November 30, 2024: "Elusive," Bouts of Sadness, Stupid Masculine Stereotype

I tried to keep myself busy today.  Worked on a Christmas essay.  Watched a documentary on the life of Flannery O'Connor.  Took my puppy for a few walks, freezing my ass off in the process. Took a picture of a snowperson.  Played pipe organ for a Saturday evening Mass.  Had dinner with my sisters.  

If you can't tell, I'm trying to keep my mind engaged to avoid the blue mood I wrote about last night.  Now that I'm settling down for the night, however, it's sitting on the couch beside me, begging for attention.

Billy Collins thinks about the person he loves . . . 

Elusive

by: Billy Collins

As I was wandering the city this morning

working on my impression of Michael Caine,

I began to think about her again--

which makes it sound as if she were far away

or lost in the past or possibly both.

But I was with her only an hour ago,

and later I will sit in the kitchen

and watch her hair hiding her face

as she stirs some onions and butter in a skillet

and I pour us a glass of frosty white wine.

Still, she has been known to vanish

as if in a mist as we walk past

a row of store windows, or she will disappear

behind a hedge or into a side room at a party.

And often no aisle of the supermarket reveals her.

Like the fox, she is nowhere and everywhere,

a tail of fire out of the corner of my eye,

one of the corners she likes to turn

just as the streetlights are coming on

when I am searching for her in the evening crowd.

Would she and Michael Caine hit it off,

I wondered as I emerged from an alley

only to see her staring at me from a spot on a public bench.

My wife once told me that she has to read my blog to find out what's really going on in my head.  I guess that means that I'm sort of elusive, too.  

It's true that I don't often talk about my bouts of sadness much, except with my therapist.  I've always thought that I don't need to burden my loved ones with my mental health problems.  Too many people depend on me to be even-tempered, happy, and in control.  I don't like letting anyone down.

I've learned to mask these struggles really well, perhaps out of some stupid masculine stereotype that a "real" man needs to be strong all the time.  Usually, only those closest to me know when I'm in the throes of one of my depressions.  It's harder for me to concentrate and be around large groups of people.  At night, I withdraw, become uncommunicative or short-tempered.  I don't even want to be around me.

So why am I coming clean this time?

Because I know that the holidays are difficult for lots of individuals out there.  Think about it.  Every famous Christmas movie or book or TV special is about family and togetherness, taking care of the less fortunate, angels getting their wings, Ralphie receiving his official Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred-shot, range model air rifle, with a compass in the stock and this thing which tells time. 

But for most folks, this version of the holidays just doesn't exist.  To paraphrase Charles Dickens, at this time of the rolling year, want is keenly felt.  So are grief and hunger and isolation.  Maybe by me writing about my own particular experience with sadness, a person who happens on this post might feel a little less alone this holiday season.  

At least, that's Saint Marty's hope.

November 29, 2024: "Quandary," Sadness, My Brother

I found myself up late last night, reading and writing.  It's a bad habit since I don't really ever get a chance to sleep in.  Often, when the alarm goes off, I feel more tired than when I went to bed.

At about 2 a.m., I could feel myself getting sad for no apparent reason.  It just happened, like some kind of dark weather front moving in.  I couldn't fight it off, and suddenly I was just crying uncontrollably.  Not just sniffing and wiping my eyes, but big, gulping sobs that I was afraid would wake my wife or puppy.  It continued until I finally fell asleep, despondent and exhausted.

I'm not sure what triggered the tears.  Lack of sunlight?  Stress?  Impending holidays?  The Felon in Chief and his band of Merry Morons?  A piece of bad fruit?

Billy Collins takes a bite of an apple . . . 

Quandary

by: Billy Collins

I was a little disappointed
in the apple I lifted from a bowl of fruit
and bit into on the way out the door,
fuzzy on the inside and lacking the snap of the ripe.

Yesterday it was probably perfect,
I figured, as I held it out before me,
soft red apple bearing my tooth marks,
as if I were contemplating the bust of Aristotle.

I considered all the people
who would be grateful to have this apple,
and others who might find it in their hearts
to kill me before slipping it into a pocket.

And I considered another slice
of the world’s population, too,
those who are shielded from anything
as offensive as a slightly imperfect apple.

Then I took a second bite, a big one,
and pitched what was left
over the tall hedges hoping to hit on the head
a murderer or one of the filthy rich out for a stroll.

There's a lot going on in the world that is simply depressing.  Starving people for whom an apple would be a feast.  Refugees who have no homes or homelands.  Filthy rich people hell bent on making the poor even poorer by hook, crook, and lies.  Wannabe dictators and their brain-dead followers.  Willful ignorance and rampant hatred.

All of that is enough to keep the makers of Prozac in business until the next millennium.  

When I woke this morning, the sadness was still with me, and it has remained my constant companion all day long.  I tried to keep myself busy, picking out and rehearsing music for this weekend's church services.  Taking my puppy for a few long walks, despite bitter winds ad snow.  The distractions helped for a little while, but, as soon as I stopped playing keyboard or got home from a stroll, the sadness came back doubly strong.

I have a feeling this bout of melancholia is the beginning of one of the blue funks I've experienced off and on since I was a teen.  They can last a few days or a few months.  Today, I found myself obsessively thinking about my brother, Kevin, who passed in 2014.  He had a pretty difficult life, suffering a stroke that ended his career as a plumber and left him dependent on a walker during his final years.  Yet, he maintained his sense of humor to the last, quick with a new joke or pun.

An apple a day isn't going to keep this sadness away, even if said apple is ripe and sweet instead of soft and fuzzy.

So, dear disciples, please be patient with me in the coming days/weeks/months.  I will try to find light in the dark, joy in the bone-crushing cold.

Saint Marty will end this post with a picture of his puppy who crawled into his lap this morning, licked and licked his face until he couldn't help but laugh.

November 28, 2024: "Cheerios," Thanksgiving, "Amazing Grace"

It has been a good Thanksgiving.

As I said in last night's post, I don't focus on the false narrative I was taught in elementary school about a happy feast between immigrant Puritans and Indigenous Americans.  Instead, I choose to embrace gratitude for all the blessings of my life.  This year and time, in particular, I think it's radically important to hold onto grace at work in the face of darkness and hopelessness,  The great writer Flannery O'Connor once wrote, "All human nature resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful."  

I think our lives are charged with grace, sometimes joyful and oftentimes painful, no matter how young or old you are.  Even if you're as old as Cheerios.

