December 10: "Three Things to Remember," Following the Rules, Christmas Essay

Mary Oliver breaks the rules . . . 

Three Things to Remember

by:  Mary Oliver

As long as you're dancing, you can

     break the rules.

Sometimes breaking the rules is just

     extending the rules

Sometimes there are no rules.

I don't like rules all that much.

If I'd followed the rules my whole life, I'd be a plumber right now, probably making a whole lot more money than I currently make as a contingent college English professor, poet, and library programmer.  That doesn't mean I'd be happier, just better off financially.

Instead, I sort of made up my own rules for success.  For example, I don't do anything that makes me unhappy.  Don't listen to music that annoys me.  Don't watch movies/television shows or read books that bore me.

Of course, there are always exceptions to rules.  I started watching The Crown because my daughter said I would like it.  (She literally forced me to view the first episode, and now I'm obsessed with the show.)  A few years ago, a friend told me that I just HAD to read All the Light We Cannot See by Anthony Doerr; I didn't pick it up until two years later--after Doerr won the Pulitzer and a movie adaptation was in the works--and I loved every page of it.  

I follow some rules during the Christmas season.  I do write a new Christmas poem and essay every year.  I do send out Christmas cards containing letters and pictures to almost 80 people every year.  I do watch It's A Wonderful Life every Christmas Eve.  If I don't do each of these things, it simply doesn't feel like Christmas to me.

Right now, I'm in the midst of finishing my Christmas essay.  It's been a rough process this year.  I usually start writing this essay in July.  However, choosing the right subject was challenging this time, and then, when I finally found my subject, figuring out how to write about it took me several more weeks.  

I'm happy to report that I've finished writing about half of the essay as of this moment.  My goal:  to have the essay finished by Wednesday morning (that's when I have to record it for my local Public Radio station).

I've got a good start, but now I'm trying to figure out the rules of this essay.  In my experience, each writing project comes with its own guidelines.  Sometimes, however, it takes quite a long time to discern what those guidelines are.  I'm just getting to that point right now.

So, tonight, here are three rules to remember about Saint Marty:

1. He loves Christmas.
2. He's obsessive about his writing.
3. He hates working under deadlines.

September 29: Sunday Night, Feeling Prepared, Powerlessness

Sunday night.  Probably my least favorite time of the week.  It's all about getting my 11-year-old son to take a shower and put on his pajamas.  Making my lunch.  Setting out my work clothes for tomorrow.  Double checking that my lessons are planned and my books are gathered.  Leaving nothing to chance before I go to bed.

However, I know that I'm going to forget something.  I always do.  That's the way I roll, always feeling as if I'm forgetting something.  It could be a bill that is coming due.  Or an assignment I forgot to grade for my students.  Or some writing deadline that went whooshing by me like a freight train.  There's always some shadow looming over my shoulder that I can't quite make out.

I like feeling prepared.  That's why I addressed my Christmas cards for this year back in February.  And I bought a Christmas present for my nephew back in January in Florida.  At the moment, I'm planning to order the pictures that I'll stuff into those Christmas cards.  I just made a reservation for a little trip I'm taking to Calumet on Thursday, and I've completed two writing tasks that were on my to-do list for today.  Like I said, I like feeling prepared.

Of course, there are things for which you can never prepare yourself.  Illnesses.  Car problems.  Marriage problems.  Money problems.  Kid problems.  These things strike like lightning from a blue sky.  There's no way to anticipate them.  That's when you go into survival mode and live minute-by-minute, as opposed to day-by-day.

I've been doing the minute-by-minute thing for quite some time now.  It's exhausting.  And I don't see an end in sight.  Yesterday, I talked about everyone leading lives of quiet desperation, as Thoreau said.  It's a pretty apt description.  You can prepare and prepare all you want, but there will always come that moment when lightning strikes and everything changes.  Then, chaos for a while.  Desperation.

I'm looking for a way to end this post on a positive note.  Something hopeful to say.  The only thing that you can do sometimes is acknowledge your powerlessness and give your problem up to your higher power.  Because it's always at the lowest times when God steps in and helps out.  That's pretty much the way it works.  When you hit rock bottom, there's nowhere else to go.

Saint Marty embraced his powerlessness quite some time ago.

December 19: Slept Better, Charles Dickens, Christmas Cards

I turned in, and never slept better in my life . . .

Ishmael is sleeping well.  I. on the other hand, have not been.

Welcome to the other side of end-of-semester grading.  I survived.  Barely.  In the past 48 hours, I have slept a total of seven hours.  Eight, if you count the hour-long nap I took this afternoon.  And now, it's time to settle into the preparations for Christmas.  Shopping.  Writing Christmas cards.  Rehearsing music.  Baking cookies, if I'm lucky.  Watching It's A Wonderful Life.  Trying not to feel like George Bailey on the bridge, staring down at the roiling black water.

