December 3: "Morning in a New Land," What's Nots, Socks

The last poem in Mary Oliver's Devotions:

Morning in a New Land

by:  Mary Oliver

In trees still dripping night some nameless birds

Woke, shook out their arrowy wings, and sang,

Slowly, like finches sifting through a dream.

The pink sun fell, like glass, into the fields,

Two chestnuts, and a dapple gray,

Their shoulders wet with light, their dark hair streaming,

Climbed the hill.  The last mist fell away,

And under the trees, beyond time's brittle drift,

I stood like Adam in his lonely garden

On that first morning, shaken out of sleep,

Rubbing his eyes, listening, parting the leaves,

Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift.

I suppose we should all treat a new day like this:  as some vast, incredible gift, full of nameless birds and pink sun and horses wet with light.  There's so much promise in the stretch and yawn of dawn.  Especially during the holidays, with all their focus on light and happiness and joy.

I'm not saying that every morning in December I wake up like a Who in Whoville.  I don't walk around like the Ghost of Christmas Present, sprinkling everyone I meet with the milk of human kindness.  As all of my faithful disciples know, I struggle like many people around this time of the year because I sometimes allow myself to focus on what's not as opposed to what is.

Here are my what's nots:

• My brother, Kevin
• My sister, Sally
• My father
• My mother
• My sister, Rose
• My great, great friend/second mother, Sally Z.
• My great, great friend, Helen
• Both of my kids under my roof

Certainly, this is an abridged list.  These are some of the big ones.

Here are my what is-es:

• My loving wife
• My two wonderful kids
• My health
• A cornucopia of great, great friends
• Jobs that fill me with joy (most of the time)
• Food in my refrigerator
• A roof over my head
• A brand new car
• Poetry
• Siblings I love
• Music that lifts my soul
• Reminders of loved ones I've lost (my sisters Sally and Rose loved everything about Christmas)
• Faith and hope that my Higher Power/the universe has my back

Again, this is an abridged list, but you will note that my what's nots list is quite a bit shorter than my what is-es list.  I really am a lucky guy.  I just forget to notice most days.  Sometimes, I don't notice for weeks or months.  I focus on the trees instead of the forest.

It has been a incredibly long weekend.  Insanely busy--a full day at the library on Saturday, hosting a Christmas tree celebration (that is exactly what it sounds like!); four different church services to play; an event called Tuba Christmas (and that is exactly what it sounds like, too!); and a podcast to edit.  At the end of weekends like this, my body lets me know it is tired.  I fell asleep on Saturday night at 7 p.m.  I didn't wake up until 6 a.m. the next day.  That's an eleven-hour nap.

And now, after I publish this post, I have to get ready for another long week.  Teaching and programs and my daughter's birthday.  I am literally scheduled for something each night, Monday through Thursday, this week, and Friday may be filled by tomorrow..

Yes, every day is a gift.  But some gifts are hand-me-down socks, and some are Godiva chocolates.

Saint Marty has been wearing a lot of used socks this weekend.

December 9: Arthur Slept, Heck of a Day, Ghost of Christmas Present

Arthur slept:  he was terribly tired.

Arthur Dent is exhausted after having been saved from the destruction of the Planet Earth, thrown into outer space by a Vogon, and rescued by the two-headed President of the Galaxy.  That would make anyone tired.

This is going to be a quick post to let all three of my faithful disciples know that I am still alive.  I'm not necessarily kicking, but I'm alive.  Like Arthur, I'm exhausted.

It has been a heck of a day.  I got up at 3 a.m. to do some grading before I headed into work.  Then a 20-mile drive through icy rain.  Nine hours of work at the medical office.  Two hours of giving a final exam to my students.  An hour of driving around in a snow storm to pick up prescriptions and push some people out of snowbanks.  Then a half hour drive home through more snow and wind.

When I see all of that in glowing black-and-white on my computer screen, I want to take a nap.  However, I have more grading and writing to do tonight.  And snow shoveling.  No rest for this English professor/poet/masochist until around next Wednesday.  Maybe Tuesday, if I'm lucky.

I'm beat right now.  Going a little stir crazy, as well.  I'm not even close to being done with schoolwork yet.  And I have to finish writing my Christmas essay, which I have been struggling with for many weeks.  And I have to order Christmas presents.  And I have to write my Christmas poem. 