Billy Collins has breakfast . . . 

Cheerios

by: Billy Collins

One bright morning in a restaurant in Chicago
as I waited for my eggs and toast,
I opened the Tribune only to discover
that I was the same age as Cheerios.

Indeed, I was a few months older than Cheerio
for today, the newspaper announced,
was the seventieth birthday of Cheerios
whereas mine had occurred earlier in the year.

Already I could hear them whispering
behind my stooped and threadbare back,
Why that dude’s older than Cheerios
the way they used to say

Why that’s as old as the hills,
only the hills are much older than Cheerios
or any American breakfast cereal,
and more noble and enduring are the hills,

I surmised as a bar of sunlight illuminated my orange juice.

As per my family tradition, we did a 5K Turkey Trot this morning.  This year, my little clan consisted of my wife, son, and puppy.  And it was a good time, even if my 16-year-old son refused to walk with us out of some sense of teenaged embarrassment.  Grace.

Then we had a mimosa brunch with my wife's side of the family at her cousin's home,  Lot of good food.  Lots of good drink.  Most importantly, an abundance of laughter and love.  When we posed for the family picture, it was a scene straight out of National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation, including a surly teen (my son again), two dogs, and a semi-drunk uncle (that would be me).  Grace.

And, in the evening, we hosted my side of the family for the turkey feast.  That means I spent most of the afternoon preparing and cooking food.  My wife dragged out the wedding china, silverware, and crystal, and I cracked open two bottles of good wine, of which I had a few glasses.  After dinner, we played games and watched a Christmas movie.  All grace again.

Billy Collins feels his age in today's poem, and I certainly felt mine today, too.  In particular, I was thinking of all the people who weren't there to celebrate with us.  My wife's wonderful mother, uncle, grandmother, and grandfather.  My mom, dad, sisters Sally and Rose, and brother Kevin.  My good friend, Helen, who would have sent me a text message full of joy and thankfulness.  Graces all.

As O'Connor said, grace is painful sometimes.  If you love deeply, you will grieve deeply.  There's no way around it.  That's the way it works.  I'm profoundly grateful I had those missing people in my life, however short or long the time was.  They may be resting high on that mountain now, but they filled my days with joy and happiness when they were here.  Profound grace.  

I give thanks for everyone who reads my little blog posts, too.  My messages may be silly, maudlin, angry at times, but you all stick with me,  And that's grace, too.

Here's a poem Saint Marty wrote for a Thanksgiving worship service this year . . . 

Amazing Grace

by: Martin Achatz

On that first Thanksgiving after
my dad wasn’t stealing scraps
of turkey skin from the kitchen,
burning his fingers and tongue,
or settling at the head
of the table, I sat for the meal
with my hat still on, because he wasn’t
there to give me his John Wayne
stare, point, rumble Hat!
since he was taught on the farm
men removed headgear
at dinner time.

No, as frost laced the windows,
he wasn’t king of this feast,
surrounded by his favorite
foods, us kids waiting in silence
while he intoned grace
as if administering last rites
on the bird before us. We all
sat in our places, not quite sure
how to begin without him
until my mother looked around,
said Where’s your father?—
her memory in a different
time and place.

I recalled the story of Christ
bowing his head, seasoning the five
barley loaves and two snappers
with prayer, then performing divine
math, feeding the famished legion
an all-you-can-eat seafood buffet
with leftovers for breakfast and lunch
the next day.

I cleared my throat, made the sign
of the cross, began saying the words
my dad said every year. Suddenly,
I could see him scooping mashed
potatoes, ladling gravy, forking
yam and white meat onto our plates,
multiplying his love over and over and over
and over until all our hungry hearts
were full.

November 27, 2024: "The Suggestion Box," Thanksgiving Eve, Surrounded by Poetry

I often say that, if you are a poet, you're surrounded by poetry.  I have a poet friend who, in her birthday messages to me, says, "Happy birthday!  Now go write about it!"  I laugh every time, and then I start thinking about my next poem or blog post or essay.  

This evening, on a night-time walk, I saw a mountain ash tree still filled with orange berries, each cluster capped with snow, and I took out my camera to save the image.  This perfect clash of summer and winter.  Now, I'm writing this blog post about it.

Billy Collins is surrounded by possibilities . . . 

The Suggestion Box

by: Billy Collins

It all began fairly early in the day
at the coffee shop as it turned out
when the usual waitress said
I’ll bet you’re going to write a poem about this
after she had knocked a cup of coffee into my lap.

Then later in the morning I was told
by a student that I should write a poem
about the fire drill that was going on
as we all stood on the lawn outside our building.

In the afternoon a woman I barely knew
said you could write a poem about that,
pointing to a dirigible that was passing overhead.

And if all that were not enough,
a friend turned to me as we walked past
a man whose face was covered with tattoos
and said, I see poem coming!

Why is everyone being so helpful?
I wondered that evening by the shore of a lake.

Maybe I should write a poem
about all the people who think
they know what I should be writing poems about.

It was just then in the fading light that I spotted
a pair of ducks emerging
from a cluster of reeds to paddle out to open water,

the female glancing back over her russet shoulder
just in time to see me searching my pockets for a pen.

I knew it, she quacked, with a bit of a brogue.
But who can blame you for following your heart?
she went on.
Now, go write a lovely poem about me and the mister.

If you're wondering whether I'm constantly looking for poem ideas, the answer to that question is "yes" and "no."  Yes, I'm a person who watches for small moments of wonder and astonishment all day long.  I keep my eyes open for sunrises, beautiful leaves, white caps on Lake Superior, or a cobweb breathing in the corner.  No, I don't write a poem about each of those small moments, because I need to work, eat, walk, love.  There are so many poems begging to be written.

It is Thanksgiving Eve, and tomorrow, I will be walking a Turkey trot, drinking mimosas, and cooking a turkey dinner.  It's going to be a full day, with plenty of grace and wonder to be had.  I will say that Thanksgiving is one of my favorite holidays (not because I buy into the bullshit narrative of a friendly colonial feast between pilgrims and Indigenous people).  I just appreciate getting together with people I love, eating, laughing, and telling stories.  That is a great wonder.

I give thanks tonight for the deep breath of the coming day.  Yes, I may write a poem about eating turkey or walking in the snow with my puppy, or I may not.  There are people right now who are dealing with loss and grief, as well.  I may write about poem about that, or I may not.

