December 26: "Mornings at Blackwater," Christmas Calamity, Internet Outage

Mary Oliver's morning ritual . . .

 Mornings at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable 

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond, 

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

Like Oliver, I have morning rituals--acts that I don't even think about when I rise from sleep.  Like brushing my teeth.  Shaving.  Taking my puppy out for her morning ritual.  I'm not sure these tiny habits fill my life with meaning.  Yet, if I don't perform them, the world seems just a little bit . . . off for the rest of the day.

The day after Christmas always fills me with melancholy.  After a month of frenzied preparation, I find myself empty.  Because the whole month of December is filled with rituals for me.  Writing a yuletide poem.  Shopping for presents.  Watching movies that I've watched since I was a child.  Baking cookies.  Attending Advent church services.  Practicing music.  Playing music.

Then, on December 26th, it all disappears.

Another unfortunate Christmas ritual that repeats itself, year after year, is what I call my Christmas Calamity.  Every Christmas or Boxing Day, I wake up to some sort of emergency at my house.  Frozen water pipes.  Blocked sewer.  No heat.  Rarely has the holiday gone by in recent memory without something going majorly wrong.

At about 11:30 last night, my son woke me up to tell me that the internet wasn't working.  Mind you, I was sound asleep.  When I'm woken up at night, for any reason, it usually takes me a few hours to fall back into slumber.  So, in the early hours of today, I found myself resetting my router, over and over, to no avail.  At about 6 a.m., I contacted my internet provider via chat.  

The first piece of advice I received was to restart my router.  Again.  When that didn't rectify the situation, Aisha, my chat buddy, tried to send some messages to my modem.  And when that failed, she set up a time for a technician to stop by my house this afternoon.

So, after about three or four hours of sleep, I drove to work, annoyed and exhausted, with many of my morning rituals undone.  My world was a little off.  I sent a couple messages to my daughter and my sister.  Eventually, early this afternoon, my daughter's significant other went over to my house to check things out.  Within five or ten minutes, I received a text from him:  "WiFi is working now."

He simply restarted the modem.  An easy fix that I knew nothing about.

So, as the final days of 2023 dwindle, I am hoping that this year goes out with a whimper instead of a bathtub full of sewage.

The only thing that saved me from a breakdown this morning was another ritual:  writing poetry with my friend, Gala.  We try to do this every week, if our schedules align.  It's an act that calms my unquiet mind.  Centers me.  

So, the rituals of Christmas are over, including the Christmas Calamity.

Tonight, Saint Marty is exhausted.  That's another Christmas ritual.  

May 25: "Mornings at Blackwater," Pissed, Suffering Puppy

Mary Oliver drinks from Blackwater Pond . . .

Mornings at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

For years, every morning, I drank

from Blackwater Pond.

It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,

the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is

that the past is the past,

and the present is what your life is,

and you are capable 

of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond, 

or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

This poem is Oliver's call to action.  It's all about living in the present moment and choosing what that present moment will be.  There is no sitting back and letting life simply happen around you.  It's about taking deep, deep drinks of whatever pond or river will quench your longing and need.

First, before I write anything more, I am going to apologize.  This post is going to be angry.  Actually, it's not going to be just angry.  It's going to be pissed.  So, if you are having a bad day, I would suggest skipping today's epistle from Saint Marty and streaming something wholesome and uplifting on Disney+.

As longtime disciples of this blog know, a few months ago, my little puppy, Juno, was attacked by a 90-pound dog.  The dog that attacked Juno was supposed to be a support animal, although it turns out that she never went through the training to be certified.  As a result of that attack, Juno had torn muscles and ligaments in her neck, abdomen, back, leg; a slight pneumothorax; and a dislocated hip.  She underwent two hours of surgery the day of the attack.

Juno has been recovering these last couple months, and today she had a second surgery to try to fix her dislocated hip, which has never healed properly.  She's been pretty much hopping around of three legs since she was able to walk again.  The vet who operated on her today did what is called an FHO procedure, which entails the removal of the femoral head and neck of the femur in order to eliminate bone-on-bone contact.  Pretty much, Juno will never regain full mobility of her hip and is going to require physical therapy to buildup the muscle in the injured leg.

I'm pissed because my puppy (I call her a puppy because she's three-years-old and only weighs 17 pounds) has been suffering, and will continue to suffer, for many months to come.  I'm pissed because the owner of the other dog hasn't offered to pay any of the medical bills so far and hasn't even inquired about Juno's health.  I'm pissed because the owners of the business where the attack occurred have offered to pay half the medical expenses and, thus far, haven't provided any money.  I'm pissed because, ever since the attack (which I was in the middle of, trying to save Juno's life), I've been experiencing moments of severe anxiety that stop me in my tracks.  I literally have to stand in place and take deep breaths to control my racing heart and breaths.  

I am pissed.  That is the cup of pond water from which I'm drinking currently.  I'm done struggling to pay bills that I shouldn't have to pay.  It's the summer, and the paychecks from the university have stopped.  The vet and medical costs are topping out at around $5000 so far, and that doesn't include the physical therapy Juno is going to need.  I want someone to stand up and take responsibility for this shitty situation.

Now, I somehow have to come up with a kernel of wisdom or crumb of happiness that will make what I'm saying today uplifting.  Anger is an emotion that I don't usually indulge.  I always try to be understanding and compassionate.  Everyone struggles, and I try not to contribute to these struggles.  At the moment, however, I find myself unable to shake the red dragon that's been breathing down my neck all day long.  My palms are permanently scarred.  A fingernail on my right hand is still black.  My puppy is probably looking a months of recovery.  Panic stalks me every day.  

Just before I sat down to write this post, I sat by Juno for about 15 minutes, petting her ears in just the right spot to make her relax.  Before she fell asleep, she opened her mouth and licked my hand a little with her tired tongue.

This tiny moment of grace brought to you by an angry saint this evening.