December 31, 2024: "New Year's Day," Two Birthdays, Grace and Blessings

The last post of the Year of Billy Collins on this blog.

It has been a heck of a year--full of all kinds of joys and sorrows, celebrations and struggles.  But, when you think about it, that pretty much describes every day of every week of every month of every year.  On this transitional night--not quite old, not quite new--I choose to reflect on all the grace and blessings of the past 366 days (it was a leap year), 

For the final time, a poem by Billy Collins . . . 

New Year's Day

by: Billy Collins

Everyone has two birthdays
according to the English essayist Charles Lamb,
the day you were born and New Year’s Day—

a droll observation to mull over
as I wait for the tea water to boil in a kitchen,

which is being transformed by the morning light
into one of those brilliant rooms of Matisse.
“No one ever regarded the First of January
with indifference,” writes Lamb,

for unlike Groundhog Day
or the feast of the Annunciation,
this one marks nothing but the passage of time,
I realized, as I lowered a tin diving bell
of tea leaves into a little body of roiling water.

I admit to regarding my own birthday
as the joyous anniversary of my existence
probably because I was, and remain
to this cold day in late December, an only child.

And as an only child--
a tea-sipping, toast-nibbling only child
in a colorful room this morning--
I would welcome an extra birthday,
one more opportunity to stop what we are doing
for a moment and reflect on my being here on earth.

And one more birthday might be a consolation
to us all for having to face a death-day, too,
an X in a square
in some kitchen calendar of the future,

the day when each of us is thrown off the train of time
by a burly, heartless conductor
as it roars through the months and years,

party hats, candles, confetti, and horoscopes
billowing up in the turbulent storm of its wake.

Like Collins, I wouldn't mind celebrating two birthdays in a year.  I like the hubbub of confetti and horns and cheering and singing and decadent foods.  Yes, this last month or so has been an uphill climb for me, but I know that 2024 brought a lot of gifts (graces?  blessings?), as well.

Here are some of the biggies:  

• My daughter being accepted into Central Michigan University's medical school
• My son being accepted in Middle College at Northern Michigan University.
• The publication of my Bigfoot book after 25 years of working on it.
• My wife being physically and mentally healthy and happy.
• Another successful year of teaching at the university.
• The health and happiness of all my family.
• The love and support of all my close friends.
• A pretty cool solar eclipse.  
• All my work at the library--so much joy.
• My puppy recovering from being attacked by another dog.  She walks faster than me.

So, you see, I'm a really lucky man.  I reflect on all these presents in my life and know that, even in the darkest times of life, there is always light and love and joy right around the corner.

Saint Marty wishes you all a Happy Birthday New Year!

December 30, 2024: "The Names," George Baileys, Poinsettia

I know that my blog posts recently have been a little . . . dark.  I apologize for that.  You see, at the holiday season, most people want It's a Wonderful Life, not Terms of Endearment.  I get it.  

All of the faithful disciples of this blog know that I write my truth, whether it's joyful or sorrowful.  If I have a good day, you will read about it here.  If my day is shitty, you will also read about it here.  That's how it works.  For most of this past month, since Thanksgiving, I haven't been George Bailey singing "Auld Lang Syne" in a house crowded with family and friends.  Rather, I've been George Baily standing on a wintry bridge, gazing down at the roiling black river.

The human condition is complex, full of paradoxes.  I can be both George Baileys at the same time.  I have a feeling that, in the next four years, I'm going to be on that bridge a lot.  And I would hazard a guess that I won't be alone on that bridge.  It's going to be pretty damn crowded.

Billy Collins writes about collective grief . . . 

The Names

by: Billy Collins

     (for the victims of September 11th 

     and their survivors)

Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A fine rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.

In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name —
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.

Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner —
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.

When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.

Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.

In the evening — weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds —
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.

Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in green rows in a field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.

Collins wrote and read this poem for a joint session of Congress held in New York City one year after September 11, 2001.  It's a powerful testament to communal love and loss.  And it ends the year of Billy Collins on this blog.  Fitting, I think, as it is, in my opinion, one of his finest works, capturing the heartache of that time.

You see, if there's one thing I've learned from Collins over these past 365 days, it's this:  laughter and tears are not mutually exclusive.  They coexist in everyone.  Collins writes about the ridiculous and sublime.  Sometimes, his poems are ridiculously sublime, and sometimes they are sublimely ridiculous.  They are like holding an ice cube in your fist.  First, it burns.  Then, it numbs.  Finally, it becomes cool water baptizing your fingers.

I'm holding a burning ice cube in my fist at the moment.  In these last melting days of 2024, I face a new year that will see some drastic personal changes in my life.  My daughter will be moving away to attend medical school.  My son will be starting college.  Sooner than I care to admit, my wife and I will be facing an empty nest.  These are things that I both celebrate and mourn.  

On Christmas Eve at my wife's church, I took a picture of a blooming poinsettia sitting on the altar railing in front of me.  It was donated by a family in honor of a lost loved one.  Beauty and grief nestled together in those crimson petals on one of the most sacred nights for Christians.

In the the nativity story in the Gospel of Luke, there is this passage:  "And all who heard it were amazed at what the shepherds said to them.  But Mary treasured these things and pondered them in her heart."  

Saint Marty treasures all the joys and sadnesses of his life.  They are written on the walls of his heart.

December 29, 2024: "A Word About Transitions," President Jimmy Carter, Moral and Ethical

Some transitions are easy:  the Darrens on Bewitched.  Some transitions are difficult:  President Biden to President-elect Musk . . . I mean Trump.  

Billy Collins says a few things about transitions . . . 

A Word About Transitions

by: Billy Collins

Moreover is not a good way to begin a poem

though many start somewhere in the middle.

Secondly should not be placed

at the opening of your second stanza.

Furthermore should be regarded

as a word to avoid.

Aforementioned is rarely found

in poems at all and for good reason.

Most steer clear of notwithstanding

and the same goes for

nevertheless, however, 

as a consequence, in any event,

subsequently,

and as we have seen in the previous chapters.

Finally's appearance at the top

of the final stanza is not going to help.

All of which suggests (another no-no)

that poems don't need to tell us where we are

or what is soon to come.

For Example, the white bowl of lemons

on a table by a window

is fine all by itself

and, in conclusion, so are

seven elephants standing in the rain.

Today was a difficult transition day.  Earlier this afternoon, I learned the President Jimmy Carter died at the age of 100.  So, we are now transitioning to a post-Jimmy Carter world.  