To say that I feel unprepared for the coming holiday would be an understatement.  My Christmas essay is written.  My Christmas poem is not.  I have bought a total of three or four presents and can't really afford to buy any more at the moment.  Right now, as I'm typing this post, I'm watching The Man Who Invented Christmas, a film about Charles Dickens composing A Christmas Carol.  And worrying over his constant money troubles.

For those of my disciples who've been reading this blog for any length of time, you already know my affinity for Dickens.  My habit of reading a 1200-page Dickens biography every year or so.  If I believed in reincarnation, I would say that I am Charles Dickens.  His energy speaks to me.  The 20-mile midnight walks.  Constant state of creative frenzy.  Gregariousness.  He's a guy after my own heart.

Of course, Dickens worked himself to death at a very young age.  A stroke at his writing desk when he was 58 years old.  That's only a few years away for me.  It does seem that I'm always working, always worried about money and bills.  I certainly have that in common with Boz, as well.  And those worries are what have been causing me some sleepless nights these last few weeks.

Tonight, my task is Christmas cards.  Have to get them addressed and mailed.  About 75 of them.  Yes, 75.  The list keeps getting longer every year.  I do love the process.  Thinking about friends and family that I haven't seen in a long while.  Imagining them opening the envelope, reading the letter inside, staring at the enclosed photo.

I have no time to spare.  Tomorrow, I head to Calumet for two days of rehearsal.  A show on Friday night.  No rest for this Dickens.

Saint Marty is trying to be thankful this evening for Christmas and cards and presents and carols.  Trying really hard.

December 17: Tired From His Romp, Busy Days, Nothing Special

Tired from his romp, Wilbur lay down in the clean straw.  He closed his eyes...

Wilbur does not deal with attention well.  Even though Charlotte's little trick is going to save his life, all the visitors to the Zuckerman barn exhaust him.  All he really wants is his pile of manure and a nap.

I understand Wilbur's yearning for a little peace.  The Christmas season is building up steam.  I have so much to accomplish in the next week.  Christmas concerts.  Christmas cards.  Christmas potlucks.  Christmas poem.  Christmas shopping.  Christmas music.  And, of course, finishing up the Christmas album I've been recording.  It seems, right now, like an insurmountable list of tasks.  Right now, sleep is not an option.  I have busy days ahead of me.

After I am done typing my blog posts, I have to do a little cyber Christmas shopping for my nieces and nephews.  That will take me a good deal of time.  If I'm in bed by midnight, I will be lucky.  I'm not feeling particularly inspired tonight.  Therefore, this post will be nothing special.  In fact, it will be nothing.  Emptiness.  A post about not being able to post.

That's all Saint Marty's got tonight.

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July 30: Christmas Poems, Phil Legler, "Manger Scene"

Phil Legler was the person who gave me the idea to write a Christmas poem every year.  Phil's Christmas cards were poems.  The semester after I had him as a professor, I received a small note from him in December.  On it was the poem I'm including in this post.

Each year after that, I got another card, another poem, until he became too ill to continue the practice.  I wish I'd kept those cards.  They were always one of the highlights of my holidays.  That's why I write Christmas poems.  To somehow carry on Phil's legacy.

Saint Marty hopes you're all feeling a little holly jolly tonight.

Manger Scene

by:  Phil Legler

               It's not in how spellbound all
these travelers are, like us, propped here and holding
           tree-shine and tinsel enfolding
          the branch near the floor,
that there is anything strange or unusual;
               we've seen all this before.

               It's in the story--the same
snow falling, covering our footsteps, daydreaming men
            wishing the journey, the man-
          child crying in the night,
waking, held by the star, as if for the first time
               gathering in that light.

It came upon a midnight mailbox

December 13: You'll Shoot Your Eye Out

I realized this morning that there are less than two weeks left before Christmas.  I have a heck of a lot of work to do.  This weekend, I need to send out my Christmas cards.  I wrote my Christmas letter the day after Thanksgiving, but I still have to take a picture of my children to include with the letter.  I used to go to  Wal-Mart for professional portraits, but I got tired of shelling out over $200 every Christmas.

Two years ago, I decided to go rogue.  I took the picture below, since it was my A Christmas Story year.  I had a leg lamp and a Red Ryder B-B gun on my front porch as decoration.  I paid through the nose for the pink bunny outfit below.  It cost me so much that I forced my daughter to go trick-or-treating as Ralphie in the costume.  (By the way, she was the hit of Halloween.  Every adult we encountered looked at her and said, "You'll shoot your eye out, kid.")

I'm not in full panic mode yet.  I won't hit that point until about Thursday or Friday of next week.  I still have to get through my daughter's birthday party tomorrow evening.  Then I will be able to concentrate on my breakdown.

Saint Marty needs to go take his valium now.

My little Ralphie and Randy