A somber day. The national memorial service for President Jimmy Carter happened today in Washington, D. C. The whole country stopped for a couple hours to honor the great man. I sat in my office at the library, streaming the ceremony, listening to the eulogies and remembrances.
President Biden, in his remarks. said this about Carter: "Now, it’s not about being perfect, because none of us are perfect. We’re all fallible. But it’s about asking ourselves: Are we striving to do things, the right things? What values? What are the values that animate our spirit? To operate from fear or hope, ego or generosity? Do we show grace? Do we keep the faith when it’s most tested?"
Mr. Biden is correct. Being a good person doesn't mean that you're perfect. It means that you operate from a place of generosity, compassion, and love. Everyone messes up. Good people learn from their mistakes and become better because of them.
Sharon Olds thinks about . . .
Things That Are Worse Than Death
by: Sharon Olds
You are speaking of Chile,
of the woman who was arrested
with her husband and their five-year-old son.
You tell how the guards tortured the woman, the man, the child,
in front of each other,
"as they like to do."
Things that are worse than death.
I can see myself taking my son’s ash-blond hair in my fingers,
tilting back his head before he knows what is happening,
slitting his throat, slitting my own throat
to save us that. Things that are worse than death:
this new idea enters my life.
The guard enters my life, the sewage of his body,
"as they like to do." The eyes of the five-year-old boy, Dago,
watching them with his mother. The eyes of his mother
watching them with Dago. And in my living room as a child,
the word, Dago. And nothing I experienced was worse than death,
life was beautiful as our blood on the stone floor
to save us that — my son’s eyes on me,
my eyes on my son — the ram-boar on our bodies
making us look at our old enemy and bow in welcome,
gracious and eternal death
who permits departure.
Yes, there are things worse than death. Certainly, seeing your child harmed in front of you is one of them, as Olds points out. I don't ever want to see my kids suffer. Other things I would rank as worse than death:
- No chocolate
- Hallmark Christmas movies
- Pickles
- Insomnia
- World hunger
- Sitting next to Donald Trump at a funeral
- Watching reruns of Two Broke Girls
- Country music
- Poverty
- Adam Sandler movies
- Head cheese
- Anchovies
- Goodbyes
Okay, I may be joking about some of the items on that list. However, I think that everyone has their own things that are worse than death. I would rather sacrifice my life than see someone I love suffer in any way. I like to think that I would do the same for complete strangers, as well, but I'm not sure. (I certainly wouldn't throw myself in front of a bullet to save the life of the Felon in Chief, so I would make a really shitty Secret Service agent.)
As President Carter demonstrated through the life he led, good people try to make the world a better place. He didn't just preach about his values. He picked up and hammer and made a difference, one nail at a time. Every minute of every day is an opportunity to put love into practice.
Saint Marty wrote an unbirthday poem today, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
Today may not be your birthday, but write a birthday poem as if it is. The poem can either be to yourself on a specific birthday or to a friend as in "To Martha on Her Fortieth Birthday." Or if you just can't get into the birthday spirit, write a poem to or about Dave Matthews, Richard Nixon, Bob Denver (Gilligan on Gilligan's Island), or Joan Baez, and all who celebrate birthdays today.
Not My Birthday Poem,
January 9, 2025
by: Martin Achatz
Today is not my birthday,
but I still climb to the roof
of a building, stand ankle-deep
in snow, give myself
a present: a sun as big
as my fist rising over a frozen
Lake Superior. It's a gift
Bob Denver, who was born
on this day, wouldn't have
been impressed by, stranded
as he was with Skipper,
Professor, Ginger, Thurston
on that island for decades
with nothing but a coconut-
powered transistor to keep
him up on the Beatles, Stones,
Joan Baez (who was also born
today), Tina Turner, Wu-Tang Clan.
I'm sure Bob saw plenty
of beach sunrises, got sick of them,
they way he got sick of eating
coconut cream pie every year
on this day, blowing out candles
made from gorilla ear wax.
So, my sunrise wouldn't even
tempt Bob to leave his hammock
in the early morning, where
he was probably dreaming
of Mary Ann, the gingham folds
that hid the tanned slopes
of her calves and thighs. She was
always my favorite. I imagined
Gilligan and her ending up
together, sharing one of those
thatched huts, listening to waves
as they rocked together on a
mattress stuffed with palm fronds.
If I remember right, Mary Ann was
played by an actress named Dawn.
As I watch Lake Superior crack open
like an egg and the yolk of sun
ascend into the sky, I dream
of being marooned somewhere,
the arms of a Kansas farmgirl pulling
me down, her body filling me
with cornfields and the crow of a rooster.