Jimmy Carter was the first President of the United States I remember.  I was too young for Nixon or Ford to have made any kind of impression on me.  But I remember clearly the Jimmy Carter years, which were marked by long lines at the gasoline pump and the Camp David Peace Accords (for which he won the Nobel Peace Prize), among other things.  

Jimmy Carter was by no means a perfect man or president, and he would have been the first person to admit that.  Humility was a huge part of who he was.  He recognized his mistakes, owned them, and learned from them.  In his post-presidential years, he did remarkable things.  Habitat for Humanity.  The Carter Center.  Books of memoir, religion, and poetry.  He was faithfully married to his wife for 77 years.  

In short, Jimmy Carter was moral, ethical, and honest in his personal life and as President of the United States.  Some people criticize his progressive values and label his four years in the Oval Office as a failure.  My response to such criticisms:  we should be so lucky to have a failure like him as President-elect right now.

I'm not kidding when I say that I hope I can be half the man that James Earl Carter was.  It feels like the Grand Canyon has been filled in or the Mississippi River has dried up.  I know, I know.  People die.  Death and taxes, blah blah blah.

I just wish this particular transition had been gentler, like the shift of light from afternoon to evening,  Or the last minor chord in Irving Berlin's "White Christmas," when we're all reminded of things we used to know.  

So, finally and in conclusion, Saint Marty gives thanks for the life and work of Jimmy Carter, who once said, "The measure of a society is found in how they treat their weakest and most helpless citizens."

Amen, Mr. President.  Amen.

December 28, 2024: "Last Meal," The Carters' Christmas Lights Marquette, Pizza

 

It was a slow burn day. Walks. Binging Holiday Baking Championship on TV. Writing. Playing pipe organ. Nothing frantic or chaotic or momentous.  

Today reminded me of a passage from "A Christmas Memory" by Truman Capote.  At the end of the story, Buddy, the main character, is with his best friend--a much older, distant cousin--on Christmas day when she exclaims, ""My, how foolish I am! . . . You know what I've always thought? .  . I've always thought a body would have to be sick and dying before they saw the Lord. And I imagined that when he came it would be like looking at the Baptist window: pretty as colored glass with the sun pouring through, such a shine you don't know it's getting dark. And it's been a comfort: to think of that shine taking away all the spooky feeling. But I'11 wager it never happens. I'11 wager at the very end a body realizes the Lord has already shown Himself. That things as they are . . . just what they've always seen, was seeing Him. As for me, I could leave the world with today in my eyes."

Billy Collins reflects on final moments . . . 

Last Meal

by: Billy Collins

The waiter was dressed in black

and wore a hood,

and when we pleaded for a little more time,

he raised his pencil over his order pad.

And later when he came back

to ask if we were finished,

we shook our heads no,

our forks trembling over our empty plates.

Tonight, my wife and I went with our kids to see The Carters' Christmas Lights Marquette.  It's an annual pilgrimage for us.  The Carter family literally fills the night with light and beauty every holiday season, and they invite everyone to walk through their property and experience it.

There were all kinds of people there tonight.  The weather was mild, and cars were lined up and down the road.  We saw friends and relatives we hadn't seen for a while.  Took all kinds of pictures.  A glowing army of gingerbread men.

A Godzilla-sized snowman.

A manger scene that my puppy decided to join.

And the brightest part of the entire display--my daughter, her significant other, and my son.

After we were done, we drove back to my daughter's apartment, ate pizza, and played a game of Jeopardy.  (My daughter stomped the living crap out of me.  She was much quicker on the buzzer.)  It was a really wonderful, light-filled (literally and metaphorically) evening.  

I sort of feel like that character in Capote's story.  My last meal could be a pepperoni pizza from Little Caesars after a night of Christmas lights.  That would be enough.

Saint Marty could leave the world with today in his eyes.

December 27, 2024: "Flying Over West Texas at Christmas," Hometown, Change

It's still the Christmas season, although the lights around my neighborhood are starting to disappear.  I haven't seen any Christmas trees sitting out on curbs, but the world is definitely a little darker, despite the fact that Epiphany hasn't arrived yet.  Plus, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa are in full swing.  

Billy Collins wings over Texas . . . 

Flying Over West Texas at Christmas

by: Billy Collins

Oh, little town far below
with a ruler line of a road running through you,
you anonymous cluster of houses and barns,
miniaturized by this altitude
in a land as parched as Bethlehem
might have been somewhere around the year zero—

a beautiful song should be written about you
which choirs could sing in their lofts
and carolers standing in a semicircle
could carol in front of houses topped with snow.

For surely some admirable person was born
within the waffle-iron grid of your streets,
who then went on to perform some small miracles,
placing a hand on the head of a child
or shaking a cigarette out of the pack for a stranger.

But maybe it is best not to compose a hymn
or chisel into tablets the code of his behavior
or convene a tribunal of men in robes to explain his words.

Let us not press the gold leaf of his name
onto a page of vellum or hang his image from a nail.
Better to fly over this little town with nothing
but the hope that someone visits his grave

once a year, pushing open the low iron gate
then making her way toward him
through the rows of the others
before bending to prop up some flowers before the stone.

Collins's poem is kind of a beautiful carol to all the little towns of the world at Christmas.  Think about it.  If Bethlehem wasn't included in the gospels as the birth site of Jesus Christ, it would simply be a tiny, dusty little desert berg that nobody would remember today.  

The little Upper Peninsula town where I grew up is known as the birthplace of a couple famous people:  Glenn Seaborg, who won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, and John Voelker, who wrote the novel Anatomy of a Murder which was adapted into a film starring Jimmy Stewart.  So, my hometown is like a Bethlehem of sorts for those two men.

Of course, people's memories are fairly short.  There aren't any monuments or historical plaques in place reminding tourists of our two famous citizens.  The world changes.  Forgets.  Moves on.

Change has never been easy for me.  In fact, I pretty much hate the word, and most of its synonyms, intensely--alteration, transition, adjustment, revision, correction, mutation.  I could go on.  A quick Google search brings up about 182 matches or near matches.  

Hence, I dislike this time of the holiday season when everyone seems hell-bent on banishing all the sparkle and hope into cardboard boxes to be stored in the attic or garage for another year.  Sure, I know that New Year's Eve and Day are fast approaching with all the attendant promises of fresh beginnings, and I can also freely admit that 2024 has had its fair share of catastrophes (not the least of which was a convicted felon and wannabe dictator being elected President of the United States).

