April 11: Live Water, the Past, Sleeping Pill

Live water heals memories.  I look up the creek and here it comes, the future, being borne aloft as on a winding succession of laden trays.  You may wake and look from the window and breathe the real air, and say, with satisfaction or with longing, "This is it."  But if you look up the creek, if you look up the creek in any weather, your spirit fills, and you are saying, with an exulting rise of the lungs, "Here it comes!"

It's a baptism image.  Annie Dillard doesn't shy away from the God thing.  Granted, in this paragraph, she simply talks about "live water" healing memories.  I don't think that's too far off from the living water of the Bible that brings eternal life.  It's all about healing, physically and emotionally and spiritually.  That's why I chose Pilgrim at Tinker Creek as the blog book of the year.  It's all about looking forward instead of backward.

That's a difficult thing to do--letting go of the past, focusing on the future.  My daughter at the moment has two boys interested in her.  The first boy--the one who's been in the picture for about six months--is really having a difficult time with the situation.  He's feeling a little sidelined, sitting there and watching the girl he likes flirt with another boy.

Seeing this unfold, I found myself really sympathizing with my daughter's current boyfriend.  When my wife and I were separated, I found myself in a very similar situation.  Lost and rejected, I spent an entire year of my life sidelined, caring for our kindergarten-aged daughter and wondering what the hell happened.

The past has been haunting me these last few days.  I want to tell my daughter how much it hurts to have someone about whom you care deeply turn her back on you.  It's painful.  Gives you sleepless nights.  Makes you crazy.  I thought that I'd moved forward, left this moment of my life floating down the creek and around the bend.  Unfortunately, I've found that wound is still a little raw.

Now, my daughter is doing nothing wrong.  She's being a 15-year-old girl.  Neither of her boys are doing anything wrong.  They are being 15-year-old boys.  My wife and I have a strong marriage.  We just celebrated our twentieth anniversary last October.  No worries.

The past, however, has a way of sneaking up on you, and that's exactly what happened to me this weekend.  The single-father me has reappeared and given me a bad case of insomnia these last few nights.

Saint Marty may be taking a sleeping pill tonight with a glass of live water.

I don't mind spoilers--no surprises for me!

August 22: The Past, Mary Oliver, "An Old Whorehouse"

I've been thinking a lot tonight about childhood summers.  How those months seemed to last forever.  The long days, full of sun and insects and dirt.  The humid nights, full of cricket and distant stars.  June, July, and August were so full of freedom.  We could do anything we wanted.  Swim.  Ride our bikes up to the Holiday gas station on the highway to buy ice cream bars.  Dare each other to knock on the doors of girls' houses, just to see what they'd be wearing when they answered.

Mary Oliver has a great poem that captures this time of adolescent adventure.  When you're stuck between childhood and adulthood, trying to figure the world out.  It's one of my favorites.

Saint Marty is still trying to figure the world out.

An Old Whorehouse

by:  Mary Oliver

We climbed through a broken window,
walked through every room.

Out of business for years,
the mattresses held only

rainwater, and one
woman's black shoe.  Downstairs

spiders had wrapped up
the crystal chandelier.

A cracked cup lay in the sink.
But we were fourteen,

and no way dust could hide
the expected glamour from us,

or teach us anything.
We whispered, we imagined.

It would be years before
we'd learn how effortlessly

sin blooms, then softens,
like any bed of flowers.