December is moving way too fast for my taste.  That is not an original complaint.  I would wager money that everyone is feeling the holiday crunch about now.  No matter how much I prepare for it during the rest of the year (and I do that quite a bit--the 25th of every month during the year I do something for Christmas), I find myself in a panic about now.  Too much to do, too little time to do it in.

So, if you see me tomorrow, looking crazed and exhausted and a little unstable, hopefully you will understand.  I am in full end-of-semester-beginning-of-Yuletide insanity.

Now, Saint Marty must return to what he does best this time of year:  turning off the lights in his house, sitting in the dark, pretending that the Ghost of Christmas Present isn't knocking on his front door.

December 1: A Ghost, Christmas Essay, a Ghost Story

Scenes drift across the screen from nowhere.  I can never discover the connection between any one scene and what I am more consciously thinking, nor can I ever conjure the scene back in full vividness.  It is like a ghost, in full-dress regalia, that wafts across the stage set unnoticed by the principle characters . . .

Like Annie Dillard, I've been a little haunted these last couple of weeks.  It always happens to me during the holiday season.  Some people call it nostalgia.  Others, sentimentality.  It's the urge to look back at past Decembers.  The Ghost of Christmas Past travels with me.  A lot.

As my two Constant Readers know, I always write a Christmas essay for my local Public Radio station.  I've been doing it for close to ten years now.  The process of composing this little reflection involves a great deal of conjuring up of ghosts.  Last year, my main Christmas ghost was my sister who had just passed away.  The year before that, my essay focused on my brother, who died in May, 2014.  Ghosts abound, wafting through rooms in front of me.

Let me tell you a little story.  You can decide if it's a ghost story.

For the last couple of weeks at work, I've been thinking about my dead sister.  She used to be the director of the place.  Her former office is right down the hall from my desk.  In the morning, when nobody else is around, I sometimes think I can hear her voice.  It doesn't scare me.  It makes me a little sad.

Well, this past Monday morning, I came into the office around 6 a.m., my normal time.  Nobody else was there.  As I came to my desk, I noticed two DVDs.  Russell Crowe movies.  They were just sitting in front of my computer keyboard.  My sister was a huge fan of Crowe.  She owned every single movie that he made.

Over the week, none of my coworkers has confessed to leaving them for me.  They're still on my desk.  I expected somebody to say, "Oh, did you get those movies of Sally's that I borrowed?"  Nothing.

Now, of course there's a whole plethora of reasonable explanations.  However, I prefer the unreasonable.  The otherworldly.  I think my sister sent me a little message, just to let me know that she's watching over me and my family.

I'm nearly finished writing this year's Christmas essay.  I worked on it for another five or six hours today.  Maybe when it's done, I'll feel a little less haunted.  Or not.

The Ghost of Russell Crowe Past will still be with Saint Marty.

September 4: School is Not Quite Deserted, First Day, Daughter

"The school is not quite deserted," said the Ghost.  "A solitary child, neglected by his friends, is left there still."

The Ghost of Christmas Past is reminding Scrooge of his solitary boyhood at boarding school in this little snippet of dialogue.

The only reason I chose this passage is because it's the only one dealing with school in the novel.  This morning was my daughter's first day of sixth grade.  I went in late to work to see her get on the bus and snap a few pictures.

Saint Marty's feeling a little nostalgic for his little girl today.

My daughter on the bus

July 5: Delight to Torture, Self-Reflection, the Moment

"Spirit!" said Scrooge, "show me no more!  Conduct me home.  Why do you delight to torture me?"

Scrooge makes this entreaty to the Ghost of Christmas Past.  Scrooge has just been shown one of the most painful scenes from his life, and he doesn't want to continue his trip down memory lane.  He wants to go back to his sheltered life--little apartment, little office, little family to speak of, and big bank account.  It's a much more comfortable place for Scrooge.

In some ways, I understand Scrooge's impulse.  Without the Ghost of Christmas Past to remind me of all the mistakes and heartaches of my life, I could exist in the moment, like good old Ebenezer.  I could screw people out of money.  I could eat people's lunches at work without guilt.  I could insult coworkers and acquaintances with impunity.  I could intentionally forget birthdays and anniversaries.  I could be cold and distant to relatives I don't like.  For a while, it would be quite liberating.

But then the guilt would set in.  I would start being self-reflective.  The ghosts of the past would set up camp in my head.  In short, I would end up like Scrooge in the quote above, yelling at random strangers, "Show me no more!  Conduct me home!  Why do you delight to torture me?"