Whatever tomorrow brings, Saint Marty is blessed with love in his life, and that just may be poem enough for him.

November 26: "Sunday Walk," Saunter by Lake Superior, Thanksgiving Service

I had an easy day planned out.  

I'm on a semi-vacation this week, so I'm working minimal hours at the library.  This morning, I dropped my son off at school and wife at work, and then I went to McDonald's and wrote for a couples hours.  My plan was to record the audible version of my new book in the library's sound booth.  Unfortunately, it was already booked for the day.  So I just hung out in my office, accomplishing other things.  I even went for a three-mile saunter by Lake Superior.

Billy Collins goes for a stroll . . . 

Sunday Walk

by: Billy Collins

Not only colorful beds of flowers

ruffled today by a breeze off the lake

but the ruffled surface of the lake itself,

and later a boathouse and an oak tree

so old its heavy limbs rested on the ground.

And I don't want to leave out

the uniformed campus guard I saw studying

a map of the campus without a student in sight.

Closer to town, shops under awnings

and several churches,

one topped with a burnished cross,

another announcing a sermon:

"What You Can Take with You."

So many odd things to see

but mostly it's the sun at its apex

inscribing little circles,

little haloes at the top of the sky,

and the freshening breeze,

the nowhere it came from

and the nowhere it is headed,

every leaf wavering, each branch bowed,

and what can I do, I heard myself asking,

with all this evidence of something,

me without a candle, wafer, or a rug,

not even a compass to tell me which way to face.

The best part of the day came after work and school.  My wife and I participated in an ecumenical Thanksgiving service.  Seven different churches of various Christian denominations gathered at my home parish, Saint John the Evangelist, for an evening of gratitude, thanks, and praise, followed by a pie social.

Each church's choir did an anthem, and each church's pastor participated in some way--saying prayers, reading scriptures, providing the message.  I found the whole service incredibly moving.  One Lutheran choir sang a piece I've sung more times than I can count at my wife's church.  My poet mentor and friend read a new poem, and I shared a new poem, as well.  

At the pie social afterward, people kept coming up to me, complimenting my reading and sharing memories of my dad.  (The poem was about the first Thanksgiving after he died.)  One person told me how much she missed him.  I left the church with a full heart and belly, visions of loved ones I've lost swimming before my eyes.  I truly felt their presences during the evening.

And Saint Marty got a piece of pecan pie to boot.  Can't get more perfect than that.

November 25: "Note to Antonín Dvořák," Distraction, Furry Companions

We all do things to distract ourselves in unpleasant situations.  Cell phones have become the favored method.  How many times have you walked into a restaurant and seen an entire group of people eating, not engaged in conversation, simply staring like fish at the little screens in their hands?  People can just disappear without disappearing.

Billy Collins flies to Seattle . . . 

Note to Antonín Dvořák

by: Billy Collins

Maestro, I am writing to tell you

that your serenade in D minor

with its stretches of martial confidence

then some sweet wanderings of the woodwinds

has not really brought me to the edge of anything,

yet compared to the inane move

being shown on this long flight to Seattle,

listening to your music has made me a better

person than that other self,

so slack of jaw and fishy of stare,

who would have watched the movie to its end

oblivious to the startling 33,000 feet of air below.

I never visited your tomb in Prague

or even the site of your former apartment

on East 17th Street before it was demolished

to make room for a hospital for sufferers from AIDS.

So I am thanking you here for the lift

of a tune to ride with over the clouds

high above towns bisected by roads,

and fields with their plowed circles.

You remind me of a canary

I once stared at for an unusually long time

and the communion that developed between us

as we gazed into and out of the unhooded cage.

Time well spent, I thought,

as the bird broke it off and began to peck

at the image of his twin in a little oval mirror,

leaving me to return to the many ways

we have concocted to waste our lives--

ten thousand at least, wouldn't you say,

Maestro, with your baton, your furious pencil,

and the closet where all your dark clothes used to hang.

Collins is practicing his own method of disappearing in this poem.  He's flying to a distant city, listening to a tune by Dvořák, thinking about anything other than his distance from the ground below.  In this case, it's a canary and a Czech composer.  

Today my distraction was my little puppy.  It was her fifth birthday.  Hard to believe that she's been a part of our lives for that long already.  And I will say that I can't imagine my life without her.  She brings so much joy to our home with her energy and kisses and unconditional devotion.  

I never thought I was a dog person.  When we first married, my wife and I had a crazy cocker spaniel named Nick.  He was a rude little puppy, highly territorial, aggressive with strangers, and expert at stealing food off plates.  My hand still bears a few scars from trying to get a sock out of his jaws.  Yet, when Nick was sitting in my lap, his head on my knees, I felt my heart unfolding like a morning glory at dawn.  

Because of his personality, Nick wasn't really a dog that could be around babies and small children.  So, when my daughter was born, my wife and I made the difficult decision to give Nick up to a more suitable home.  It was one of the hardest days of my life, walking away from his cage at the Human Society, hearing him whine and scratch for me to come back.  Even as I type these words, I can feel a dam of tears behind my eyes.

My wife and I rarely talk about Nick, but, just the other day, I said to her, "I've been thinking about Nick.  I hope he had a good life."

My wife nodded, pressed her lips together, said, "I do, too."

These furry companions don't know how much they change our lives.  They remind us, even in the darkest, most fractured times, that unconditional love still exists.  That everyone deserves it.  

Saint Marty wishes his hairy little bundle of joy a happy, happy birthday.

November 24: "Lincoln," To-Do List, Distractions

My life is full of constant digressions and distractions.  When I get up in the morning, I always have ambitious plans of what I will accomplish during the day.  By the time I surrender to sleep at around midnight or 1 a.m., my to-do list has been transformed into a to-don't list.  There never seems to be enough time, ever.

Billy Collins gets distracted . . . 

Lincoln

by: Billy Collins

Whatever it was that just flew out of my head

did not leave a trace,

not a contrail in the sky

not a footprint in a field of new snow.

The last thing I remember

is reading a sentence

in a long biography of Abraham Lincoln,

something about his face being so ugly

it became beautiful

in the eyes of Walt Whitman,

but there was something after

that made me fold down the corner

of the page and close the book--

so much I cannot think of today,

a team of white birds lifting off a shoreline

and disappearing into the sun.