So I prefer to linger in the light a little while longer, which was a tall order today because of dense fog advisories.  I kept myself busy, though.  I had a dentist appointment (shots and drilling and filling) and an energy session with a healer friend.  Then I spent the afternoon making dinner, taking my puppy for a few walks, and picking out music for this weekend's worship services (all Christmas carols, in case you're wondering).

It was also a day of reflection and meditation for me.  I don't often get the opportunity to just sit and think for extended periods of time.  My life is usually too chaotic.  Yet, I had quite a few hours to ruminate about the universe and my place in it.  

I don't think anybody's going to be erecting statues in my honor once I shuffle off this mortal coil.  Aside from family and friends, my work will probably be forgotten after a few years.  The most I can hope for is that my kids keep my picture displayed somewhere prominently in their homes.  Maybe keep copies of my books on their shelves as novelties to show off.

These kinds of changes are inevitable.  Nobody is going to make a pilgrimage to my home town to see the house where I grew up or the church where I played the pipe organ.  Maybe my kids will visit my grave every once in a while to dust away the fallen leaves and prop some flowers before the stone.  Perhaps, every once in a while, somebody will have a vague recollection and Google my name to find out what I accomplished.  Or not.

Tonight, in the midst of this season of light, I hope that, if I'm remembered years from now, it will be because I was a loving husband, good father, and loyal friend with a really cute puppy.  

Sing with Saint Marty, "O little town of Ishpeming . . ."

December 26, 2024: "Friends in the Dark," Boxing Day, True Friends

The day after.  If I lived in Great Britain, I would have celebrated Boxing Day, which, traditionally was used to present gifts to servants, tradespeople, and the poor.  Nowadays, it's associated with shopping and sporting events.  

I wish that Boxing Day was a thing in the United States.  After the stress and turmoil of the holidays, I think everyone needs a day to recover, eat leftovers, watch Christmas movies, read the book they got as a gift, or spend time with family and friends.  

Billy Collins tries to identify friends and foes . . . 

Friends in the Dark

by: Billy Collins

Signs and countersigns should be established

to determine your friends in the dark.

     -- Robert Rogers, Rules for Ranging

Such a ripe opportunity is presented here

to expand what Rogers meant

making those friends our own friends and the dark, The Dark.

But is there not enough in this early manual

on guerilla warfare written in 1758

in the midst of the French and Indian War

and still in use to this day

by those who must cross on foot

the unfriendly fields and woods of combat?

Yes, giving the common guile of the world, we might

send one or two men forward to scout

the area and avoid traps before breaking camp.

And as far as being attacked from the rear goes,

sure, immediately reverse order,

and the same goes if attacked from the flank

as we often are, blindsided by a friend

in the dark or right in the face

outside a motel in the glow of a drink machine.

But why not honor the literal for a change,

let the rules speak for themselves,

and not get all periwinkle with allegory?

In the light of rule #20--

avoid passing lakes too close to the edge

as the enemy could trap you against the water's edge--

could we not stop to absorb

the plight of these hungry rangers

lost in the wilds up and down the Canadian border,

wind rustling the maples, the scent of rain

and danger, and no one having a clue

that their fighting would one day be written down?

Avoid regular river fords

as these are often watched by the enemy,

may make us think of the times we have been wounded

by an arrow while wading through life,

but tonight let's just heed the rules of Rogers

and look for a better place to cross a river.

No not the river of life,

a real river, the one we cannot see

there is so much to hack through to get to its bank.

Sometimes it isn't easy to distinguish friends from foes.  I've had (notice the past tense) people in my life who I would consider toxic.  I think everyone, at some point in their lives, has dealt with individuals who think they're being helpful and supportive while making you feel like shit.  To use Collins's metaphor, I've crossed that river quite a few times, watching out for arrows and bullets.  

If your toxic people are family members, it's more complicated to cross that river with your heart, soul, and body intact.  If your toxic people are friends/acquaintances, it's a little easier to disentangle yourself.  I've had both of these situations in my life.

On the flipside, it's very easy to know and love true family and friends.  They are the ones who send texts just to see how you're doing.  Out of the blue air, they may just show up on your front step with a pizza or asking to go for a walk with you.  There's nothing in it for them.  They just want to be with you, make your chaotic life more peaceful in whatever small way they can.

My wife and I had pizza and drinks with two true friends--a married couple who care about us deeply and make us laugh all the time.  It is a weekly ritual for us to meet up with them and simply release the worries and stress of the previous seven days.  We've been celebrating this Stammtisch for going on five years now, and it is usually one of the highlights of the week.  On weeks when we can't meet, everything seems just a little off to me.

So, on this Boxing Day, I give thanks for true friends who take me as I am--messy, loving, obsessive, and neurotic.

Saint Marty crossed to the bank on the other side of the river tonight.

 

December 25, 2024: "If This Were a Job I'd Be Fired," Christmas Day, "Blue Christmas"

If you are related to a poet, you know that everything that occurs inside, outside, upside, downside, right side, or left side involving yourself and your poet relative is fair game for a new poem.  You must resign yourself to that fact.  Poems are like poet snapshots, written down to preserve an experience, including Christmas.

Billy Collins writes about the occupation of poetry . . . 

If This Were a Job I'd Be Fired

by: Billy Collins

When you wake up with nothing, 

but you are nonetheless drawn to your sunny chair

near the French doors, it may be necessary

to turn to some of the others to get you going.

So I opened a book of Gerald Stern

but I didn't want to face my age

by writing about my childhood in the 1940s.

Then I read two little Merwins

which made me feel I should apply 

for a position in a corner sandwich shop.

And it only took one Simic,

which ended with a couple on a rooftop

watching a child on fire leap from a window,

to get me to replace the cap on my pend,

put on some sweatpants and go for a walk

around the lake to think of a new career,

but not before I told you all about it

in well, look at this, five quatrains--

better than nothing for a weekday,

I thought, as I headed out the door.

It is the eve of Christmas day.  Presents have been opened.  Copious amounts of eggnog have been consumed.  Cookies have been popped into mouths like Tic Tacs all day long.  And lots of love has been shared.

First, blueberry/chocolate chip pancakes with my wife and son (per my son's request).  Then I played pipe organ for a 10 a.m. Mass--the last of my church musician duties this yuletide.  Afterward, I forced my son to stand in front of the manger scene for a picture in his ugly Christmas sweater, knowing full well I was gathering fragments for this poetic blog post.

Because that's what poets do.  While other people punch time clocks, stand in factory lines, or sit at desks crunching numbers for eight or nine hours, poets sit in sunny chairs near French doors to do their work.  This habit of being may not seem like labor to non-poets, but it can be tough and draining at times.