Living for the moment is great.  At the moment.  Eventually, that moment will come back to bite you in the ass if you're not careful.  Just ask Scrooge.

Saint Marty is not into self-reflective torture today.

Let me pick the moment I want to live in

March 30: Perry Como, "Do You Hear...", Warm Fuzzy

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly.  Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling.  He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten!

I may have already written about this little paragraph about the Ghost of Christmas Past.  If I have, forgive me.  It's hard to keep track of what part of the book I've already posted on.  However, this passage really touched upon an experience I had this morning.

Every Friday morning, I clean, disinfect, and vacuum the business office of the surgery center in which I work.  It takes me about an hour-and-a-half to complete.  It's a mindless task, requiring no amount of focused concentration on my part.  Therefore, I listen to music on my iPod as I go about my chores like Cinderella.  Since I started my little Carol blog exercise, I usually listen to Christmas music while I clean.

This morning, as I was emptying the garbages, Perry Como started singing "Do You Hear What I Hear?" in my ears.  Before I knew it, I was humming, relaxed, and happy.  I was thinking about my childhood Christmases in Detroit (before we moved to the Upper Peninsula).  I was in our living room, in front our fireplace, listening to my mom's LP of Perry Como on the record player.  The tree was a green tinsel monster with revolving lights shining up from the floor into its branches.  Along the mantel above the fireplace, my mother's manger scene sprawled.  Delicate shepherds and angels.  Plastic and ceramic sheep.  In the center, a wooden stable, looking like it belonged in Little House on the Prairie instead of the Middle East.

And I was surrounded by my siblings, before the divorces and kids and spouses.  Before my older brother had his stroke.  Before my sister moved to Utah.  Before mental illness and addiction became a part of my daily existence.  It was when my biggest worry was whether or not there was going to be enough snow overnight to cancel school in the morning.

It was, literally, a warm fuzzy feeling.  I felt physically warm, and my mood was noticeably lighter for a little while.  Perry Como was my Ghost of Christmas Past, leading me back through time, filling me with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.  It was wonderful.  Joyful even.

And then Saint Marty had to pick up a snotty tissue someone had shoved into a seat cushion.  Reality sucks.

Listen.  Get warm and fuzzy.

March 6: Light, Low Upon My Brow, Happiness



Anybody got a snuffer?

 "What!" exclaimed the Ghost, "would you so soon put out, with worldly hands, the light I give?  Is it not enough that you are one of those whose passions made this cap, and force me through whole trains of years to wear it low upon my brow!"

The Ghost of Christmas Past is a little put out with Scrooge here.  Scrooge has asked the Ghost to put on his cap.  There is a bright light issuing from the Spirit's head, and Scrooge has a "special desire to see the Spirit in his cap..."  Of course, the light has something to do with the light of Christmas, and the Ghost chides Scrooge for his request to dampen the light.

I kind of understand where Scrooge is coming from.  Yesterday morning, I was in a great mood, looking forward to a busy, productive day.  This morning, I just wanted to crawl back into bed and pull the pillow over my head, and it had nothing to do with feeling tired.  The energy and happiness I experienced yesterday just aren't there for me today.  If the Ghost of Christmas Present showed up at my front desk right now, I'd probably ask him to put on the cap, too, or at least wear it low upon his brow.  (I'm generally a person who keeps windows closed and curtains drawn.  I'm not a vampire.  I just don't like being that open and free with myself all the time, literally and figuratively.  Believe it or not, I don't blog about every detail of my life.)

Don't tell me all I need is a positive attitude.  I've heard all the lectures.  I've even taught a Sunday School class using a book titled something like Attitude Is Your Paintbrush or Attitude Makes You Paint Better or Brush Up You Bad Attitude.  It was all about choosing to be happy and positive.  It was a stretch for me.

My former former coworker comes back to work today.  There's a potluck.  I made brownies.  It's going to be over forty degrees by this afternoon.  My wife has a new job.  Things are looking up.  Really up.  Although the first thing my former former coworker is going to do when she shows up is open the blinds to the office.  She's likes sunshine.  In fact, my Ghost of Christmas Past would probably look a lot like her.

Saint Marty needs to find a good cap for his Ghost of Christmas Past.

