December 7, 2024: "Lines Written in a Garden by a Cottage in Herefordshire," Final Reading, Sabe

Here are some lines written on my couch in my living room.  The Christmas tree is glowing in the corner, and my wife and son are in bed, asleep.  I can hear my puppy snoring in her cage, and there's a wind rattling tree branches outside the window.  

Billy Collins writes some lines about an impatient bee . . .

Lines Written in a Garden by a 

Cottage in Herefordshire

by: Billy Collins

No, this time I'm not kidding around.
There's some half-shattered outdoor furniture,
then crowds of dianthus and pink hydrangeas,
honeysuckle going wild over the bright blue door,
and zinc buckets and coal carriers overflowing
with pansies, lavender, and some kind of soft fern—
just the right combination of growth and neglect.

And you don't have to wish for a brick wall,
a gravel path or a leaning disused shed
to complete the picture because they're all right here
as well as a concrete statue of a maiden
holding a jug, one breast exposed, overgrown with ivy.
The only thing you might not think of,
being in another place so far away,

is this one bee who just refused to wait
for all the morning glories to unfurl in the early sun,
and instead, pushed her way into the white flute
of a blossom, disappearing for a moment
before she flew off in her distinctive gold
and black uniform like a player on a team,
heading over the hedge toward a core of honey.

This evening was the final reading for the book tour I'm doing with a poet friend this December.  It was at a local kombucha bar, and quite a few of our close friends showed up to support us.  I wasn't expecting such a large crowd on a Saturday night in December.

I've been humbled over and over since my new book was released.  So many people have told me how much they love it.  (I'm not writing this to brag.  Bragging simply isn't in my nature.  Bitching sarcastically, yes.  Bragging, no.)  I was not brought up to accept praise easily.  Rather, my parents taught me to work hard and not expect pats on the back or words of encouragement.  That's what was expected.

Thus, I believe Bigfoot or my poet friend were the ones who attracted the big crowd, not me.  Nevertheless, I had a good time, reading and visiting and eating.  One person at the open mic was another friend who played the wood flute and told a story about Sabe, the Indigenous version of Bigfoot.  Sabe is a symbol of honesty in the Seven Grandfather teachings.  

My version of Bigfoot aligns, I think, with Sabe.  Bigfoot is emotionally smarter than me and doesn't put up with bullshit.  He has no patience for niceties and small talk.  Neither do I.  For Bigfoot/Sabe, life is all about being authentic and true.  I wish I could be more like him, not caring about others' opinions or ideas.  Just being me is enough.

Those are Saint Marty's lines for tonight