May 13: "With Thanks to the Field Sparrow, Whose Voice Is So Delicate and Humble," Social Media, Speckled Egg Moments

Mary Oliver on the noise of contemporary culture . . .

With Thanks to the Field Sparrow, Whose Voice Is So Delicate and Humble

by: Mary Oliver

I do not live happily or comfortably

with the cleverness of our times.

The talk is all about computers,

the news is all about bombs and blood.

This morning, in the fresh field,

I came upon a hidden nest.

It held four warm, speckled eggs.

I touched them.

Then went away softly,

having felt something more wonderful

than all the electricity of New York City.

Okay, I have to say this:  Mary Oliver is amazing.

The world is full of all kinds of noise that distracts.  Every day, there's a new social media platform or piece of technology that is supposed to make life/communication better or easier.  The newest iteration of iPhone.  Upgrades to Facebook or Instagram or Twitter.  I held off from entering the Facebook universe until about seven years ago.  (By the time I joined, Facebook was no longer hip.  It was for old people trying to find out if the library was open.)  

I doubt Mary Oliver ever owned a cell phone.  In fact, I would bet a year's salary that she didn't.  She was more interested in unmediated miracles.  Miracles she could touch with her fingers, smell with her nose, taste with her tongue, hear with her ears.  Mary Oliver encounters a nest of speckled eggs.  What does she do?  She doesn't take out her phone, snap a picture of them, and then post the picture on Facebook with a caption like, "Better than all the electricity in New York City."  Nope.  She gently touches the warm eggs, admires them, and then, when she gets home, writes a beautiful poem about them.

Isn't that a better way of encountering the world and life?  (This coming from a person who has published over five thousand blog posts.  I know.  I'm kind of a hypocrite.)  My jobs require a certain amount of social media interaction on my part.  Social media is a necessary evil.  (And I use the term "necessary evil" hesitantly.  Because it's a cliché.  Also because I don't think all social media is evil.)  In order for people to be aware of readings or programs or concerts or books or blog posts, I use social media.  For example, when I am done with this blog post, I will use Facebook to tell people about it.  That, I think, is a legitimate and healthy use of social media.

However, when I go to dinner tonight at Texas Roadhouse, I'm not going to go home and post a picture of my sirloin on Twitter with "#feeling_blessed."  .  (By the way, I don't do Twitter.  Have never done Twitter.  Don't intend to start doing Twitter.  Don't really understand the need for Twitter.)  When social media becomes a way to convince the world that your life is wonderful, there's a problem.  A big problem.

Have I posted pictures of my kids on their birthdays?  Yes.  Have I posted pictures of my wife on our anniversary?  Absolutely.  Yet, I don't create these posts to convince people that my life and family are perfect.  Any longtime disciple of Saint Marty knows that I embrace imperfections.  I freely admit my failings and struggles.  That's what life is--a series of mistakes interrupted by occasions of wonder. 

When I go on social media, I don't want to see doctored photos of flower gardens.  Don't use a profile picture that's ten years old.  I want truth, in all its beautiful ugliness.  Show me your gray hair.  Your dog-bitten hands.  Show me you.  

I think that's what Mary Oliver is writing about in this poem.  She knows the world is a hard place, full of sorrow and loss and violence.  Social media thrives on that shit.  Oliver isn't preaching that we should ignore the cruelties of life.  In fact, she wants us to realize that the world isn't good or bad, kind or cruel.  The world is just the world.  How we interact and react to the world is what makes the difference.

I am in Wisconsin tonight with my family.  We went shopping.  Ate some good food.  My son went swimming.  It has been a wonderful day of relaxation, except for the traffic.  I'm not a big fan of four-lane highways and city driving.  Tomorrow, we may go to a museum or do some more shopping.  And tomorrow night, we are taking in a traveling production of Hamilton.  My daughter has been obsessed with this show since high school.

I'm not bragging or trying to convince you that I have a better life than anybody else.  Go back and read some of my older posts.  My life is messy, just like anybody else's.  But, every once in a while. when the stars align, something amazing happens.  Speckled eggs in a nest, more wonderful than all the electricity in New York City.  

This weekend is one of those speckled egg moments for me.  I get to spend a lot of time with my family--the ones I love the most.

Saint Marty thinks that is better than all the water in Lake Superior.

January 20: Queequeg's Peculiarities, Government Shutdown, Honors Band

I quickly followed suit, and descending into the bar-room accosted the grinning landlord very pleasantly. I cherished no malice towards him, though he had been skylarking with me not a little in the matter of my bedfellow.

However, a good laugh is a mighty good thing, and rather too scarce a good thing; the more's the pity. So, if any one man, in his own proper person, afford stuff for a good joke to anybody, let him not be backward, but let him cheerfully allow himself to spend and to be spent in that way. And the man that has anything bountifully laughable about him, be sure there is more in that man than you perhaps think for.

