July 15, 2025: “Beyond Harm,” Moments, “Hills Like White Sharks”

All lives are made up of small moments strung together to create an experience, all the experiences strung together to create a day, all the days strung together to create a season, all the seasons strung together to create a lifetime.

That’s how it goes.  Some moments/experiences/days/seasons are better than others.  There are seasons in my life I’d love to revisit.  Other seasons are better off left in the past.  But I know that I wouldn’t be who I am right now without all the struggles I’ve faced.  Adversity shapes a person just as much as success.

Sharon Olds gets some late-in-life love from her father . . . 

Beyond Harm

by: Sharon Olds

A week after my father died
suddenly I understood
his fondness for me was safe – nothing
could touch it. In those last months,
his face would sometimes brighten when I would
enter the room, and his wife said
that once, when he was half asleep,
he smiled when she said my name. He respected
my spunk – when they tied me to the chair, that time
they were tying up someone he respected, and when
he did not speak, for weeks, I was one of the
beings to whom he was not speaking,
someone with a place in his life. The last
week he even said it, once,
by mistake. I walked into his room, and said, “How
are you,” and he said, “I love you
too.” From then on, I had
that word to lose. Right up to the last
moment, I could make some mistake, offend him, and with 

one of his old mouths of disgust he could re-
skew my life. I did not think of it,
I was helping to take care of him,
wiping his face and watching him.
But then, a while after he died,
I suddenly thought, with amazement, he will always
love me now, and I laughed – he was dead, dead!

It’s an amazing moment—Olds’ dad letting his guard down, admitting his love, and Olds holding onto his words, afraid they might evaporate like snowflakes in June.  She recognizes that her father has given her an unintentional gift that she keeps opening over and over after he dies.

We all do it, return to cherished memories in times of struggle or sadness.  These last few days, I’ve been thinking a lot about my kids’ childhoods, when most everything was simpler, easier.  Trips to the Wisconsin Dells and Walt Disney World.  Birthdays and Christmases.  Great moments.

The one memory to which I keep returning is watching Zootopia outside, under the stars, at the Boyne Mountain Resort.  My then 17-year-old daughter and I sat close together on a bench, ate popcorn, and just kind of blissed out that August night.  I rarely use the “p” word, but it really was perfect.

Of course, no moment (perfect or shitty) lasts forever.  There have been some rocky paths since.  But, just like nobody can take away the “I love you too” Olds’ father gave to her, nobody can take away that shared movie and popcorn, our fingers and lips coated in buttery salt while the crickets sang.

I keep reminding myself of this temporality.  I may be sad right now because my daughter moved downstate for medical school, but that sadness will be replaced eventually, maybe with joy or surprise or anger.  Who knows?  That’s how life works.  Nothing is permanent.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today (featuring one of his daughter’s favorite movies) based on the following prompt from July 14 of The Daily Poet:

Today we’re going to burrow like crabs.  To start digging, set a timer for six minutes and freewrite off a randomly-chosen line or phrase.  Examples:  the donut hole is thriving or a cloud stretching a thousand miles. When the chimer chimes, reset it for four minutes and make the last three words you’ve written the first three words of your next freewrite.  Repeat this process two more times (setting the timer for six and then four minutes).  This slight pause and backing up will allow you to go deeper.  Later, extract the best parts of this exercise and turn it into a poem.

Hills Like White Sharks

by: Martin Achatz

I was too young, had to wait three years to see it, long after the Orca sank, Millennium Falcon blasted out of Mos Eisley, Dreyfuss boarded the Mothership at Devils Tower.  By that time, everyone was back in the water, not remembering Quint’s final moments in the shark’s mouth, kicking, punching, screaming like he was throwing a temper tantrum on a playground.  What do I remember about my first time?  Three guys on a boat, drunk, comparing battle scars, singing “Show Me the Way to Go Home,” Robert Shaw monologuing about the Indianapolis with a smile on his face, as if he was on the cusp of delivering a punchline.  But he wasn’t.  It reminded me of the story where a couple sits at a train station, the man talking about letting air in, the woman pleading for him to please please please please please please please stop talking.  Because we’re all just treading water, trying not to drown, while below us something big and hungry wants to shake us, tenderize us, swallow us whole.