March 2: Fragments, Past, Wrestling

He turned upon the Ghost, and seeing that it looked upon him with a face, in which in some strange way there were fragments of all the faces it had shown him, wrestled with it.

This little wrestling match occurs at the end of Scrooge's time with the Ghost of Christmas Past.  The last scenes this Spirit shows him are quite painful, and Scrooge has had enough.  The pain and loss of his past overwhelms him, and Scrooge turns on the ghost and physically battles him.  Scrooge forces the specter to leave.

I think we all have moments in our past we wouldn't want to re-experience.  I can think of quite a few myself.  I can't imagine a ghost that has fragments of all of the people from my past who've hurt me.  It's a truly terrifying prospect.  I wouldn't be afraid of the ghost as much as the psychological pain.  Obviously, Scrooge has not made peace with his past at this point in the story.  I don't think I've reconciled myself to a lot of my experiences , as well.  I'd be doing some ghost wrestling myself if I were Scrooge.

I ain't 'fraid of no ghost!  Uh, yeah, I am...

This morning, I'm trying to get a lot of work done.  I have a great big pile of tasks to complete.  None of them, however, has to do with the ghosts of my past.  Thank God.  I'll leave the ghosts for tonight, when I'm used to those kinds of darker moments of reflection.  Sometimes the ghosts of the past can be more terrifying than the ghosts of future.  And there ain't no Ghostbuster you can call.

Take Saint Marty's word for it.

February 3: Fan, A Large Heart, Mrs. J

"Always a delicate creature, whom a breath might have withered," said the Ghost.  "But she had a large heart!"

The Ghost of Christmas Past is speaking of Scrooge's sister, Fan.  Fan has just come to a young, school-boy Scrooge to rescue him from spending Christmas at school, alone.  She is all hugs and kisses, full of youthful energy.  Her love for her brother is evident, and the older Scrooge, watching the scene, is deeply moved by the scene.

My senior year in high school, I had an English teacher who effected the course of my life deeply, much as Fan effected Scrooge's life.  Coming across this description of Fan in A Christmas Carol, I was reminded of Mrs. J.  She was also a "delicate creature," tiny and slight.  In the year that I knew her, despite her stature, she always seemed to have a vibrant spirit.  She loved the music we students were listening to.  (It was the 1980s.  All the music was good.)  She chaperoned dances.  Oversaw the drama club.  At Christmas time, she made us read A Christmas Carol in class, and then we watched a film adaptation of it (the George C. Scott incarnation).

She was my favorite teacher.  I got into the habit of going to her classroom after the final bell rang, visiting with her while she packed up her belongings.  I shared my writing with her.  Short stories.  Essays.  Poems.  I talked about wanting to be a professional writer.  She listened and never made me feel like any of my dreams were unrealistic.  Her husband was a university English professor, and she forced him to read my writing.

I would carry her books and bags down to her car for her.  Her classroom was on the third floor of the school.  When she walked down the three flights of stairs, she would sometimes have to rest between flights, to catch her breath.  I never thought much of it.  She was tiny as a sparrow.

At the Senior Awards Ceremony, Mrs. J named me Outstanding English Student.  I still have the index card on which she wrote her comments about me.  She started crying at the end of the presentation.  Mrs. J really did have a large heart.

Unfortunately, her heart was weak.  The summer after I graduated from high school, Mrs. J had to have open heart surgery.  She never made it out of the operating room.  I got a phone call from a friend in July or August, telling me of Mrs. J's death.  It took me a really long time to get over it.  I didn't take the route Scrooge took after Fan's death.  I didn't shut the world out and distrust everybody.  However, there were many nights spent alone in my bedroom, listening to music in the dark.  (OK, I've always had a melancholy streak, even back then.)

This morning, as I took my stroll with the Ghost of Christmas Past, I remembered how much Mrs. J believed in me.  How she saw something special in my writing.  How she made me feel like a writer when I was just a stupid kid.

Saint Marty still misses Mrs. J.

Hopes, Joys, Cares Long Forgotten, New Cartoon

I'm feeling in a reflective mood this morning.  I'm thinking about how, some ten years ago, I was completing the requirements for my MFA in poetry.  My daughter was just over two-years-old, and my wife's bipolar seemed to be under control.  I had dreams of publication, a full-time teaching gig at the university, a bigger house.  Anything seemed possible.