The bar-room was now full of the boarders who had been dropping in the night previous, and whom I had not as yet had a good look at. They were nearly all whalemen; chief mates, and second mates, and third mates, and sea carpenters, and sea coopers, and sea blacksmiths, and harpooneers, and ship keepers; a brown and brawny company, with bosky beards; an unshorn, shaggy set, all wearing monkey jackets for morning gowns.

You could pretty plainly tell how long each one had been ashore. This young fellow's healthy cheek is like a sun-toasted pear in hue, and would seem to smell almost as musky; he cannot have been three days landed from his Indian voyage. That man next him looks a few shades lighter; you might say a touch of satin wood is in him. In the complexion of a third still lingers a tropic tawn, but slightly bleached withal; he doubtless has tarried whole weeks ashore. But who could show a cheek like Queequeg? which, barred with various tints, seemed like the Andes' western slope, to show forth in one array, contrasting climates, zone by zone.

"Grub, ho!" now cried the landlord, flinging open a door, and in we went to breakfast.
They say that men who have seen the world, thereby become quite at ease in manner, quite self-possessed in company. Not always, though: Ledyard, the great New England traveller, and Mungo Park, the Scotch one; of all men, they possessed the least assurance in the parlor. But perhaps the mere crossing of Siberia in a sledge drawn by dogs as Ledyard did, or the taking a long solitary walk on an empty stomach, in the negro heart of Africa, which was the sum of poor Mungo's performances- this kind of travel, I say, may not be the very best mode of attaining a high social polish. Still, for the most part, that sort of thing is to be had anywhere.

These reflections just here are occasioned by the circumstance that after we were all seated at the table, and I was preparing to hear some good stories about whaling; to my no small surprise nearly every man maintained a profound silence. And not only that, but they looked embarrassed. Yes, here were a set of sea-dogs, many of whom without the slightest bashfulness had boarded great whales on the high seas- entire strangers to them- and duelled them dead without winking; and yet, here they sat at a social breakfast table- all of the same calling, all of kindred tastes- looking round as sheepishly at each other as though they had never been out of sight of some sheepfold among the Green Mountains. A curious sight; these bashful bears, these timid warrior whalemen!

But as for Queequeg- why, Queequeg sat there among them- at the head of the table, too, it so chanced; as cool as an icicle. To be sure I cannot say much for his breeding. His greatest admirer could not have cordially justified his bringing his harpoon into breakfast with him, and using it there without ceremony; reaching over the table with it, to the imminent jeopardy of many heads, and grappling the beefsteaks towards him. But that was certainly very coolly done by him, and every one knows that in most people's estimation, to do anything coolly is to do it genteelly.

We will not speak of all Queequeg's peculiarities here; how he eschewed coffee and hot rolls, and applied his undivided attention to beefsteaks, done rare. Enough, that when breakfast was over he withdrew like the rest into the public room, lighted his tomahawk-pipe, and was sitting there quietly digesting and smoking with his inseparable hat on, when I sallied out for a stroll.

Above is the entire Chapter 5 of Moby-Dick, all about breakfast with the whalers at the Spouter-Inn.  Beefsteaks and coffee and rolls.  Of course, Queequeg, being a "savage," focuses only on the rare beef, thereby furthering the image of him as a cannibal peddling shrunken heads of the street.  Yet, Queequeg is also good-natured and polite, exhibiting none of the stereotypical affectations of a "savage cannibal."

It is going to be a long day of driving for my wife and me.  We are traveling to Wisconsin to see my daughter play in an honors band concert.  She actually requested that we come, although I think her primary reason was to avoid a long ride home on a school bus.  However, being of fragile parental ego, I am going with the belief that my daughter really wants us to be there to see her perform.

Of course, all this comes on the day where the Federal Government of the United States has been forced to shut down, even though both houses of Congress and the White House are occupied by the same political party.  I woke up to that news.  Even though I was expecting it, I found myself shaking my head.

Of course, there's a lot of finger-pointing going on.  Republicans pointing at the Democrats.  Democrats pointing at the Republicans.  Democrats pointing at Donald Trump.  And Donald Trump pointing at everyone BUT himself.  Now, the Constant Reader of this blog knows that my political leanings fall just left of Jesus Christ.  (By the way, Jesus Christ was NO conservative.  He was all about caring for the poor and the sick and the downtrodden.  That is what a true Christian does.)  Therefore, I fall squarely on the side of funding the government IF it does what it is supposed to do--take care of EVERYBODY, not just the wealthy and politically-connected.

Yes, that means that I support helping refugees and the children of undocumented immigrants.  I think that health care workers need to provide the best care for ALL patients, regardless of the health care workers' religious beliefs.  (See my comment above about what a true Christian should believe and do.)  It's really simple, actually.  Let's take care of all the Queequegs in our country.  Let's fund school honors band concerts.  Let's provide the best healthcare for every person in this country, not just those who can afford it.  Let's send young people out into the work world WITHOUT tens of thousands of dollars of student debt.

I thought I lived in a country like this.  Regardless of political affiliation, I thought people, in general, wanted to do what was best for everybody.  I'm not so sure about that now.  Certainly, nothing that's happened in Washington, D. C., has convinced me of the goodwill of Republican politicians.

