the mundane.  Poetry over Pascal.

I have never regretted this decision.  To this day, I prefer moments of breathless wonder versus news about Marjorie Taylor Greene's latest display of stupidity and bigotry.  That's doesn't mean I live in ignorance.  That means my life is made richer when grace enters into the equation.

Poetry does that for me.  Reading poetry.  Writing poetry.  Listening to poetry.  Grace and grace and grace.  For other people, it's music or visual art or theater or novels that do the trick.  Some people even find grace in mathematics.  Here's the thing, though, whatever the source of grace:  it isn't about answering questions.  Grace is about being human in the rubble of the world.

Saint Marty doesn't have all the answers, and he's okay with that, as long as there's a poem by Sharon Olds or Mary Oliver close by.

May 18: "Prayer," Plain Ridiculous, Love

Some of Mary Oliver's last wishes . . . 

Prayer

by:  Mary Oliver

May I never not be frisky.

May I never not be risqué.

May my ashes, when you have them, friend,

and give them to the ocean,

leap in the froth of the waves,

still loving movement,

still ready, beyond all else,

to dance for the world.

That's how Mary Oliver wants the world to remember her--leaping in the waves of the Atlantic, dancing for the world.

I'm not sure how I want to be remembered, if I'm remembered at all.

If I cross somebody's mind ten, 15, or 20 years after I die, I hope I make that person smile.  Laugh out loud.  My whole life, I've embraced the ridiculous.  Because humans are just plain ridiculous.  Two years ago, there were government leaders who compared wearing facemasks during the pandemic to the Holocaust.  (Okay, that may cross the line from ridiculous to downright stupid, but you get the idea.)  Then there are climate change deniers.  People who march into public libraries and try to dictate what I should or should not be allowed to read.  Others who believe there is "right" and "wrong" kinds of love.

Like I said, the human race is ridiculous.

Here is Saint Marty's prayer for tonight:  

May I never not be able to laugh.

May I never not be open in mind and heart.

When I am just ashes, mix those ashes

with concrete, and pour them into the barrels

of all the handguns in the United States.  Make

ink with my ashes, and print a book of poems

with them.  Let the poems be about my family

and friends, and let the last line of the last poem be

one word, repeated over and over and over:

love love love love love love love love love.

Because there is never enough love in the world.

May 17: "Evidence," Wondrous Place, Charlton Heston

Mary Oliver on permanence and impermanence . . . 

Evidence

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

Where do I live?  If I had no address, as many people

do not, I could nevertheless say that I lived in the

same town as the lilies of the field, and the still

waters.

Spring, and all through the neighborhood now there are 

strong men tending flowers.

Beauty without purpose is beauty without virtue.  But

all beautiful things, inherently, have this function--

to excite the viewers toward sublime thought.  Glory

to the world, that good teacher.

Among the swans there is none called the least, or

the greatest.

I believe in kindness.  Also in mischief.  Also in

singing, especially when singing is not necessarily

prescribed.

As for the body, it is solid and strong and curious

and full of detail; it wants to polish itself; it

wants to love another body; it is the only vessel in

the world that can hold, in a mix of power and 

sweetness:  words, song, gesture, passion, ideas,

ingenuity, devotion, merriment, vanity, and virtue.

Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable.

2.

There are many ways to perish, or to flourish.

How old pain, for example, can stall us at the 

threshold of function.

Memory:  a golden bowl, or a basement without light.

For which reason the nightmare comes with its

painful story and says:  you need to know this.

Some memories I would give anything to forget.

Others I would not give up upon the point of

death, they are the bright hawks of my life.

Still, friends, consider stone, that is without

the fret of gravity, and water that is without

anxiety.

And the pine trees that never forget their

recipe for renewal.

And the female wood duck who is looking this way

and that way for her children.  And the snapping

turtle who is looking this way and that way also.

This is the world.

And consider, always, every day, the determination

of the grass to grow despite the unending obstacles.

3.

I ask you again:  if you have not been enchanted by

this adventure--your life--what would do for

you?

And, where are you, with your ears bagged down

as if with packets of sand?  Listen.  We all

have much more listening to do.  Tear the sand

away.  And listen.  The river is singing.

What blackboard could ever be invented that

could hold all the zeros of eternity?

Let me put it this way--if you disdain the

cobbler may I assume you walk barefoot?

Last week I met the so-called deranged man

who lives in the woods.  He was walking with

great care, so as not to step on any small, 

living thing.