After Mass, we celebrated a pretty normal Christmas schedule.  Went to my mom and dad's house to for brunch and presents with my two sisters--ham and rolls and cookies and other goodies.  Then we opened presents, youngest to oldest.  I received two books (a copy of Billy Collins's latest collection Water, Water and The Best American Poetry of 2024) and a new fountain pen (both of my current pens are pretty beat up).  My Secret Santa turned out to be my daughter's significant other.

Then we returned home to open more gifts.  I got my wife a new Emmet Otter felted ornament--this time Chuck the stoat created by my artist friend Jody:

For my daughter, a felted fairy, also created by my artist friend Jody:

And my son got an objet d'art, as well, by another local artist--a beautiful, painted raccoon skull with an amethyst crystal in its jaws:

My wife and I purchased all of these gifts at a local gallery.  We decided to support local artists instead of contributing to the Walmart and Amazon MAGA billionaires of the world.  And everyone loved what they received.  To quote my son when he opened his present, "That is sick!"  (I'm assuming that's a good thing.)

Even my puppy got some treats and toys today:

So, it was a good day, with a couple long walks in the cold, clear day and evening for good measure.  We didn't go overboard or overbudget with any holiday thing this year.  We chose sanity instead of extravagance.

You may be wondering if the blue mood I've been writing about since Thanksgiving has lightened or disappeared.  It hasn't.  However, I thought my disciples might need a break from my onslaught of dark meditations.

I did think quite a bit about the empty chairs at the Christmas table this year.  Thought about my friend, Helen, who always put so much creativity and thought into her gifts.  Thought, also, about my friend, Sally Z., who was one of my biggest cheerleaders the entire 25-plus years I knew her.  I miss them all terribly tonight.

The other thing that poets do is examine their inner lives--cataloguing and anatomizing emotional and spiritual crises.  If you haven't noticed, I've been doing that quite a bit these last five or so weeks.  I guess it's a kind of therapy for me, instead of keeping everything bottled up inside.  I even wrote my annual Christmas essay about my current state of mind and soul (it is included below).  

Being a poet has saved my life on many occasions, reminding me--even in the well of despair--that I'm surrounded by beauty and grace all day, every day.

Saint Marty wishes all his disciples a blessed Christmas.

Blue Christmas

by: Martin Achatz

“All human nature vigorously resists grace because grace changes us and the change is painful.”

--- Flannery O’Connor, The Habit of Being

1. Mom held off until Thanksgiving Day. Left up to me, our Christmas tree would have been assembled, decorated, lit at the first taste of winter in the air, which, since we lived in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, usually happened about mid-September. However, it wasn’t until our windows fogged with turkey steam and potatoes were boiling on the stove that Mom would allow ornament boxes to be dragged in from the garage and Bing Crosby to croon “White Christmas” from the stereo.

2. Being the youngest of nine kids, I existed on a yuletide spectrum, from an older brother who was one bullet away from being Flannery O’Connor’s Misfit around the holidays—ready to shoot anybody in the chest who touched him with a “Merry Christmas”—to myself, who slept with visions of sugarplums dancing in my head all year long. My other siblings fell somewhere between these polar extremes.

3. Eventually, living on my own, I freely indulged my Linus spirit. I listened to Christmas music all year long. If people came to visit, they often found my tree glowing like embers in the living room before the maples even started turning shades of pumpkin, mustard, and ruby. I put my toddler daughter down for her naps with Frosty the Snowman playing on the TV, and I sang “Silver and Gold” to my infant son while giving him baths.

4. Christmas is grace, sustaining me through some of my darkest moments, when the very idea of happiness or joy seemed as distant as the ice volcanoes of Pluto.

5. Since I was a teenager, I’ve experienced what I call “blue funks”—extended periods of sadness bordering on despondency. They’re not triggered by any one thing—not lack of sunlight or chocolate, not loss of job or car keys. They just show up on my front step, suitcase in hand, move into the guest bedroom, and set up shop. I’m never sure how long the visits will last. Sometimes a day or two, other times weeks or months.

6. Blue is one of the rarest colors in the natural world. There are pink flamingos and orange monarchs. Dandelions like scraps of fallen stars in fields of green. However, blue is more complex, dependent on cell structure and the bounce of light. If you see a blue butterfly flitting in a tree or a bluebird chasing a nuthatch away from a feeder, their hue is the result of sun reflecting off the tiniest building blocks of their bodies or wings.

7. In short, blue depends upon light.

8. In her book Bluets, writer Maggie Nelson writes, “It calms me to think of blue as the color of death. I have long imagined death’s approach as the swell of a wave—a towering wall of blue . . . If you are in love with red then you slit or shoot. If you are in love with blue you fill your pouch with stones good for sucking and head down to the river. Any river will do.”

9. This Christmas, I’m blue. That doesn’t mean I’m going to shiver into sapphire glory like a peacock or that I’m suffering from cyanosis. It means that a blue funk is sleeping in my guest bedroom this holiday season.

10. About 2 a.m. the night of Thanksgiving, I could feel myself getting sad for no apparent reason. It just happened, like some kind of cerulean weather front moving in. I couldn't fight it off. Suddenly, I was crying uncontrollably. Not just sniffing and wiping my eyes, but big, gulping sobs that I was afraid would wake the entire house. It continued until I finally fell asleep, despondent and exhausted. When I woke, my eyes were rimmed with blue circles.

11. I mask my blue struggles really well, perhaps out of some stupid 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 blue periods. 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.

12. 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.

13. To paraphrase Charles Dickens, at this time of the rolling year, want is keenly felt. So are grief and hunger and isolation. I've been thinking a great deal about my ghosts of Christmases past. As I sit on my couch typing this essay, I can feel them reading every word on my laptop screen with their steady, blue gazes.

14. In the last ten years, losses have stacked up like cordwood in my life. A brother, two sisters, both parents, and one of my best friends. I go for long stretches without their spectral chains rattling in my ears. Other times, like now, they haunt the periphery of my vision like flocks of turquoise sparrows.

15. At night, when light is rarer than an albino moose, blue becomes something different. Dark. Almost black. The waters of Lake Superior become a vast sea of oily waves, and the sky deepens to pitch, as if you’re standing at the bottom of a deep mine shaft.

16. This morning, I watched the sun rise over Lake Superior. I do this frequently. In the spring and autumn, it's a glorious way to start a day. It allows light into the deepest corners of the heart. In winter, it's a different experience. Still beautiful, but coupled with a blue, aching cold.

