December 19: No Puritan, Brother Fly, Brother Ass

Are you a fly?

The creator is no puritan.  A creature need not work for a living; creatures may simply steal and suck and be blessed for all that with a share--an enormous share--of the sunlight and air . . .

I used to be bothered by the idea of God's profligate generosity.  That the grasshopper can be just as happy and blessed as the ants.  Of course, the creator being infinitely giving.  I like to believe in a certain amount of justice in the universe.  Saint Francis of Assisi used to call people who didn't do their share of the work and lived off the labors of others "Brother Fly."  Dillard is right.  Brother Fly will always be blessed with a huge share of sunlight and air.

I work hard, every day.  I don't say this because I'm looking for sympathy or praise.  It's just a fact.  I think it has something to do with the way that I was brought up.  My father left for work at 7 a.m.  Sometimes, he didn't get back home until well after dark.  He was a plumber and furnace man.  In the winter, the phone would ring at 3 a.m., and off my dad would go to get somebody's heat working or somebody's sewer unplugged.  

I am not a Brother Fly.  Today, I wrote my Christmas poem.  Started early in the morning.  Wrote about four drafts in between my other chores.  I think it's done.  Keep in mind, though, that I read two books and did research for two months before I sat down to write.  I was ready.

Tonight, I've got other work to do.  Two blog posts.  Christmas shopping.  An art project.  If I get all of that done early, I may start reading a new book.  Agatha Christie for my book club next week.

Saint Francis often referred to himself as Brother Ass--carrying the burdens, doing the hard labor.  It was a badge of honor for him.  I think that I'm more of an ass than a fly.

Please vote for Saint Marty (Martin Achatz):

Voting for next Poet Laureate of the U. P.

November 3: No Puritan, Parasites, Syrian Refugees

The creator is no puritan.  A creature need not work for a living; creatures may simply steal and suck and be blessed for all that with a share--an enormous share--of the sunlight and air.  There is something that profoundly fails to be exuberant about these crawling, translucent lice and white, fat-bodied grubs, but there is an almost manic exuberance about a creator who turns them out, creature after creature after creature, and sets them buzzing and lurking and flying and swimming about.  These parasites are our companions at life, wending their dim, unfathomable ways into the tender tissues of their living hosts, searching as we are simply for food, for energy to grow and breed, to fly or creep on the planet, adding more shapes to the texture of intricacy and more life to the universal dance.

Most of the creatures on this planet do not worry about poverty or unemployment or the price of crude oil.  They don't care whether Donald Trump becomes President of the United States (God help us) or Hillary Clinton.  Universal health care.  Syrian refugees.  Terrorism.  The majority of the buzzing, flying, crawling residents of this little planet are oblivious to such things.  For them, it's simply about survival:  eating, resting, and breeding.

The word "parasite" has become a pejorative term.  If I call a person a parasite, it's not because I consider that person particularly resilient or resourceful.  I'm not marveling at his or her ability to survive in harsh conditions, making lemonade out of lemons, so to speak.  No.  In human terms, a parasite is somebody who profits from the misfortune of other human beings.  Slumlords.  Dictators.  Republican presidential candidates.

I am not climbing onto my soapbox this evening.  There are too many people on soapboxes right now in the United States.  If everybody in the world looked out for each other--fed the hungry, clothed the naked, friended the friendless, loved the unloved--things like terrorism and bigotry and homophobia would be figments, phantoms.  We wouldn't have to worry about refugees because there wouldn't be a need for refugees.  No homeless shelters.  No soup kitchens.  No Republicans.  No Democrats.  No parasites.

As Dillard points out, the Creator of the universe loves diversity, all of the creepers and dancers and slitherers and flyers and dancers.  Loves snakes and parasites, poets and politicians, Syrian refugees and illegal immigrants.  The Creator loves all creation.  Even Donald Trump.

Saint Marty needs to be reminded of that every once in a while.  God's love does not discriminate. 

God loves him.  God just wouldn't vote for him.