A lot has changed in those ten years.  My daughter is a gorgeous young woman.  I have a smart, funny son.  I'm still living in the same house.  My wife has battled mental illness on several fronts--mania and sexual addiction and depression.  Our marriage has come back from the brink of divorce.  I've published a book of poems.  I'm still a part-time adjunct.  I still work 12 to 14 hour days between the school and the hospital.  And I still have dreams.

The Spirit gazed upon him mildly.  Its gentle touch, though it had been light and instantaneous, appeared still present to the old man's sense of feeling.  He was conscious of a thousand odours floating in the air, each one connected with a thousand thoughts, and hopes, and joys, and cares long, long forgotten.

Scrooge, during the course of A Christmas Carol, is reminded of his youthful dreams.  He sees himself as a boy again, filled with the kind of happiness that goes along with having your whole life ahead of you.  Of course, the difference is that Scrooge knows what the future holds for his teenage self.  And it ain't pretty.  In the company of the Ghost of Christmas Past, however, he allows himself, for a few moments, to be swept up in his old thoughts, hopes, joys, and cares.

I don't think you're ever too old to dream.  Despite everything that's happened in the past ten years, I still have dreams.  I haven't completely let go of my old ones, either.  I still believe I will one day have a full-time professorship at the university.  I still believe I will publish a book that will win the Pulitzer Prize.  I still believe I will live in a bigger house.  (I have lowered my standards on this dream.  I no longer need a mansion with a swimming pool.  I just want to be able to buy this beautiful, old house up the street.)  I still believe.

Scrooge has to be reminded by Jacob Marley and the Christmas Spirits about the importance of dreams.  Granted, now that Scrooge is old and rich, he has the means to make more of his dreams come true.  He starts dreaming again.  He dreams that Tiny Tim will walk and be healthy.  He dreams he will find the love of human beings in his life.

If I didn't have dreams, I wouldn't get out of bed in the morning.  There would be no point.  By the end of the book, Scrooge starts living his dreams again.  That's what Christmas is all about.  That's what life is all about.  Hopes.  Joys.  Cares.  Dreams.

Saint Marty, keeping his hopes and dreams alive.  (By the way, he wouldn't turn down a house with a swimming pool.)

Confessions of Saint Marty

January 6: Regrets, Trip to Wal-Mart, Broken Recliner

"There was a boy singing a Christmas Carol at my door last night.  I should like to have given him something:  that's all."

Scrooge says this to the Ghost of Christmas Past.  When I reread this passage just now, I was struck by the fact that Ebenezer Scrooge is a man full of regrets.  He lives in a world of lost opportunities.  Some of them are small:  not giving some money to a boy singing "God bless you, merry gentleman!"  Some of them are huge:  a lost love, the possibility of a family.  Above all, Scrooge learns how much he has missed in his life by not embracing the spirit of Christmas.

This morning, my wife and I are going grocery shopping at Wal-Mart.  I used to like my weekly foray into that den of consumer debauchery.  However, I have grown to detest it.  It's a necessary evil, like taxes and vegetables.  Thank God, our list is fairly short this week.  We might actually leave with a few dollars left in our bank account.  If there was a local store in the area that could provide the same prices as Wal-Mart, I would shop there exclusively.  Of course, that's not the way things work in an industrial, free-market society.  Scrooge understands this fact.  That's why he's as rich as he is.

The other bur under my saddle at the moment is the fact that my recliner is on its last legs.  Pretty soon, I'm going to have to take it out to the back pasture and shoot it.  It's the last piece of furniture we have that was half-way decent.  Now, we basically have a couch, a love seat, and a chair--all broken in one way or another.

Looks like this guy's recliner is broken, too

Perhaps if I'd lived my life like Scrooge, I would be rich at the moment.  If I hadn't given a shit about family or kids, I would be a tenured professor at a university.  Maybe I would have written three or four books, won some awards.  People would be contacting me for speaking engagements and readings, paying me thousands of dollars just to hear what I had to say.  I would have been living the dream.

On the flip side, I wouldn't have a supportive wife, a beautiful daughter, and a hysterically funny son.  I wouldn't have friends who I know would cut off their arms and sell them for me if they knew I needed help.  I wouldn't have all the frustrating love of my family.

I guess I'll take the trips to Wal-Mart and my shitty recliner.  I know Scrooge would, as well.  He learns his lesson about regrets.  Regrets suck.

Saint Marty, still striving to keep the Christmas Ghosts haunting.