For myself, I have walked in these woods for

more than forty years, and I am the only

thing, it seems, that is about to be used up.

Or, to be less extravagant, will, in the 

foreseeable future, be used up.

First, though, I want to step out into some

fresh morning and look around and hear myself

crying out:  "The house of money is falling!

The house of money is falling!  The weeds are

rising!  The weeds are rising!"

For Oliver, the world is a wondrous place, full of constant, renewing beauty.  Wood ducks and swans.  Snapping turtles and pine trees.  As an impermanent traveler on this little ball of rock and water--one who will be used up and returned to the elements--Oliver recognizes and acknowledges the constant inconstancy of this life.  

Think about all of the things in which we invest our time and resources.  For example, this blog post that I am currently typing.  Forty or 50 years from now, it will still exist in some form, unless humankind has pulled a Planet of the Apes and hit the nuclear restart button.  (Cue Charlton Heston:  "You maniacs!  You blew it up!  Damn you!  Goddamn you all to hell!")  It will take me roughly two or so hours to finish this little reflection.  Then I will click the "Publish" tab and send it out into the ether, where it will continue to have a life of its own, spawning or lying dormant.

I may be a footnote in my family tree by the time you read this, future disciple.  Or an overgrown headstone in a cemetery.  A yellowed page in some ancient poetry anthology.  A picture in an old photo album, looking like an Ellis Island immigrant.  Or I may be completely forgotten.  The house of money falls, and the weeds rise.

Of course, I like to fool myself into believing that 100 years from now, people will still remember who I am.  A Nobel Prize-winning poet blogger saint with a serious addiction to fountain pens and Sharon Olds.  And when people speak, write, or read my name, I hope they smile, remember something beautiful I contributed to all the zeros of infinity.  Maybe a poem about a mushroom or blog post about Bigfoot.  

In my meager existence, I hope I haven't harmed anything or anyone.  I hope I've seeded the world with some happiness and joy.  Made the universe just a tiny bit better by being alive.  That will be enough.

My name is/was Saint Marty, and I wish you all grace, love, and laughter.

May 16: "To Begin With, The Sweet Grass," Love Ourselves, Love the World

Some life lessons from Mary Oliver . . .

To Begin With,

The Sweet Grass

by:  Mary Oliver

1.

Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat

     of the sweet grass?

Will the owl bite off its own wings?

Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or

     forget to sing?

Will the rivers run upstream?

Behold, I say--behold

the reliability and the finery and the teachings

     of this gritty earth gift.

2.

Eat bread and understand comfort.

Drink water and understand delight.

Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets

     are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds

who are drinking the sweetness, who are

     thrillingly gluttonous.

For one thing leads to another.

Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.

Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.

And someone's face, whom you love, will be as a star

both intimate and ultimate,

and you will be both shaken and respectful.

And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:

oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two

beautiful bodies of your lungs.

3.

The witchery of living

is my whole conversation

with you, my darlings.

All I can tell you is what I know.

Look and look again.

This world is not just a little thrill for the eyes.

It's more than bones.

It's more than the delicate wrist with its personal pulse.

It's more than the beating of the single heart.

It's praising.

It's giving until the giving feels like receiving.

You have a life--just imagine that!

You have this day, and maybe another, and maybe

     still another.

4.

Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,

the dancer, the potter, 

to make me a begging bowl

which I believe 

my soul needs.

And if I come to you,

to the door of your comfortable house

with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,

will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.

I would like to give you this chance.

5.

We do one thing or another, we stay the same, or we

     change.

Congratulations, if

     you have changed.

6.

Let me ask you this.

Do you also think that beauty exists for some

     fabulous reason?

And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure--

     your life--

what would do for you?

7.

What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself.

Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to.

That was many years ago.

Since then I have gone out from my confinements,

     though with difficulty.

I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.

I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile.

They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment

     somehow or another).

And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.

I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.

I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,

I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?

Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.

This is all that Mary Oliver knows, boiled down, condensed, and concentrated:  first, learn to love yourself; second, forget that love; third, learn to love the world.

That's it.

As children, we learn fairly early to love ourselves.  The universe is all about our needs--our pains and hungers and joys and sorrows.  We are gravity and sun.  That's the way things work for the first few years of our lives.

The rest of our time is spent unlearning this narcissism.  Unfortunately, some people never do.  Those individuals become serial killers, owners of Facebook and Twitter, or Presidents of the United States who start insurrections.

