August 10: Pray for the Death, Act of Hope, Punk Rockabilly Music

Santiago prays for death . . . 

He commenced to say his prayers mechanically. Sometimes he would be so tired that he could not remember the prayer and then he would say them fast so that they would come automatically. Hail Marys are easier to say than Our Fathers, he thought.

"Hail Mary full of Grace the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen." Then he added, "Blessed Virgin, pray for the death of this fish. Wonderful though he is."

All human beings hope.  It's built into our DNA.

Prayer is an act of hope.  Usually, people pray for things like an "A" on a final exam.  A job.  That pretty girl or guy to go out with you.  Your kid to get into a good school.  More metaphysically, you can pray for the world to be a better, kinder place.  If you're political (and have one functioning brain cell), you pray that Donald Trump will end up in prison orange.  Santiago prays for the death of the fish.

On the day my mother died, I prayed for her death.  Sitting next to her bed, watching her struggle to breathe, I simply wanted her to be able to relax.  Be comfortable.  When I was alone with her, I leaned in close to her ear, told her that I loved her and that it was okay to let go.  That we were all going to be okay.  "Dad's waiting for you," I told her, "and so is Sally and Kevin."

For a long while, I felt guilty about that prayer.  I realize now that it was a kind prayer.  A loving prayer.  A hopeful prayer.  My mother had suffered for a really long time.  I wanted her to be free of all that.

Tonight, I hosted another open-air concert.  An out-of-town punk rockabilly band.  Not the usual kind of music for library patrons.  The crowd didn't quite know how to respond.  Some of them really got into it, and some packed up early and left.  I loved it.  And that's okay.

Happiness is pretty subjective.  What makes me happy doesn't necessarily make other people happy.  Watching The Perks of Being a Wallflower over and over is not everyone's idea of a good time.  I could watch it on an infinite loop.  The same goes for hope.

If my siblings knew I was praying for my mother to die, they may have kicked me out of the room.  Told me to go home.  Questioned my love for her.  Or maybe they would have understood.  I'm not sure.  I knew she was going to die.  They knew she was going to die.  Perhaps the poet in me wanted to embrace the truth of the moment.  To give thanks for this woman who had shaped and loved me so much.  To hand her over to the universe and know that she was going to be okay.

I have a friend who is in a difficult situation right now.  I don't know how to pray for this friend.  What to pray for this friend.  So I just send out unspecified hope.  Hope that my friend can hold, mold, and shape into whatever is needed.  That's the best I can do for my friend at the moment.

Sometimes that's the best we can ever do, I suppose.  Hope and pray for . . . whatever.  Life.  Death.  Grace.  Beauty.  Blessings.

Saint Marty's blessing for tonight:  punk rockabilly music on a warm August night. 

November 15: My Masterpiece, Christmas Essay, Maya Angelou, "On the Pulse of Morning," New Cartoon

"I'll tell you in the morning," [Charlotte] said.  "When the first light comes into the sky and the sparrows stir and the cows rattle their chains, when the rooster crows and the stars fade, when early cars whisper along the highway, you look up here and I'll show you something.  I will show you my masterpiece."

Charlotte does some pretty amazing things.  She creates webs that sparkle with dew and mystify human beings.  Single-handedly, she saves her friend's life.  And, in the end, she chooses to die alone, content with the knowledge that she has made a huge difference in the world.  Her masterpiece?  An egg sac, containing 514 eggs.  Her lasting legacy.

It is the time of year where I once again must write my Christmas essay for the local National Public Radio station.  I know my subject.  I've even done the necessary research.  I know what I want to say.  It's a matter now of figuring out how I want to say it.  And I sort of have that figured out, as well.  Now comes the fun part:  writing it.  That's what I'm going to be doing this evening.

I'm not sure I'm working on my masterpiece.  Every time I sit down to write something--a blog post, poem, short story, essay--I always have this feeling that it's going to be the last thing I'm ever going to write.  It's crazy.  I wait to see if I've hit the bottom of my well.  I fully expect to send down my bucket one day and come up dry.  Not tonight, though.