17. The cobalt tarantula of Thailand glows like a moonlit ocean. Its venom causes muscles to seize and swell.

18. When I'm in one of my blue funks, the tiniest of kindnesses (a word of encouragement, a hug, a smile) is like seeing the brush strokes of van Gogh’s The Starry Night up close. Joy and grief layered so thick the eyes seize and swell.

19. Raynaud’s phenomenon makes fingers and toes turn blue due to constricted blood vessels caused by cold and stress. It’s a common symptom of lupus.

20. Flannery O’Connor died at the age of 39 from lupus complications. In a last letter to a friend six days prior to her death, she scribbled, “Cowards can be just as vicious as those who declare themselves—more so.”

21. I declare my blueness this Christmas season—decorate my front porch with blue lights, blue garland, a blue wreath.

22. My therapist says that blueness can be good—a time of tilling and plowing and planting. Of harvesting bushels of plums that sit in trees like sweet bruises, waiting to be eaten.

23. Blue tears: when the ocean appears to weep blue light, caused by microscopic bioluminescent organisms that glow when agitated by waves or swimming.

24. The Eastern Orthodox Church’s Advent wreath consists of six candles, each a different color. On the second Sunday, a blue candle is lit, representing hope.

25. Tonight, sitting in my dark living room, I am a blue candle—flickering, guttering—tarantulas of light climbing the walls and ceiling. When sleep comes, I dream of walking on a Pacific of blue tears, my toes sparking with sadness.

December 24, 2024: "Unholy Sonnet #1," Christmas Eve, Dearest Friend

I may be in the minority, but I prefer Christmas Eve to Christmas itself.  

I spent most of today getting ready.  Some of the things on my list:

• Straighten up the house.
• Take my puppy for a couple long walks.
• Make and decorate sugar cookies with my son.
• Finish wrapping all the presents.
• Practice music for a Christmas Eve church service.
• Sit crying on the couch for a half hour.
• Play keyboard for a Christmas Eve church service.
• Sing in the choir at my wife's church for Christmas Eve.

Note that everything on that list involves waiting, hoping, preparing, hunger, longing.

Billy Collins writes about death . . . 

Unholy Sonnet #1

by: Billy Collins

Death, one thing you can be proud of
is all the room you manage to take up
in this Concordance to the Poems of John Donne,
edited by Homer Carroll Combs and published in 1945.

Mighty and dreadful are you tall columns here,
(though soul and love put you in deep shade)
for you outnumber man and outscore even life itself,
and you are roughly tied with God and, strangely, eyes.

But no one likes the way you swell,
not even in these scholarly rows,
where from the complex fields of his poems
each word has returned to the alphabet with a sigh.

And lovelier than you are the ones that only once he tried:
syllable, and porcelain, but also beach, cup, snail, lamp, and pie.

The former choir director at my wife's church was a one of my dearest friends.  A second mother, in a lot of respects.  When I attend Christmas worship services at my wife's church, I think of her a lot.  I can still see her in her Christmas black (she always wore black, even in summer), standing in the choir loft, saying, "Remember, we're trying to sing a lullaby to the baby Jesus, not scare Him out of his wits."  

I saw my friend's daughter at church tonight, and we hugged each other long and hard.  I wanted to ask her if she was cooking a pigeon tomorrow (which is what her mom always called a turkey).  It was a good moment in the midst of the Christmas Eve chaos.

And now the presents are under the tree.  All the lights in the house are out, except the Christmas tree.  Everyone is in bed, asleep.  According to the NORAD Santa Tracker, the big guy's flying over Texas right now.  Like it or not, Christmas has arrived, in all its messiness.

In his poem, Collins writes about all the words that appear frequently in John Donne's poems:  death, God, pie, life, and soul, among others.

Here are the words that appear in Saint Marty's mind tonight:  cookie, peanut butter ball, Santa, family, love, and spinach.  (Don't ask him where spinach came from.)

December 23, 2024: "I Love You," Family Christmas, Secret Santa Aubri

On my first official day of vacation from the library, I . . . spent about seven hours at the library.  I wanted to complete the audio version of my new book for my publisher, so I booked the sound booth at the library and recorded one poem after another poem after another poem.  I started around 10:30 a.m. and finished the whole project around 5 p.m.

By the end, I was hoarse and tired.  I was also pretty damn proud of myself for getting it done.  Stay tuned for information when A Bigfoot Bestiary and Other Wonders is available on Audible.

Then it was off to my sister-in-law's house on the Dead River for a family Christmas celebration.

Billy Collins writes about love . . . 

"I Love You"

by: Billy Collins

Early on, I noticed that you always say it
to each of your children
as you are getting off the phone with them
just as you never fail to say it
to me whenever we arrive at the end of a call.

It’s all new to this only child.
I never heard my parents say it,
at least not on such a regular basis,
nor did it ever occur to me to miss it.
To say I love you pretty much every day

would have seemed strangely obvious,
like saying I’m looking at you
when you are standing there looking at someone.
If my parents had started saying it
a lot, I would have started to worry about them.

Of course, I always like hearing it from you.
That is never a cause for concern.
The problem is I now find myself saying it back
if only because just saying good-bye
then hanging up would make me seem discourteous.

But like Bartleby, I would prefer not to
say it so often, would prefer instead to save it
for special occasions, like shouting it out as I leaped
into the red mouth of a volcano
with you standing helplessly on the smoking rim,

or while we are desperately clasping hands
before our plane plunges into the Gulf of Mexico,
which are only two of the examples I had in mind,
but enough, as it turns out, to make me
want to say it to you right now,

and what better place than in the final couplet
of a poem where, as every student knows, it really counts.

I've never had a problem saying "I love you."  When I gave my boss, the director of the library, a Christmas present a day or so ago, she stood up and asked, "Are you a hugger?"  "I am," I responded, and we hugged.

This holiday season, as you know, my predominant emotion has been sadness.  However, tonight, as I shared a turkey dinner and opened presents with my wife's side of the family, my overwhelming emotion was love.  We laughed a lot.  Insulted each other (in a completely loving way) a lot.  And, when we were getting ready to leave, we embraced and said, "Merry Christmas."  It was literally a love fest, if the fest was held with the entire cast of National Lampoon Christmas Vacation, minus the live squirrel in the tree and SWAT team storming the house.

