August 11: "Evening Alone," Night Owl, Happy Place

I have very few moments during my days--morning, afternoon, or evening--when I am completely alone.  I think that's why I've always been a night owl.  After people go to bed, I get a few hours of solitude.

Sometimes I make good use of that solitude, reading or writing or revising or eating chocolate.  Other times, I allow my mind to rest.  I watch a movie I've seen dozens of times or a television program that requires little in the way of active attention.  I drift and wander lonely as a cloud.

That's what Billy Collin is doing in today's poem . . . 

Evening Alone

by: Billy Collins

Last of the strong sun

on white tiles, stack of white towels, 

faint piano melody from downstairs, 

and the downpour of hot water on my shoulders. 

I lift my face to the nozzle, close my eyes

and see mountains folded 

over mountains, smoke rising from a woodcutter’s hut,

 and in the distance, billowing pastel clouds. 

It must be China I am beholding 

on this early summer evening— 

the great sway of rivers, 

thousands of birds rising on the wing, 

the jade and mulberries of China, 

plum blossoms—now the cry of a pheasant. 

It is a vision that drains me of desire, 

and leaves me wanting nothing 

but to be here 

in this hot steamy room 

washing my neck, rubbing my sides, 

the soap slithering down the chest and stomach, 

eyes still shut, 

while in China, 

a light boat crosses a lake, 

and in a wooden house on the shore 

a young woman in a tight-fitting silk dress 

lifts a cup of cinnamon tea 

to her painted, slightly parted lips.

I'm not sure if Billy Collins is calling up a distant memory or completely imagining this scene.  But he is drifting and wandering in his mind to a place that gives him peace and pleasure.  It really doesn't matter whether it's real or not.

We all have happy places.  The Eiffel Tower.  Loch Ness.  Lake Superior.  A couch.  My happy place?  I'm kind of a homebody.  The only place where I really relax and set aside all my masks is at home.  I don't have to do anything but be myself.  That's a great gift.  I can be Marty the poet.  Marty the blogger.  Marty the Christmas fanatic.  Marty the Bigfoot guy.  Or I can just be Marty the guy who watches Portrait Artist of the Year fanatically, over and over.  

Saint Marty's favorite place tonight was his backyard, standing under the sun, noticing how leaves are already changing color.

November 12: Aorta of a Whale, a Great Gift, My Name

"The aorta of a whale is larger in the bore than the main pipe of the water-works at London Bridge, and the water roaring in its passage through that pipe is inferior in impetus and velocity to the blood gushing from the whale's heart." PALEY'S THEOLOGY

A little quote about the large heart of thBe whale from the beginning of Moby-Dick.

I have a story about a miracle of the heart to share with you tonight.

My mother doesn't remember that I'm her son any more.  When I show up at her house with my wife and kids, she smiles and asks questions like "Is it cold outside?" and "How was your day?"  She knows somewhere in her brain that she should know me, but she can't manage to dredge my name out of the ocean of her memory.  One day, as I was leaving her house, I heard her turn to my sister and say, "That man is really nice.  Who is he?"

I tell you this because, last night, my mother gave me a great gift.  As I was sitting next to her while she was watching TV, she began fiddling with her hearing aids.  She does this all the time because of how they irritate her ears.  The hearing aids began to squeal, and she pulled them out.  She looked at me and said, "Here, Marty, can you fix these?"

It was the first time I've heard her say my name in over two years.  It stunned me and made me feel like a child again, grateful for my mother's attention.

Perhaps I will never hear her say my name again, but last night was a miracle as big as changing water into wine or multiplying loaves and fish sticks.

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for ordinary miracles.