Tonight, I will sit in an public school auditorium.  I will listen to wonderful public school students play beautiful music.  Then I will drive home, hopefully with a little of my faith in humanity and the future restored.  It's about what connects us, not about what divides us.

Saint Marty gives thanks today for public education and teachers and schools. 

March 20: Quiet Meditations, Madison, God's Love Numbers Thirty and Thirty-One, Fairy Tale Trip

There [Ives] sat, and as was his habit of old he began his quiet meditations.  Above the altar in that church, was a statue of Christ, set back in a kind of nook, and on either side of Him, representations of the Holy Mother and Saint John the Baptist, with their expressions of divine knowledge.  Looking at the altar he remembered another of his childhood thoughts:  in the same way that the baby Jesus, the promise of the world, lay resting in His crib, adored by the magi and the shepherds and basking in the warmth of angelic and familial love, so did the man Jesus, down from the Cross and awaiting His final resurrection, lay resting inside the altar, beneath the chrismoned cloth.  He laughed, remembering how the slightest breeze from the church's opened doors, rustling the altar's cloth, had made Ives' little heart jump:  at any moment, Jesus would be coming out of His resting place and the world would be filled with miracles.  He would be dressed in great flowing white robes, a beautiful light filling the church.

Ives feels at home in church.  At the end of his life, he sits in a pew and remembers his childhood, how he would imagine Jesus descending from the altar and walking down the church's center aisle, like a daVinci painting come to life.  And the world would be full of miracles.

Greetings from Madison, Wisconsin.  I have traveled here with my family for a dance competition in which my daughter is participating.  Last year, at this same competition, my daughter placed in the top ten of her category.  She doesn't dance until Sunday evening this time, so we have almost two full days to relax, shop, swim, and eat.  Maybe even go to a movie.

It feels good to be out of the Upper Peninsula for a little while.  While I feel most at home there, I also needed a break.  Both school and work have been quite stressful recently.  Lots of upheaval and change.  I don't really deal well with upheaval and change.  I like constancy.  I think that's why Ives feels so at home in church.  His son is murdered.  His life falls apart.  Yet, stepping into church, Ives knows what to expect.  Knows what prayers are going to be said.  Knows when he needs to stand and kneel.  It's the one constant in his life.

There are very few constants in my life at the moment.  I sort of cling to a few things.  This blog.  It has been a part of my daily existence for five years now.  Almost 2,400 posts.  That has kept me sane through a lot of challenging times.  That's God's love number thirty.

My son is driving my daughter crazy.  He's loud and over-tired.  Tomorrow morning, he will probably get up too early and annoy her even more.  My daughter refuses to go to sleep because "it's the only night I can stay up as late as I want."  She has been very hormonal and cranky this evening.  My wife is getting annoyed with me and my typing because it's late, and she wants to go to sleep.  I'm getting annoyed with everybody because I want silence, but my daughter is sighing and my wife has decided to eat M&Ms.  So it's a symphony:  sigh-crunch-crunch-sigh-rattle-rattle-crunch-crunch-crunch.

God's love number thirty-one:  my son has finally gone to sleep.  There is a tenuous silence.  My daughter has settled down with the iPad, and my wife has finished her midnight snack.  The noise level has decreased by several decibels.  Finally, the room has settled into a state of calm.  Sort of.

Once upon a time, there was a man who took his family on a trip.  The man's son got on the man's daughter's nerves.  The son kept asking, "Can we go swimming now?"  The daughter kept saying, "Shut up."  The man's wife got on his nerves.  She chewed M&Ms all night long.  By the time they settled down for the night, they all wanted to kill each other.

But they didn't.  Because they were all too tired.  So the daughter promised to drown her brother in the pool the next day.  The brother promised to kick his sister in the throat if she tried to drown him.  The man promised to smother his wife with a pillow if she didn't stop stop eating, and his wife promised to strangle him with a a shoelace.

And they all went to bed.

Moral of the story:  pack alcohol when you go on a family trip.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Where did I pack the gin?

March 21: Gratitude Seventeen

It is deeply satisfying to win a prize in front of a lot of people...

Tonight, I am grateful for a dance prize.

When Wilbur wins his prize at the end of Charlotte's Web, he passes out.  He is a humble little guy, and all the praise and adulation make him a bit lightheaded.  But there is nothing better than being recognized for hard work.


I am posting from Middleton, Wisconsin, just a little ways from Madison.  I just got back from my daughter's dance competition, and it was a very good night for her.

She did her tap dance solo, and she was awarded a gold trophy.  On top of that, she took ninth overall in her category.  Nobody from my daughter's dance studio has ever placed in the overall part of a  competition before.  At the awards today, two dancers competing from the studio (my daughter and her friend) each placed.

My daughter was a little stunned.  She stood on stage in the crowded auditorium and collected her medal.  It was pretty darn exciting.

Yes, Saint Marty is living vicariously through his daughter's success.

So proud of my little girl