January 19: "Flaubert," Sister's Surgery, Daughter's Friend

Billy Collins and Gustave Flaubert are word watchers . . .

Flaubert

by:  Billy Collins

As he looked for the right word,

several wrong words

appeared in his window.

Really, all writers are word watchers, from poets to novelists.  Haiku to Madame Bovary.  We all (yes, I include myself in this group) sit by our windows, waiting for just the right cardinal or bunting to appear.  Then we capture it on the page.

My apologies for being mostly absent this week (and probably in the coming days, as well).  I just started teaching again this past Tuesday, and I've also been working on a huge NEA grant for the library.  Between students and grant verbiage, I've not had a whole lot of headspace for much else.  It literally has felt like I went from riding a tricycle to a runaway train.

And then, this morning, I took my sister to the hospital for surgery.  You may remember that she fell last week in her driveway and fractured both of her wrists pretty severely.  Well, she was supposed to have plates and pins installed.  The procedure is called an open reduction and internal fixation.  (How's that for word watching?)  

Well, after waiting for about an hour because of technical issues, my sister found out that her surgery had to be postponed until Monday.  The reason?  All of the air handlers that control temperature and humidity in the operating rooms weren't functioning.  Because I worked in the healthcare field for over 20 years (most of those years in a surgical setting), I understand why this delay had to occur.  However, it was quite disappointing for my sister, who's been in quite a bit of pain for over a week.

So, instead, I ended up working at the library for quite a while today on details and language for that NEA grant.  Word watching again, if you will.  Sending out emails.  Drafting paragraphs.  Feeling overwhelmed.

That is the kind of week I've had.  Of course, compared to the week my sister has had, mine was, to use a cliché, a walk in the park.  

And now, to close out this week, my daughter just texted me late tonight to tell me that one of her friends--with whom she took dance classes through grade, middle, and high school--died yesterday.  "O" was a sweet, sweet girl who led a very troubled life.  She was living with her boyfriend, and the propane heater in their house malfunctioned.  Both died of carbon monoxide poisoning.  

Sometimes, it feels as if life/God/the universe does things to people that simply don't make a whole lot of sense.  Tragic accidents that harm and/or kill individuals I care about.  And it leaves me watching for words that will somehow explain it all.  Sometimes, though, no words seem adequate.

Writer Anne Lamott says that there are three prayers that people send up to the heavens:  Help, Thanks, Wow.  Those words perfectly express human reactions to almost any situation we may encounter. So . . .

Saint Marty says "help" for all his loved ones who are hurting; "thanks" for him making it through this shitty week, and "wow" for all the unnoticed blessings that have sustained him.

January 26: I Wish I Could See, NEA Grant, Small Things

Santiago wishes on a fish . . . 

Then he looked behind him and saw that no land was visible. That makes no difference, he thought. I can always come in on the glow from Havana. There are two more hours before the sun sets and maybe he will come up before that. If he doesn't maybe he will come up with the moon. If he does not do that maybe he will come up with the sunrise. I have no cramps and I feel strong. It is he that has the hook in his mouth. But what a fish to pull like that. He must have his mouth shut tight on the wire. I wish I could see him. I wish I could see him only once to know what I have against me.

Most of the time in life, you really have no idea what you're up against, like Santiago.  He knows there is a fish at the end of his line.  That's all.  The old man can guess on its size and shape and kind.  It might be a marlin or a swordfish or a tuna.  Whatever it is, at this moment in the book, the fish is in charge, pulling the boat away from land.

This afternoon, I finished writing a $20,000 NEA grant for the library.  It's a project that I have been working on for almost three full weeks.  I drafted and emailed and budgeted.  Checked and doublechecked.  Wrote and rewrote.  And then, at precisely 2:37 p.m., I clicked a "submit" button, and all of that work went out into the sea of the internet.

Now, I am Santiago, sitting in my little skiff, watching my fishing line to see if the big fish will take my bait.  (I realize that I'm belaboring this metaphor, but it's all I got.  My mind is pudding at the moment.)  I won't know until April whether or not the grant is successful.  What I can say is that I tried my hardest.

This evening, I am once again really tired.  Since COVID hit me, I have experienced this nocturnal dip in energy.  It may not have anything to do with the virus and everything to do with my situation.  My life has not been peaceful by any means.  

So I hold onto small things in the hours from dusk to dawn.  My puppy sleeping on the couch beside me, her tiny deep breaths.  A poem or two from Mary Oliver.  It's a Wonderful Life or The Santa Clause on the television.  A kind message from a friend.  My daughter asking me how my day was.  My son covering me with a blanket when he sees me sleeping on the couch.

All blessings.

Saint Marty's boat may be tiny, but the sea is large and kind.