June 25: "Siren," Music, "Fatherhood"

Billy Collins on an odyssey . . . 

Siren

by: Billy Collins

So enchanting was her singing,

I turned the boat around

and tied her to my mast

so as to enjoy her melodies

as I sailed around this fascinating world.

I love all kinds of music,  Classical, liturgical, blues, folk, rock, you name it.  I can't remember a time when music hasn't been a part of my life.  I've been playing piano since fifth grade (15 years of lessons).  My mother introduced me to Doris Day and Patti Page and Bing Crosby at nap times.  The soundtrack of my adolescence was a mixture of 1980s pop, movie musicals, and Jethro Tull.  That's what I've enjoyed listening to as I've sailed around this fascinating world.

I hosted a concert at the library tonight by some truly wonderful musician friends--Brian Wallen and Mavis Farr.  They lifted my spirits, even though they were singing blues.  I find it amazing that songs about heartbreak and tragedy can make a person feel so good.  Perhaps that's the appeal of the blues--it makes you think that, even if your life is shitty, it's not as shitty as being broke, drunk, and dying.  

I've been struggling since Sunday with some pretty dark moments.  Recently, it seems I frequently say or do the wrong things (unintentionally, mind you).  I think I'm being helpful.  However, my loved ones don't want advice or suggestions.  They just want to be heard.  That's it.  No fixing required.

I need to learn to keep my mouth shut, even when I think someone I care about is making a mistake.  Logic doesn't prevail over emotion.  So, for now, I'll just stand back and wait to pick up the pieces.

In the meantime, Saint Marty is going to listen to some Leonard Cohen.

Fatherhood

by: Martin Achatz

Sometimes I just want

to sit on the couch

in my underwear, eat

a whole pepperoni pizza

by myself, read poems

so loud my son shouts

down the stairs, You know

some people in this house

have to go to school 

in the morning!

July 8: Almost Comfortable, Fatherhood, My Nephew

Santiago tries to get comfortable . . . 

The fish never changed his course nor his direction all that night as far as the man could tell from watching the stars. It was cold after the sun went down and the old man's sweat dried cold on his back and his arms and his old legs. During the day he had taken the sack that covered the bait box and spread it in the sun to dry. After the sun went down he tied it around his neck so that it hung down over his back and he cautiously worked it down under the line that was across his shoulders now. The sack cushioned the line and he had found a way of leaning forward against the bow so that he was almost comfortable. The position actually was only somewhat less intolerable; but he thought of it as almost comfortable.

There are times when something lifechanging happens to you, and it takes you time to become comfortable with it.  When my daughter was born, I fell in love with her immediately, but it took me some time be comfortable with fatherhood.  Babies don't come with owner's manuals.

My nephew became a new father today.  Pretty proud of him.  From what I've heard, he only threw up once during the delivery.  He has a son.  Melvin Thomas.  My nephew's life is never going to be the same again.  It will be so much better.

I don't have any father advice.  Haven't written that manual.  What I have learned in the 21 years I've been practicing being a father is this:  all you have to do is love your kid, no matter what.  Start with that, and everything else will be cool.

My nephew will probably never read this post.  That's okay.  He's going to have his hands full for the next, oh, 20 years or so.

But Saint Marty wants to say that he knows his nephew is going to be a great dad.

A poem for my nephew tonight . . .

Rules of Fatherhood

by:  Martin Achatz

When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time. Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections. Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head. Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas. Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date. When he arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.

All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound: crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.

July 18: Grace Never Flags, Dirty Dishes, Unmade Beds

It has always been a happy thought to me that the creek runs on all night, new every minute, whether I wish it or know it or care, as a closed book on a shelf continues to whisper to itself its own inexhaustible tale. So many things have been shown to me on these banks, so much light has illumined me by reflection here where the water comes down, that I can hardly believe that this grace never flags, that the pouring from ever-renewable sources is endless, impartial, and free.

I really love this passage about grace.  Grace like Tinker Creek, constantly flowing, daybreak to daybreak, moving and flowing.  Or a book on a shelf, whispering its never-ending story over and over.  Basically, Dillard is saying that God's grace in inexhaustible, burbling, whispering, at work all the time.

I sometimes forget about grace.  When I got home this afternoon, I found a few dishes in the sink and my daughter's bed unmade.  The first thing that came to my mind was not, "Thanks, God, for my home and family."  I made the bed, washed the dirty frying pan and bowl, swearing the whole time.  I felt a little taken for granted.  You see, I can't stand to have dirty dishes or unmade beds.  I can't even sit on the couch in the living room if I know there's a fork in the sink or a pillow on the floor.

It occurs to me that I do the same thing to God.  God gives me blessings all day long--sunrises, a car, a can of Pringles, a nap--and I completely ignore them.  Instead, I launch into scatological tirades about plates caked with rice and piles of blankets on the floor when I should be giving thanks for the food and the warm bed.  Grace.

Tonight, my daughter is on a trip with the family of one of her dance friends.  I thank God for friendship.  My son just came inside and asked me if he could have a Popsicle at a neighbor's house.  I thank God for a polite son.  I'm working on a new laptop issued to me by the university where I teach.  I thank God for work that fulfills me (even if it doesn't pay all the bills).  Pretty soon, I'm going to help my son take a bath and get ready for bed.  I thank God for fatherhood.

Saint Marty has grace coming out of his butt.

Another perk of grace:  annoying people

January 27: A Handsome Baby, Fatherhood, Luckiest Guy in the World

Ives was twenty-eight when Robert was born, and from the start Ives had been surprised by his paternal instincts; it was almost inconceivable that someone so good and pure could have come from him.  He was a handsome baby, with big, blue intelligently cast eyes, and a hint of sadness that must have come from his father.  He had Annie's Celtic coloring and a symmetrical, pleasing, high-cheekboned face.  Well behaved from the start, a baby who never cried much and had, like his parents, a quiet disposition, he would naturally become Ives' favorite and grew into a loving and considerate son.

I love this description of Ives as a father.  His wonder and adoration of his son.  It touches upon one of the mysteries of parenthood:  how a person is transformed from a "me" person into a "we" person.  Ives lets go of dreams of being a famous artist and embraces dreams of proms and graduations.  Ives' children, Robert and Caroline, really become his masterworks.  His greatest contributions to the future.

I remember the weeks leading up to the birth of my daughter.  Sleepless nights, worrying about how I was going to share my time and energy and love with this little invader.  When my wife was in labor, I sat by her hospital bed, terrified.  I knew nothing about bottles or formula or diapers.  I was the baby of my family.  I never had to take care of younger siblings.  And then, just after sunrise, I was handed this pink creature, shivering and fragile in my arms.  I looked into her eyes and found my reason for living.

My daughter and son teach me daily how to be a better person.  Fatherhood is not a state.  It's a journey, and I've been traveling for over 14 years now.  I've learned a few things along the way.  Dance lessons are expensive, but seeing my daughter pirouette and leap is priceless.  Football bores me, but my son is probably going to be a linebacker.  Children have a way of confounding your dreams.  I want my daughter to love poetry and literature, but she loves math and science.  I want my son to study ballet, but he wants to play basketball. 

My kids frustrate and surprise me like that all the time.  Tonight, I picked my daughter up from dance, and, for the entire drive home, we talked about Jimmy Stewart and writing and books.  Tomorrow morning, my son will sit in the car with me, listening and singing along with the radio.  Fatherhood is made up of moments like this.  Small.  Intimate.  Wondrous.

Saint Marty is the luckiest guy in the world.

Darn kids...