Loving the world is a harder lesson to learn.  Because it means placing other needs ahead of our own--climate, world hunger, refugees, poverty, intolerance, to name a few.  I could go on, but I think you get the idea.  It's a difficult transition to make because it is a paradigm shift, from child to adult, immaturity to maturity.  

I've been teaching college undergraduates for almost 30 years.  I've read more college composition papers than I care to count.  Most of the time, those essays reflect a developing understanding of the world.  There are dead grandmother essays, where the writer is coming to terms with mortality.  There are breakup essays, where the writer is grappling with cruelty and rejection.  There are loss of faith essays, where the writer rails against organized religion.  Then there are nature essays and homeless essays and abuse essays, where the writer starts putting these global issues into the context of their lives.

It takes some time to reach that Mary Oliver stage in life--when the world's needs replace the need for the newest iPhone iteration.  That kind of enlightenment is a lifelong process.  There is a Zen proverb that says, "Before enlightenment, chop wood, carry water.  After enlightenment, chop wood, carry water."  We are all going to be chopping wood and carrying water until the day we shuffle off this mortal coil.  

Every day, I try to chop the wood and carry the water.  By taking care of the needs of the world (and the people in it), I'm taking care of myself, as well.  Enlightenment is like moving into a new house.  There isn't just one big lightbulb to be switched on.  It's more like a series of lights.  You move from room to room, turning on lights, discovering each new space.

I'm old enough to have flipped on a lot of light switches in my life.  Yet, I'm still learning things, about myself and my place in the world.  Each blade of sweet grass or incoming tide or piece of bread is an opportunity to become a child of the clouds and of hope, as Oliver says.

As he gets older and possibly wiser, Saint Marty gets younger and younger, in attitude and outlook.

May 15: "Almost a Conversation," Sister's Birthday, Simplicity

Mary Oliver learns something from an otter . . . 

Almost a Conversation 

by:  Mary Oliver 

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter

      about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble

     with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding

     is all body expression--

he swims like the sleekest fish,

he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.

Little by little he trusts my eyes

and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.

I admire his whiskers

and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life 

     is clear.

He does not own a computer.

He imagines the river will last forever.

He does not envy the dry house I live in.

He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.

He wonders, morning after morning, that the river

is so cold and fresh and alive, and still

I don't jump in.

Really, what Mary Oliver is getting at here is simplicity.  

The otter's life is simple.  He doesn't have a car that needs new brakes.  Or a house with a leaky roof.  (And if the otter's roof leaks, that's okay.  Nothing to worry about.)  When the otter wakes in the morning, he lets his body's needs tell him what to do.  If he's hungry, he finds a fat frog to eat.  If he's still tired, he probably goes back to sleep.  And if he hears the river slapping and singing, the otter goes for a swim and feels cold, fresh, and alive.

Human beings embrace complexity.  Thrive on it, actually.  After her otter conversation, Oliver doesn't jump into the river.  Nope.  She stays on the shore and eventually returns to her nice dry house.  Her computer.  And she writes a poem.

Today would have been my sister Rose's 58th birthday.  I barely remember my own kids' birthdates, but I will never forget Rose's.  Because she reminded everyone constantly about it for months.  It was a magic day for her, when she got cake and ice cream and her favorite dinner.  Usually, Kentucky Fried Chicken, if she was given a choice.  And people sang to her and gave presents.

Rose knew about simplicity and happiness.  A can of Diet Coke could make her smile for hours, or at least until it was empty.  She could watch the same movie, over and over, and experience the same intense pleasure each time.  Everything was always cold and fresh and alive for her.

She's been gone a little over a year now.  Long enough that her voice has started to fade from my memory a little bit.  I wish I had learned to enjoy each day the way Rose did--as if it was the first and best day ever.

Saint Marty's sister was grace and blessing.  He misses her a great deal.

Two Evenings after the Day You Died

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in my backyard, my dog
on the end of her leash, pulling,
digging in the snow. The wind
in the lilac branches, limbs of maple
scratches and moans. It’s a sound
that makes the cold seem colder,
the stars, fragile as frost. I don't
move. My dog stops, as well.
The moment lasts only 20 or 30
seconds, but it stretches out
like piano keys of darkness
on the winter solstice. I listen
to the world sing, sigh, and sob
like cantors at vespers, and I think
of you. How your last breath came
and went so softly that morning that I am
still waiting, two days later, for you
to wake.