The adults do Secret Santa for Christmas.  My niece, Aubri, one of my favorite people in the whole world, was my Santa.  She showered me with an embarrassment of gifts and love--a book I wanted, Bigfoot socks, new Moleskine journal, and a tee shirt she designed herself:

In short, she spoiled me silly.  And, on the gift tags, she wrote things like, "To Uncle Martin, from Your Favorite Niece."  I love this young woman profoundly, and I hope she knows it.  She never fails to make me smile and laugh, even on the darkest of days.  I'm a pretty lucky uncle.

It also filled my heart so much to see my kids enjoying Christmas with their cousins.  Their love and affection for each other was thick as the smell of turkey in the room.  I found myself getting a little weepy watching them together.  (Or it may have been the two Twisted Teas provided to me by my niece Aubri.  Now you see why I love her so much.) 

All in all, it was a great way to kick off Christmas.  Each and every one of the people I shared dinner with tonight is a true light in my darkness,

And Saint Marty is proud to proclaim, "I love you all."

December 22, 2024: "Lucky Bastards," Clarence Odbody, Successful Suicide

My favorite Christmas movie of all time is It's a Wonderful Life.  Some people say it's not a Christmas movie because most of the film's action takes place outside of the holiday season.  I disagree.  It's a film that screams Christmas to me.

At the conclusion of the movie, Clarence Odbody, the angel sent to save George Bailey's/Jimmy Stewart's life, inscribes a book to George thusly:  "Remember, no man is a failure who has friends."  George's friends literally save the day (and his life).

Billy Collins learns about the primacy of friendship . . . 

Lucky Bastards

by: Billy Collins

From the deck of the swimming pool

you could see the planes taking off from LAX

and whenever my father visited his friend there,

the two of them would sit in the sun with their drinks

and kill the time between golf and dinner

by betting on whether the next plane would break

left or right, and if you picked the long shot--

one continuing straight over the ocean--you got double.

The time I was there with them, I watched

the singles and fives changing hands

as they laughed "You lucky bastard!"

and I learned again the linkage between friendship and money

and the sweet primacy of one over the other,

which is not to say that Sandburg's six-volume

biography of Lincoln or the writings of Lao Tzu

are not also excellent teachers, each in its own way.

I'm a pretty lucky bastard.  

My life is crowded people who love me.  I'm still not quite sure what I've done to deserve all this kindness and affection.  Since I've been writing about my mental health struggles these last 30 or so days, I've received lots of encouragement from my loyal disciples and friends.

I'm not gonna lie.  A couple times this past month, I've been standing on the bridge with George, staring down at the roiling black waters.  Don't worry.  I'm not going to jump.  I got past the moment, and I will get past it again if it recurs.  I've personally seen the aftermath of loved one's of a "successful" suicide.  (Such a weird juxtaposition of words--"successful" plus "suicide.")  I would never put my family through that.

This evening, I led a Zoom poetry workshop.  Only three people showed up--one really good poet friend, my wife, and myself--but it was a great time.  The theme of the workshop was Christmas.  We wrote about cards, ornaments, places, and people.  We laughed a lot.  Got a little teary, too.  At the end, we wished each other safe, peaceful, happy holidays.

I know I'm not a failure.  I have friends.  A lot of them.  Poets.  Musicians.  Teachers.  Librarians.  Artists.

They rescue Saint Marty from the bridge every day.

December 21, 2024: "Dining Alone," Solitude, Winter Solstice

Because I'm a poet, solitude is essential at times.  To read and think and create.

In modern society, solitude is suspect.  Going to a movie alone attracts sympathy and stares.  Sitting on a bench alone, scribbling in a notebook, makes onlookers uncomfortable, as if you're an undercover FBI agent taking down names.  Dining alone is the ultimate transgression--smacking of isolation or mental illness or serial-killer-in-the-making.

Billy Collins reflects on the etiquette of eating dinner alone . . . 

Dining Alone

by: Billy Collins

He who eats alone chokes alone.

---Arab saying

I would rather eat at the bar,

but such behavior is regarded

by professionals as a form of denial,

so here I am seated alone

at a table with a white tablecloth

attended by an elderly waiter with no name--

ideal conditions for dining alone

according to the connoisseurs of this minor talent.

I have brought neither book nor newspaper

since reading material is considered cheating.

Eating alone, they say, means eating alone,

not in the company of Montaigne

or the ever-engaging Nancy Mitford.

Nor do I keep glancing up as if waiting

for someone who inevitably fails to appear--

a sign of moral weakness

to those who take this practice seriously.

And the rewards?  

I am thinking of an obvious one right now

as I take the time to contemplate

on my lifted fork a piece of trout with almond slices.

And I can enjoy swirling the wine in my glass

until it resembles a whirlpool

in a 19th-centruy painting of a ship foundering in a storm.

Then there are the looks of envy 

from the fellow on the blind date

and the long-married couple facing each other in silence.

I pierced a buttered spear of asparagus

and wondered if the moon would be visible tonight,

but uncapping my pen was out of the question

for writing, too, is frowned upon

by the true champions of solitude.

All that would have to wait

until after I have walked home,

collar up, under the streetlights.

Not until I would hear the echo of the front door,

closing behind me could I record

in a marbled notebook--

like the ones I had as a schoolboy--

my observations about the art

of dining alone in the company of strangers.

It is Winter Solstice--the longest night of the year.  The sun didn't rise until well past 8 a.m., and, by the time I left church at around 5 p.m. this evening, it was already getting dark.  

A little while ago, I stood in my backyard, gazing up into the heavens.  It's a clear, cold night--the kind that seems etched in glass.  I didn't see any moon, but the stars were bright as pearls.

It's easy to feel isolated and alone on this day.  Darkness has a way of making you feel like the first or last person on the planet.  Solitude is all around.  At the moment, everyone else in my house is asleep.  My son isn't screaming at his online gaming friends.  My puppy hasn't so much as moaned since she was put in her cage for the night and covered with blankets.  And my wife surrendered to sleep about an hour ago.

I'm feeling slightly exhausted myself.  (Nothing new there.  I've been exhausted for about a month now.)  My wife and I went Christmas shopping this afternoon.  This year, we are trying as best as we can to shop local.  Too many of the big chain stores and websites contributed to the campaign of the Felon in Chief.  So we decided local artists, artisans, writers, book stores, and art galleries would get our money over, say, Walmart or Amazon.  And it felt really good to know that we weren't helping with the downfall of democracy in this country.  Yes, I know I'm only one person, and whether I buy my son socks at Walmart is not going to destroy the Walton family fortune.  But that one solitary act of protest, if repeated hundreds of thousand of times, will make an impact.  Collective solitude in action.