So, once more I have whiled away the hours, conferring with the flowers, consulting with the rain.  That means I completed about 10% of my intended tasks.  I played keyboard for two church services, went grocery shopping for Thanksgiving, and planned for/led a virtual poetry workshop.  Oh, and I took my puppy for two long walks.  

After I'm done typing this blog post, I'm going to dive into finishing another writing project.  Nothing I want to discuss right now, but the due date is fast approaching.  I can't get distracted by Lincoln's face or a team of white birds lifting off a shoreline.  I need to stay focused.

Said Saint Marty as he cleans the bathroom, organizes and alphabetizes his bookshelves, bakes a ham, reads The Brothers Karamazov, and trains for a half marathon.

November 23: "Animal Behavior," Play Games, Human Animal

It was snowing when I woke this morning--a soft drift of white dusting the ground and trees.

My puppy was born in November, so much of her early life took place in winter.  She loves cold weather and snow.  When she saw the snow falling today, she became a canine exclamation point, jumping and barking joyfully, sniffing the air and rooting in piles of leaves.

Billy Collins contemplates the wild world . . . 

Animal Behavior

by: Billy Collins

Among the animals who avoid danger

just by being still,

the heron is a favorite example,

indistinguishable from the reeds

he stands in, thin and gray, at the water's edge.

Then there is the snowy egret

who must think he can make

his white question mark of a body

just vanish from the lake

by being as motionless as can be.

And when it comes to people

there's the quiet man at the bar

who lifts his eyes only now and then

as well as the girl in the summer dress

who must pretend she is not here.

And who am I to talk,

the last flamingo to leave the party,

good at avoiding danger so far,

away from any cove or shore,

conspicuous as the drink I carry out the door.

This evening, a group of friends came to my house to have dinner and play games.  It was a lovely way to end a pretty busy day.  We ate pizza, told jokes and stories, and enjoyed being together.  It didn't matter who won or who lost, and the subject of politics never came up.

For a few hours, life seemed . . . normal.  I wasn't worrying about weird cabinet appointments or the idea of a malignant narcissist having access to the nuclear codes of the United States.  Instead, we were like the herons or snowy egrets in Collins's poem, standing at the water's edge, just grateful to be quietly alive.

In the coming months/years, I think nights like this are going to be very important.  The human animal craves friendship.  Needs to feel not alone, even introverts like myself.  (Yes, I am an introvert.  Most poets are.)  We all need to be reminded that there are good, kind people in this fractured time.  

And we need puppies and herons and egrets to remind ourselves that this world doesn't belong to us, and we don't get to fuck it up for our fellow animals.

By the way, Saint Marty didn't win a single game tonight.  Not that he was keeping score.

November 22: "To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl," Pretty Darn Cool, Son and Daughter

My kids are pretty darn cool.  I have a 23-year-old daughter (she will be 24 in less than a month) who is heading downstate to medical school at the end of next August.  And I have a 16-year-old son who's a junior in high school and starts taking college classes in January.  If you can't tell, I'm kind of proud of them.

Billy Collins praises the accomplishments of young people, too . . . 

To My Favorite 17-Year-Old High School Girl

by: Billy Collins

Do you realize that if you had started
building the Parthenon on the day you were born,
you would be all done in only one more year?
Of course, you couldn’t have done it alone,
so never mind, you’re fine just as you are.
You’re loved for just being yourself.

But did you know that at your age Judy Garland
was pulling down $150,000 a picture,
Joan of Arc was leading the French army to victory,
and Blaise Pascal had cleaned up his room?
No wait, I mean he had invented the calculator.

Of course, there will be time for all that later in your life,
after you come out of your room
and begin to blossom, or at least pick up all your socks.

For some reason, I keep remembering that Lady Jane Grey
was Queen of England when she was only fifteen,
but then she was beheaded, so never mind her as a role model.

A few centuries later, when he was your age,
Franz Schubert was doing the dishes for his family
but that did not keep him from composing two symphonies,
four operas, and two complete Masses as a youngster.

But of course that was in Austria at the height
of romantic lyricism, not here in the suburbs of Cleveland.

Frankly, who cares if Annie Oakley was a crack shot at 15
or if Maria Callas debuted as Tosca at 17?

We think you are special just being you,
playing with your food and staring into space.
By the way, I lied about Schubert doing the dishes,
but that doesn’t mean he never helped out around the house.

My daughter and son are wonders to me.  I think most parents will say that they want their kids to have better lives than they had.  Want them to be smarter and happier and more successful.  Certainly, that's what my mom and dad wanted for me.  

I'm a first generation college student.  My mom encouraged me to study computer science because, even back in the 1980s, she knew that was going to be the future.  I did get a BA in English and computer science and math eventually, but I followed my passion and got advanced degrees in creative writing.  And my parents lived long enough to see me publish my first collection of poems, become the U.P. Poet Laureate, and teach at a university.  I think I did them proud.

And now the shoe's on the other foot.  I'm seeing my kids pursue their passions and dreams.  Yes, I'd love to have a daughter who's a doctor.  Sure, I'd love to have a son who works in cyber security.  I wouldn't mind if they composed symphonies or became movie stars or sang opera at the Met, either.  My biggest hope for them is happiness--whatever form that happiness takes.

I don't care who they love, as long as the person treats them with kindness and respect.  And I don't care what jobs they land, as long as those occupations feed their souls (and aren't illegal or in the porn industry).  Would I like them to be artists or writers?  Sure, because that will set them up for a lifetime of financial security (I type with tongue firmly planted in my cheek). 

My Christmas tree is glowing in the corner of the room right now.  Its branches are filled with ornaments and decorations my kids made while in elementary and middle school.  Construction paper hands.  Clothespin reindeer.  Cotton ball snow people.  I miss those days.

But my kiddos are growing into pretty cool young adults.  Not a Republican in the batch.

Maybe Saint Marty had a little to do with their amazingness.  

November 21: "Drinking Alone," Out Loud, After

I am writing this post after hosting a monthly Zoom open mic called Out Loud. This monthly gathering of creatives was started by my good friend Helen, and, since her passing a couple years ago, I've upheld the tradition. Sometimes there is two people present. Sometimes six or seven. And, sometimes, it's just me, reading poems to an empty screen. Out Loud always goes on.

And, after Out Loud, as is the custom, we stick around, talking more, laughing more, and becoming more inappropriate. It's raucous, sometimes dirty, but always soul-enriching.

Billy Collins writes a poem after Li Po . . .

Drinking Alone

by: Billy Collins

     after Li Po

This is not after Li Po

the way the state is after me 

for neglecting to pay all my taxes, 

nor the way I am after 

the woman in front of me 

on the long line at the post office. 

Li Po, I am not saying 

“After you” 

as I stand holding open 

one of the heavy glass doors 

that divide the centuries 

in a long corridor of glass doors. 

No, the only way this is after you 

is in the way they say 

it’s just one thing after another, 

like the way I will pause 

to raise a glass of wine to you 

after I finish writing this poem. 

So let me get back 

to sitting in the wind alone 

among the pines with a pencil in my hand. 

After all, you had your turn, 

and mine will soon be done 

then someone else will sit here after me.

So, this is a post after Out Loud after Li Po after Billy Collins.

In the conversation we had after the open mic, one poet friend asked, "What is everyone having for Thanksgiving?"  This question prompted a long discussion of foods and problematic relatives and politics.  Then we ventured into our middle school experiences of sexual education in the classroom.  By the time we were done talking, I was hungry and my sides hurt from laughing so much.

It was a good night, filled with good people and good conversation.  Our friend, Helen, would have enjoyed it immensely.  In fact, it actually felt like she was present in all her exuberant joy.  She loved poetry and storytelling and people and laughing so much.  

I'll never forget the night of the 2016 presidential election, when it became very clear that our candidate would not be moving into the Oval Office the following January.  Helen and I were texting each other, and we both went to some very dark places, using the word "fuck" a lot.  The next day was even worse.

Then Helen did her Helen thing.  She sent me a text the following evening:  "Marty, we can't give into the darkness  Light is coming.  Light is coming."  And that is how she survived those long, bleak four years, and she brought me along for the joy ride.

After we ended Out Loud, I went and grabbed the rest of a pecan pie that was in the fridge.  All the food talk had made me hungry.

Now, after I type the last word of this post, embed the last period at the end of the last sentence, Saint Marty will eat some pie.  And then someone will come after Saint Marty and write something else.  

After . . . after . . . after . . . 

November 20: "The Unfortunate Traveler," Vacation, Art

This is not going to be an angry post about the Felon in Chief.  Nor is it going to be about MAGA-hat-wearing mouth breathers.  I figure everyone needs a vacation from that circus.  (This statement doesn't mean, however, I will give up voicing my constant shock and disappointment over his idiotic cabinet appointments and outright lies.)

Billy Collins visits France . . . 

The Unfortunate Traveler

by: Billy Collins

Because I was off to France, I packed 

my camera along with my shaving kit, 

some colorful boxer shorts, and a sweater with a zipper, 

but every time I tried to take a picture 

of a bridge, a famous plaza,

or the bronze equestrian statue of a general, 

there was a woman standing in front of me 

taking a picture of the very same thing, 

or the odd pedestrian blocked my view, 

someone or something always getting between me 

and the flying buttress, the river boat, 

a bright café awning, an unexpected pillar. 

So into the little door of the lens 

came not the kiosk or the altarpiece. 

No fresco or baptistry slipped by the quick shutter. 

Instead, my memories of that glorious summer 

of my youth are awakened now, 

like an ember fanned into brightness, 

by a shoulder, the back of a raincoat, 

a wide hat or towering hairdo— 

lost time miraculously recovered 

by the buttons on a gendarme’s coat 

and my favorite, 

the palm of that vigilant guard at the Louvre.

I hosted a concert at the library this evening.  A good musician friend of mine gathered three of his friends and put on a show.  I wasn't sure how many people to expect, since it was the middle of the week and the weather turned cold and rainy after dark.  (By the way, it's now snowing in my neck of the woods.)  

Well, I guess a lot of people needed a vacation from the insanity of the Felon in Chief, too.  Over 90 people attended.  We all sat, listened, sang along, whistled, clapped.  Just what the doctor ordered.

It was good medicine--the kind that may just get us through the next four or so years.  

Because that's what art can do--lift you up, make you feel less alone or scared or angry or sad.  Art brings people together--whether its music or words or painting or acting or telling jokes or juggling cotton balls.  Art doesn't care about what color your skin is, who you love, how you worship, or where you're from.

All that matters is that you're a human being with a beating heart.

Saint Marty was filled with hope this evening.

November 19: "Promenade," Bigfoot Poem, Normal

I don't mind being strange.  Don't mind if people stare at me because I'm being too loud or too friendly or too anything.  I've never really been the posterchild for "normal."  Instead, I write poems about cryptids and immortal jellyfish.  

Billy Collins takes his bird for a walk . . . 

Promenade

by: Billy Collins

As much as these erratic clouds keep sweeping

this way and that over the roof 

of this blue house bordered by hedges and fruit trees,

and as much as the world continues to run

in all directions with its head in its hands,

there is one particular robin who appears

every morning on a section of lawn

by the front door with such regularity

he could be a lighthouse keeper or a clock maker.

He could be Immanuel Kant were he not so small

and feathered, whom the citizens set their watches by

a he walked through town with his hair curled.

It takes a lot to startle this bird--

only a hand clap will make him rise

to one of the low branches of the nearby apple tree.

So I am wondering if he would allow me

to slip a small collar around his neck

and take him for a walk, first around the house

then later, when more trust has been gained,

into town where we would pass the locals 

with their children and orthodox dogs in tow,

and I would hold the robin lightly by a string

as we waited to cross the street, then he would hop

off the curb and off we would go

not caring about what people were saying

even when we stopped at a store front

to admire our strange reflections in the window.

I really don't know what "normal" is.  Some people think voting for a convicted felon to be President of the United States is normal.  Or appointing a person who was investigated for sex trafficking to be Attorney General.  Normal is in the eyes of the beholder.

I am sitting in my living room at the moment.  The Christmas tree is glowing in the corner.  Everyone else has gone to bed.  It's raining, and the trees are gauzed with fog.  It's been a day fraught with meetings and grading and teaching.  I haven't really had any downtime until now.  

All that is normal for me.

So is writing a Bigfoot poem.  Putting up Christmas decorations the day after Halloween.  Getting up at 5 a.m. to catch the livestreamed announcement of the winner of the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Watching the same movie every night for three months straight.  Eating warm tapioca pudding.

This weekend, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn't seen in several years. I made an off-handed comment to her about the last couple weeks being particularly difficult for a lot of people.  My acquaintance looked genuinely confused.  When I mentioned the election, she smiled and said, "I think you and I are on opposite sides on that, but that doesn't mean we can't be friends."