Tomorrow, days start getting longer, light returning gradually to my part of this planet.  My hope is that the darkness that's ben sitting on my shoulders will gradually fade, as well.  In the meantime, I embrace my solitude.  Feel whatever emotion fills that space with me--sadness or anger or creativity or love.  I know that I'm really not alone and never have been.

Poet Rainer Maria Rilke once wrote, "I hold this to be the highest task of a bond between two people:  that each should stand guard over the solitude of the other."

Saint Marty is standing guard this dark night for all his disciples.  

December 20, 2024: "Florida in December," Winter Solstice Eve, "Dear God/Santa/Universe/Bigfoot/Elvis,"

I met with two wonderful people this morning--one poet friend who came to my office to write with me, another poet/healer friend who guided me through an energy session.  After I left my poet/healer friend's home, I felt lighter than I have in weeks.  It was sort of like Christmas morning, just a few days early.

My last day of work for the year at the library.  It was a push to get everything done.  Edited a podcast episode.  Answered emails.  Planned a few events for the start of 2025.  By the time I left the building, it was 4:30 p.m., and the sun was already fading from the sky.  

When I got home after work, my wife and I took our puppy for a long walk in the cold, clear night.

Billy Collins goes for an evening stroll, too . . . 

Florida in December

by: Billy Collins

From this dock by a lake 

where I walked down after a late dinner— 

some clouds blown like gauze across the stars, 

and every so often an airplane 

crossing the view from left to right, 

its green starboard wing light 

descending against this soft wind into the city airport. 

The permanent stars, 

I think on the walk back to the house, 

and the momentary clouds in their vaporous shapes, 

I go on, my hands clasped behind my back 

like a professor of nothing in particular. 

Then I am near enough to the house— 

warm, amber windows, 

cold dots of lights from the Christmas tree, 

glad to have seen those clouds, now blown away, 

happy to be under the stars, 

constant and swirling in the firmament, 

and here on the threshold of this house 

with all its work and hope, 

and steady enough under a fixed and shifting sky.

At the end of this long week, I find myself pretty tired.  Tomorrow is the Winter Solstice.  That means there will be only eight hours and 32 minutes of daylight.  Having battled darkness for over a month now, I've been sort of experiencing an extended Winter Solstice.  After tomorrow night, the light starts to return.  Slowly.  Second by second, and minute by minute.

Work and busyness have helped me fend off sadness these last 30 or so days.  I have to admit that I'm a little apprehensive about having so much "free" time these upcoming weeks.  Without the distraction of college teaching and library programming, I may just curl into a fetal position on the couch and binge watch every version of Charles Dickens' A Christmas Carol that I can find.

Tonight, however, I give thanks for two wonderful friends who gave me hope this morning.  I also give thanks for another friend who messaged me today after listening to me reading my annual Christmas essay on Public Radio.  She wrote, "Your words are gifts to the people of the Upper Peninsula!"  Pretty amazing to be surrounded by so much light on Winter Solstice Eve.

Here's something (very rough) that Saint Marty wrote this morning with his poet friend:

Dear God/Santa/Universe/Bigfoot/Elvis,

by: Martin Achatz

I would like daily naps, breaks

around lunch time--after my ham sandwich,

before vacuuming, writing the next poem,

reading the next social media post that keeps

me awake until that time

when even the snow is asleep. 

Chocolate.  Always chocolate.

Which is just a wish for sweetness

in my life, something to remind me

I am loved even if the dishes aren't washed,

bed not made, or car brakes grind

like teeth in the middle of night.

Peace would be nice.  I'm not

even sure what I mean by that.

Maybe peace of mind--everything

working like the engine of a furnace

on a cold January night.  Or maybe

I mean world peace.  Ukrainians 

breaking bread with Russian

soldiers in Odessa, Muslims and Jews 

dancing together in the streets of Gaza.

Or maybe, just maybe, it's a cardinal

sitting in the branches of a pine tree

in my backyard, painting the world

with the bright brushes of its wings.

December 19, 2024: "Biographical Notes in an Anthology of Haiku," Tough Days, Poet Friends

Have you ever had just one of those days?  The kind where, about halfway through it, you think to yourself, "I should never have gotten out of bed this morning?"  

If you just answered "no" to that question, you're either lying, have had several concussions, or take stronger medications than I do.

I don't want to go into detail about the series of frustrations and moods I've endured today.  Water under the bridge, as my father would say.  He was the king of denial and emotional suppression.  (Dad voted for the Felon in Chief in 2016 and probably would have again this year.  However, Dad drew his last breath in 2018, before the pandemic and January 6th insurrection.)

If I were to write a haiku about today, it would probably go something like this:

Christmas in six days

too much left undone today

antidepressants

Billy Collins studies up on haiku masters . . .

Biographical Notes in an Anthology of Haiku

by: Billy Collis

          Walking the dog,
          you meet

          lots of dogs.
          —Sōshi

One was a seventeenth-century doctor
arrested for trading with Dutch merchants.
One loved sake then disappeared
through the doors of a monastery in his final years.

Another was a freight agent
who became a nun after her husband died.
Quite a few lived the samurai life
excelling in the lance, sword, and horseback riding

as well as poetry, painting, and calligraphy.
This one started writing poems at eight,
and that one was a rice merchant of some repute.
One was a farmer, another ran a pharmacy.

But next to the name of my favorite, Sōshi,
there is no information at all,
not even a guess at his years and a question mark,
which left me looking vacantly at the wall

after I had read his perfect little poem.
Whether you poke your nose into Plato
or get serious with St. John of the Cross,
you will not find a more unassailable truth

than walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
or a sweeter one, I would add.
If I were a teacher with a student
who deserved punishment, I would make him write

Walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
on the blackboard a hundred thousand times
or until the boy discovered
that this was no punishment at all, but a treat.

And if I were that student
holding a broken piece of chalk,
ready to begin filling the panels of the board,
I would first stand by one of the tall windows

to watch the other students running in the yard
shouting each other’s names,
the large autumn trees sheltering their play, 
everything so obvious now, thanks to the genius of Sōshi .

If you live long enough--whether you're a nun, farmer, or Plato--you will have good days and tough days.

Most of today was pretty tough.  This evening, however, I hosted Out Loud (a monthly open mic opportunity).  I gathered virtually with three other poets via Zoom, and we talked about grief and light and solstice and the color blue.  It was really good tonic (minus the gin) for my soul.  

Here's the thing:  I can be absolutely unfiltered with my poet friends.  They know me and my current struggles.  (I also had a visit this morning at the library with another old friend who brought me a Christmas gift.)  There's huge blessings in having people in your life who accept you as you are, warts, scars, and all.

Went for a walk with my puppy this evening.  We passed a dark house with a Christmas tree glowing in its front window.  A beautiful, bright miracle in the falling dusk.

It reminded Saint Marty that everyone can be a haiku or candle or miracle in a dark world.

December 18, 2024: "The Deep," Hope and Joy, Window

Well, I'm semi-recovered from the start of the week. Still feeling a little . . . hungover from end-of-semester stress, among other things. When my mind is engaged for such an extended period of time, without breaks or rest, it takes me a while to recover. Plus, with the headspace I've been in recently (still am), I'm floating in a world that doesn't make a whole lot of sense. The holidays are supposed to be filled with hope and joy.

Billy Collins studies a map . . .

The Deep

by: Billy Collins

Here on this map of the oceans everything is reversed—
the land all black except for the names of the continents
whereas the watery parts, colored blue,
have topographical features and even place names

like the Bermuda Rise, which sounds harmless enough
as does the Cocos Ridge, but how about exploring
The Guafo Fracture Zone when you're all alone?
And from the many plateaus and seamounts—

the Falkland, the Manning, the Azores—
all you could see is water and if you're lucky
a big fish swallowing a school of smaller ones
through the bars of your deep-sea diver's helmet.

And talk about depth: at 4,000 feet below the surface,
where you love to float on your back all summer,
we enter the Midnight Zone where the monkfish
quietly says his prayers in order to attract fresh prey,

and drop another couple of miles and you
have reached The Abyss where the sea cucumber
is said to undulate minding its own business
unless it's deceiving an attacker with its luminescence

before disappearing into the blackness.
What attacker, I can hear you asking,
would be down there messing with the sea cucumber?
And that is exactly why I crumpled the map into a ball

and stuffed it in a metal wastebasket

before heading out for a long walk along a sunny trail

in the thin, high-desert air, accompanied

by juniper trees, wildflowers, and that gorgeous hawk.

I think everyone harbors a certain fear of deep things--water, caverns, tunnels, conversations, therapy.  It's very human to avoid places or circumstances that force you to confront the sea cucumbers or monkfish of your life.  Not to mention those large, dark shapes so far away that you can't even identify them.

Most people retreat to the familiar and comfortable.  A sunny trail lined with juniper trees and wildflowers.  I just finished teaching a Good Books class at the university.  All of the memoirs, novels, and graphic memoirs we read this semester dealt in some way with forms of mental illness.  In several of the works, when the authors are dealing with deep depressions, they begin reading books they loved as a child, which makes complete sense to me.

Think about it.  You feel yourself floating in an abyss of darkness, where you can't seem to find any light whatsoever.  Then you start reading Charlotte's Web or Charlie and the Chocolate Factory or Island of the Blue Dolphins--stories that are so familiar you can almost recite them from memory.  It's like draping yourself in a warm quilt.  For a short while, you gain a miniscule sense of control over your life.  

I've been swimming in the deep for a while now.  What have I been doing for comfort?  Reading poets I love.  Mary Oliver, in particular.  Watching movies I've seen a hundred times.  White Christmas starring Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye is my current jam.  I still cry, but the tears are familiar to me.  I expect to get choked up when I read "Wild Geese" by Oliver or watch the final scene in White Christmas when it starts to snow on Christmas Eve.  I guess that's my version of crumpling up my map of the deep, scary oceans, throwing it out, and going for a sunny walk.  

Sometimes, even looking out a window you've looked out thousands of times can be a form of therapy.  From my office at the library, I can see the church across the street, a tree that's still retaining fragments of autumn in its branches, and falling snow.  Three small, lit Christmas trees line the windowsill.  On the tree are Bigfoot ornaments, adorned with the word "Believe."

Saint Marty needs that reminder on a daily basis right now.

December 17, 2024: "Rome in June," Exhausted, Sacred Spaces

Final grades are submitted, and I am the walking dead tonight.  I barely have the brain power to string a coherent sentence together.  After I'm done typing these few words, I am going to put my head on a pillow and sleep so hard that I may miss the rapture if it happens.

Billy Collins goes Keats hunting in Rome . . . 

Rome in June

by: Billy Collins

There was a lot to notice that morning

in the Church of Saint Dorothy, virgin martyr--

a statue of Mary with a halo of electric lights,

a faded painting of a saint in flight,

Joseph of Copertino, as it turned out,

and an illustration above a side altar

bearing the title "The Musical Ecstasy of St. Francis."

But what struck me in a special way

like a pebble striking the forehead

was the realization that the simple design

running up the interior of a church's dome

was identical to the design on the ceiling

of the room by the Spanish Steps

where Keats had died and where I

had stood with lifted eyes just the day before.

It was nothing more than a row

of squares, each with the carved head

of a white flower on a background of blue, 

but all during the priest's sermon

(which was either about the Wedding at Cana

or the miracle of the loaves and fishes

as far as my Italian could tell)

I was staring at the same image

that the author of Hyperion had stared at

from his death bed as he was being devoured by tuberculosis.

It was worth coming to Rome

if only to see what supine Keats was beholding

just before there would be no more Keats,

only Shelley, not yet swallowed by a wave,

and Byron before his Greek fever,

and Wordsworth who outlived Romanticism itself.

And it pays to lift the eyes, I thought outside the church

were a man on a bench was reading a newspaper,

a woman scolding her child,

and the heavy sky, visible above the narrow streets

of Trastevere, was in the process

of breaking up, showing segments of blue

and the occasional flash of Roman sunlight.

Again, no brain power tonight.  I hope to feel human by tomorrow, but there are no guarantees.  

I love Collins' narrative in today's poem, him standing in the room where Keats died of tuberculosis.  There are few places I've visited in my life that hold the same sort of sacred energy for me.  Some churches--Saint Patrick's Cathedral in New York City, in particular.  Some historic landmarks--Pearl Harbor in Hawaii nearly destroyed me.  Some places attached to writers I admire--the root cellar of Roethke House in Saginaw felt like I was breathing poetry.  The very air in these spaces seems sacred.

But then there are ordinary sacred spaces, as well.  For me, tonight, recovering from some long days of grading and schoolwork, my couch feels pretty damn sacred.  Plus, my puppy is next to me, nudging my hand with her nose.  

Saint Marty can give thanks for that.