I agree with my acquaintance.  I can still be friends with people who hold different political and social ideals.  My father was a lifelong Republican and member of the John Birch Society.  We couldn't have been more different, and yet we still loved each other.  (That doesn't mean we got along 100% of the time.  Ours was problematic relationship.)

Here are some other things that SHOULD be normal in the United States:  kindness, compassion, acceptance, charity, tolerance, respect, courtesy, equality, love.  Unfortunately, over half the people in this "Christian" country think otherwise.  Hate has become as normal as grass or snow.  One way or the other, you're eventually going to step in it.  

Buckle up, disciples.  It's gonna be a bumpy four years.

Saint Marty may make drinking a glass of wine every night his new normal.

November 18: "Lesson for the Day," Orange Pancake, Laughter and Beauty

So, it was a long day, and I needed a laugh tonight.

Billy Collins made me laugh with this poem . . .

Lesson for the Day

by: Billy Collins

I didn't know Marianne Moore

had written a little ode to a steam roller

until this morning.  She has it walking

back and forth over the particles it has crushed.

She must have watched a lot of cartoons.

She also compares it to a butterfly unflatteringly.

I like it better when she speaks to a snail.

It's pleasurable to picture her in a garden

bending forward in her dated black clothes

and her tilted black triangle of a hate,

as she seriously addresses the fellow curled in its shell.

But when I see her standing before the big drum

of a steam roller and saying not very nice things,

only one eventuality every comes to mind,

for I, too, am a serious student of cartoons.

And no one wants to avoid seeing

a flattened Marianne Moore hanging out to dry

on a clothesline or propped up

as a display in a store window more than I.

It's a surreal image, right out of a Road Runner cartoon--Wile E. Coyote falling victim to one of his traps and being flattened by a boulder or anvil.  It happens over and over.  I used to watch those Looney Tunes religiously every Saturday morning with a bowl of Lucky Charms in my lap.

So a flattened Marianne Moore hanging on a clothesline is pretty dang funny to me.  Sure, I know those cartoons are incredibly violent and have fallen out of parental favor, but I literally grew up with them.  They defined my childhood.  

Tonight, upon reading the above poem, I thought about other people I'd like to see flattened by a steam roller.  Of course, the top of that list is the Felon in Chief.  I'd love to see him reduced to a two-dimensional orange pancake.  (Don't misinterpret what I'm saying.  I am not advocating violence against the man.  I just find pleasure in picturing him as a crepe.)  

Sometimes, I have to embrace the absurd in order to cope with a world that seems to be falling apart.  I also embrace beauty, and, now that the holiday season is fast approaching, all I have to do is go for a walk to find it.  Tonight I noticed a beautiful light display across from my daughter's apartment, and it was a blessing.

Laughter and beauty.  That's all Saint Marty has to offer tonight.

November 17: "Report from the Subtropics," Up North, Humility

Days and nights are definitely getting cooler in my neck of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Most mornings, there's a rime of frost on the grass and rooftops.  At dusk, when the sun disappears, breath fogs the air.  And retirees fly to the subtropics for the winter.

Billy Collins has a close encounter with birds with long, white necks . . .

Report from the Subtropics

by: Billy Collins

For one thing, there’s no more snow
to watch from an evening window,
and no armfuls of logs to carry into the house
so cumbersome you have to touch the latch with an elbow,

and once inside, no iron stove like an old woman
waiting to devour her early dinner of wood.

No hexagrams of frost to study
on the cold glass pages of the bathroom.

No black sweater to pull over my head
while I wait for the coffee to brew.

Instead, I walk around in children’s clothes—
shorts and a tee shirt with the name of a band
lettered on the front, announcing me to nobody.

The sun never fails to arrive early
and refuses to leave the party
even after I go from room to room,
turning out all the lights, and making a face.

And the birds with those long white necks?
All they do is swivel their heads
keeping an eye on me as I walk along,
as if they all knew my password
and the name of the little town where I was born.

I've only traveled to the subtropics a handful of times for the winter, and only for a couple weeks at most.  Yes, I walked around in shorts and tee shirt in January, like a little kid on a summer day, and, indeed, there were birds with long, white necks watching me like grandparents, knowing every one of my moves before I made them

But I'm not in the subtropics now, nor do I have any plans to travel to the subtropics any time soon.  So this blog post is my report from Up North.  (And when I use the term "Up North," I'm not talking about anywhere below the Mackinac Bridge.  If you don't know what over 300 inches of snow looks like, you are not Up North.)

I took my puppy for several long walks today, and I went grocery shopping.  This evening, I facilitated a Zoom poetry workshop.  It was one of those nights where nothing seemed to click with me.  Writing was a struggle.  Before I read aloud what I managed to scribble in my journal, I invoked the spirit of my good friend, Helen.  I said, "I give myself permission to write absolute shit."

After I finished reading my efforts, one of the other poets at the workshop said, "That wasn't shit."

Perhaps I was being too hard on myself.  I do that frequently.  However, I come from a family of nine kids, and my parents taught me the value of hard work.  I was never allowed to be on a pedestal for very long.  Somebody always came along and kicked it out from underneath me.  Translation:  you're no better than anyone else.

Humility is an important virtue.  In fact, I would venture to say that it's one of the most important qualities a person can acquire.  I don't like people who have high opinions of themselves.  (Working in the arts, I've met a few megalomaniacs.)  Instead, I prefer kind people.  Generous people.  People who go out of their ways to make the world a better place.

Tonight, I was surrounded, virtually, by kind and generous people.  We laughed, told stories, wrote poems, and held each other up in love.  And it was really good.

That's Saint Marty's report from Up North today.  

November 16: "Carrara," Holistic Health Fair, Help or Hope

I admire all artists.  Pets.  Musicians.  Painters.  Crafters.  Chefs.  Sculptors.  Comedians.  They inspire and render the world more beautiful, even in the darkest of times.

Billy Collins reflects on marble . . .

Carrara

by: Billy Collins

The Tyrrhenian Sea was bouncing off to the right

as we headed south down the coast,

and to the left rose the Apennine mountains,

some with their faces quarried away,

from where heavy blocks of white marble

had been cut and carried down

and stacked in rows in yards along the highway.

Is anyone hiding within? I wondered,

as we passed a little Fiat

and were passed in turn by a green Lamborghini,

hiding the way Pinocchio hid inside a log--

maybe David who goes by another name,

or an anonymous girl caught dancing

or any other figure encased and yet to be revealed.

Are you in there, Dawn with your sunburst halo,

concealed from the freshly sharpened chisel?

How about you, Spirit of Revolution

waving a flag of marble

and crushing the serpent Tyranny with one foot?

Or is nobody home, no one barely breathing

in the heavy darkness of the pure white stone?

Soon, we were standing on a wide beach

where the body of Shelley had floated ashore,

and where all those questions washed away--

though later I pictured a sculptor wandering

among the blocks, hands clasped behind his back,

then deciding it was time to get to work

on a towering likeness of his favorite English poet.

I think any artist looks at a piece of marble, blank piece of paper, empty stage, stretched canvas, dormant drum and sees/hears/feels something that nobody else does.  A favorite English poet.  A "Do Not Go Gentle into that Good Night."  A Nutcracker.  A Girl with a Pearl Earring.  A We Will Rock You.  That's how creative minds work.  Where others see a rock. an artist will see The Ecstasy of Saint Teresa.

I spent the day at a holistic health fair with an artist friend, trying to sell my poetry and meeting a whole lot of friendly people, some complete strangers and some friends (past and present).  I have no idea how the people I encountered voted in the election, although I could make an educated guess.  That's not what today was about.

Here is what it was about:  connection.  Everybody there was searching for help or hope.  Some found it in astral readings.  Some in essential oils.  And some in words.

I led a short poetry workshop at this event in the afternoon.  The audience members (one a friend I hadn't seen in almost six or seven years) put pen/pencil to work in search of small, daily wonders.  It was that simple.  Look at a blank page and see a list of miracles.

Here's what Saint Marty came up with:

Nine Ways of Looking at Wonder

by: Martin Achatz

1.

Frost on grass and roofs

in morning light,

white on white on white.

2.

A hardboiled egg

with golden heart.

3.

A sweet piece of apple

stuck between my teeth.

4.

An old friend's hug,

happy to see me

in a dark time.

5.

Pepperoni pizza

on a greasy plate,

begging for my tongue.

6.

Chocolate.

Always chocolate.

7.

A dog cutting the night

in two with his bark.

8.

A Beaver Moon

in a dawn sky,

God's bright eye.

9.

People in a room

writing poems 

about wonder.

November 15: "Catholicism," Exhausted, Perfection

I'm a cradle Catholic.  

I was baptized by a bishop, so my mother had high hopes of me entering the priesthood.  Obviously, I was a disappointment to her in that respect.  However, I have been playing the pipe organ every weekend since I was about 18 years old.  If you do the math, that's well over two thousand Masses, and that number doesn't even include special holidays and times I played two and three times on a weekend.  Throw in Methodist, Lutheran, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian churches, and the number of worship services I've played climbs well above five or six thousand.  

That's a lot of time on an organ bench, meditating on my life and its failings.

Billy Collins examines his conscience . . . 

Catholicism

by: Billy Collins

There’s a possum who appears here at odd times,
often walking up the path to the house
in the middle of the day like a little ghost
with a long tail and a blank expression on his face.

He likes to slip behind the woodpile,
but sometimes he gets so close to the window
where I am standing with a glass in my hand
that I start to review my sins, systematically

going from one commandment to the next.
What is it about him that causes me
to begin an examination of conscience,
calling to mind my failings in this time of reflection?

It could just be the twitching of the tail
and that white face, but his slow priestly pace
also makes a contribution, as do the tiny paws,
more like hands, really, with opposable thumbs

able to carry a nut or dig a hole in the earth
or lift a chalice above his head
or even deliver a document,
I am thinking as he nears the back door,

not merely a subpoena but an order
of excommunication with my name and a date
written in fine Italian ink
and signed with a flourish of the papal sash.

I'm pretty exhausted tonight.  I just got back home from practicing at a couple different churches for this weekend.  Most people would be surprised how similar Catholic and Lutheran worship services are.  Often, I play many of the same hymns for Mass on Saturday evenings and Lutheran worship on Sunday mornings.

What I have learned during my tenure as a church musician is that there's not much difference between various Christian denominations.  They all follow the same lectionary, sing the same songs, and read the same Bible (with a few extra books thrown in for Catholics).  

Some people have asked me which denomination I like the best.  That's a hard question for me to answer.  I like Catholics for their pageantry and rituals.  Methodists have the best music.  And Lutherans, for the most part, are the most open-minded and accepting.

This week, a good poet friend of mine (who was raised Jewish) said that I'm a mystery to her, because I'm a Catholic, but love being irreverent.  Admire saints, but would rather hang out with sinners.  They're more fun.  

We're all the same--broken and imperfect--trying to survive in a broken and imperfect world.

Bless Saint Marty, for he has and will continue to sin.  Over and over and over.  Perfection is kind of boring.

November 14: "Foundling," Poet's Life, Tonic

I've been living the life of a poet for a very, very long time.

That means that I've juggled two or three (or four or five) jobs my entire life.  In the past, I have been a:  sales clerk at a bookstore; office person at an outpatient surgery center (for 25 years); housekeeper at a hospital (all shifts); cleaning person at two churches; busboy at a local fish fry; and a plumber's apprentice.  

Currently, I'm a contingent professor of English at a university for going on 30 years (all the knowledge and teaching experience of a full professor at a quarter of the normal price).  I play keyboard/pipe organ at four different churches.  And I am the full-time adult program coordinator at a library (the best job I've ever had).

Finally, through all of those occupations, I have been and always will be a poet.

Billy Collins writes about the poet's life . . . 

Foundling

by: Billy Collins

How unusual to be living a life of continual self-expression,
jotting down little things,
noticing a leaf being carried down a stream,
then wondering what will become of me,

and finally to work alone under a lamp
as if everything depended on this,
groping blindly down a page,
like someone lost in a forest.

And to think it all began one night
on the steps of a nunnery
where I lay gazing up from a sewing basket,
which was doubling for a proper baby carrier,

staring into the turbulent winter sky,
too young to wonder about anything
including my recent abandonment—
but it was there that I committed

my first act of self-expression,
sticking out my infant tongue
and receiving in return (I can see it now)
a large, pristine snowflake much like any other.

Of course, Collins is indulging in a little storytelling here.  He was not a foundling left on the stoop of a convent and raised by nuns.  Yet, the essence of the poem is the truth--most poets I know have felt the pull of language from a very young age.  We've all had our pristine snowflake moments.

Tonight, I spent a lot of time with poet friends.  First, we gathered at the library for a workshop and open mic.  Then, we migrated to a local night spot where another poet/musician/artist friend was hosting a party in celebration of the release of his new album.  And it was a true tonic for my spirit.

You see, in my experience, poets see the world differently.  They keep their eyes wide open for moments of grace in their days and nights.  They're compassionate lovers of all people, regardless of skin color, gender, sexual orientation, ethnicity, religion, or country of origin.  And they care deeply for this little planet we live on--are stewards of the lands and waters and air.

Now, do me a favor if you are a Christian.  Reread that previous paragraph.  Replace the word "poets" with the word "Jesus."  That is the Jesus I grew up knowing.  If you have an issue with any of the above statements in your understanding of Jesus, you are not a true Christian.  Period.

So, being around poets (some of them atheists and agnostics) who embody compassion and caring and concern for the world and all its inhabitants is like going to church for me in a way.  Because the people I hung with tonight are, quite simply, some of the best people I know.  Yes, they are disappointed and angry with the results of the election.  Yes, they see the Felon in Chief as a serious threat to loving your neighbor as yourself.  (By the way, I didn't say that.  Jesus did in the Gospel of Mark.)

Poets are not going to lock up and deport immigrants.  They aren't going to take healthcare away from poor people.  Or endanger the lives of, take away the autonomy of women.  They certainly aren't going to storm the Capitol Building and kill police officers to peacefully protest the certification of the election.  That's not what poets do.

I know I'm preaching to the choir with this post.  Anyone who supports the Felon in Chief stopped reading these words quite a while ago.  That's okay.  That's their right.

And it's Saint Marty's (and all his poet friends') right to say, "Fuck you."

November 13: "The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska," Whole Lot of Rancor, Momentous

I will freely admit that I was in a pretty shitty mood all day long.  Just lots of stressful stuff going on in my head and in the world.  I've been purposely avoiding any news about the Felon in Chief or his flunkies.  Don't really give a shit what mouth breathers he's appointing to his so-called cabinet posts.  And I don't think I'm really missing anything, aside from a headache and a whole lot of rancor.

Billy Collins misses something good . . . 

The Sandhill Cranes of Nebraska

by: Billy Collins

Too bad you weren’t here six months ago,
was a lament I heard on my visit to Nebraska.
You could have seen the astonishing spectacle
of the sandhill cranes, thousands of them
feeding and even dancing on the shores of the Platte River.

There was no point in pointing out
the impossibility of my being there then
because I happened to be somewhere else,
so I nodded and put on a look of mild disappointment
if only to be part of the commiseration.

It was the same look I remember wearing
about six months ago in Georgia
when I was told that I had just missed
the spectacular annual outburst of azaleas,
brilliant against the green backdrop of spring

and the same in Vermont six months before that
when I arrived shortly after
the magnificent foliage had gloriously peaked,
Mother Nature, as she is called,
having touched the hills with her many-colored brush,

a phenomenon that occurs, like the others,
around the same time every year when I am apparently off
in another state, stuck in a motel lobby
with the local paper and a styrofoam cup of coffee,
busily missing God knows what.

I will say that I participated in a really wonderful event this evening.  A variety-type show that one of my best writer friends hosts and some of my favorite musician friends appear in, as well.  We read poems, sang songs, and told stories. 

The theme for the show was "Momentous."  We chose it over two months ago, thinking that we were going to have something truly momentous to celebrate--the election of the first woman to be President of the United States.  Y'all know how that turned out.  So, instead, we focused on those small momentous things that bring joy and hope in our lives.

Collins lists a few of those momentous things in today's poem--the sandhill cranes of Nebraska, azaleas in  of Georgia, autumn leaves of Vermont.  Yet, he keeps missing these wonders by a few days or a week.  He has to settle for descriptions of these momentous sights, instead.

I did not miss the wonders that unfolded tonight at the library.  I got to sit on stage and listen to it all.  And it was a privilege.  

Here's Saint Marty's moment of hope for today--singing songs with some of my best writer and musician friends.  You know who you are.  It filled Saint Marty's heart with gratitude, like moonlight in a dark night sky.

November 12: "Returning the Pencil to Its Tray," Give Up Writing, Joy and Love

I write every day.  Sometimes, it's simply a blog post.  Other times, it's a new poem or lyric essay or, less often, short story.  If I was offered a million dollars to give up writing, I don't think I'd take it.  Writing keeps me sane in an insane universe.

Billy Collins gives up writing

Returning the Pencil to Its Tray

by: Billy Collins

Everything is fine—
the first bits of sun are on
the yellow flowers behind the low wall,

people in cars are on their way to work,
and I will never have to write again.

Just looking around
will suffice from here on in.

Who said I had to always play
the secretary of the interior?

And I am getting good at being blank,
staring at all the zeroes in the air.

It must have been all the time spent
in the kayak this summer
that brought this out,

the yellow one that went
nicely with the pale blue life jacket—

the sudden, tippy
buoyancy of the launch,
then the exertion, striking
into the wind against the short waves,

but the best was drifting back,
the paddle resting athwart the craft,
and me mindless in the middle of time.

Not even that dark cormorant
perched on the No Wake sign,
his narrow head raised
as if he were looking over something,

not even that inquisitive little fellow
could bring me to write another word.

I did a lot of busy work today.  Nothing exciting.  I taught online.  Attended a couple meetings.  Busted my ass to get lots of things off my plate.  Of course, my plate is never completely empty, but I was able to make the Brussels sprouts and sauerkraut disappear.  (You know what I mean--those things you keep pushing off because you simply don't want to face them.)

This evening, I screened a movie at the library.  It was a beautiful film titled The Last Ecstatic Days and was a documentary following a guy named Ethan Sisser who is dying of stage 4 brain cancer.  The movie documents the last 12 or 13 days of his life and his eventual death.  Now, I know that sounds depressing, and it was a little.  But it was also a forceful reminder of how important it is (even when facing a terminal illness) to embrace joy and love every day.

That's what I'm trying to do tonight.  Spread joy and love with my writing.  I truly can't imagine a life without words, unlike Collins.

Saint Marty's moment of hope from today:  my wife's sister and her husband for helping me replace a door in my garage.  

A second moment of hope:  a sunrise so beautiful it's impossible to look away.