My favorite Maya Angelou poem--her masterpiece among lots of masterpieces--is the poem she read at President Clinton's first inauguration.  I was a grad student at the time, and I remember crowding around a TV screen in the basement of the university library, watching and listening to Dr. Angelou read her poem.  Some of the people standing next to me were crying.  Some of the people on the television were crying.  It was an incredible moment.  We were all united.  Part of something huge.  A fellow traveler on a road of hope.  I will never forget it.  When she was done reading, I actually thought to myself, "I will do that some day."

Of course, that's like me thinking, "I will win the Nobel Prize in Literature" or "I will suddenly grow wings and fly to Crete."  A dream.  A hope.  That's what writing is about.  Every time I sit down to put my thoughts on paper, it's an act of hope.  For something better.

And Saint Marty is full of hope tonight.

On the Pulse of Morning

by:  Maya Angelou

A Rock, A River, A Tree
Hosts to species long since departed,
Marked the mastodon.
The dinosaur, who left dry tokens
Of their sojourn here
On our planet floor,
Any broad alarm of their hastening doom
Is lost in the gloom of dust and ages.

But today, the Rock cries out to us, clearly, forcefully,
Come, you may stand upon my
Back and face your distant destiny,
But seek no haven in my shadow.

I will give you no more hiding place down here.

You, created only a little lower than
The angels, have crouched too long in
The bruising darkness,
Have lain too long
Face down in ignorance.

Your mouths spilling words
Armed for slaughter.

The Rock cries out today, you may stand on me,
But do not hide your face.

Across the wall of the world,
A River sings a beautiful song,
Come rest here by my side.

Each of you a bordered country,
Delicate and strangely made proud,
Yet thrusting perpetually under siege.

Your armed struggles for profit
Have left collars of waste upon
My shore, currents of debris upon my breast.

Yet, today I call you to my riverside,
If you will study war no more. Come,

Clad in peace and I will sing the songs
The Creator gave to me when I and the
Tree and the stone were one.

Before cynicism was a bloody sear across your
Brow and when you yet knew you still
Knew nothing.

The River sings and sings on.

There is a true yearning to respond to
The singing River and the wise Rock.

So say the Asian, the Hispanic, the Jew
The African and Native American, the Sioux,
The Catholic, the Muslim, the French, the Greek
The Irish, the Rabbi, the Priest, the Sheikh,
The Gay, the Straight, the Preacher,
The privileged, the homeless, the Teacher.
They hear. They all hear
The speaking of the Tree.

Today, the first and last of every Tree
Speaks to humankind. Come to me, here beside the River.

Plant yourself beside me, here beside the River.

Each of you, descendant of some passed
On traveller, has been paid for.

You, who gave me my first name, you
Pawnee, Apache and Seneca, you
Cherokee Nation, who rested with me, then
Forced on bloody feet, left me to the employment of
Other seekers- desperate for gain,
Starving for gold.

You, the Turk, the Swede, the German, the Scot...
You the Ashanti, the Yoruba, the Kru, bought
Sold, stolen, arriving on a nightmare
Praying for a dream.

Here, root yourselves beside me.

I am the Tree planted by the River,
Which will not be moved.

I, the Rock, I the River, I the Tree
I am yours- your Passages have been paid.

Lift up your faces, you have a piercing need
For this bright morning dawning for you.

History, despite its wrenching pain,
Cannot be unlived, and if faced
With courage, need not be lived again.

Lift up your eyes upon
The day breaking for you.

Give birth again
To the dream.

Women, children, men,
Take it into the palms of your hands.

Mold it into the shape of your most
Private need. Sculpt it into
The image of your most public self.
Lift up your hearts
Each new hour holds new chances
For new beginnings.

Do not be wedded forever
To fear, yoked eternally
To brutishness.

The horizon leans forward,
Offering you space to place new steps of change.
Here, on the pulse of this fine day
You may have the courage
To look up and out upon me, the
Rock, the River, the Tree, your country.

No less to Midas than the mendicant.

No less to you now than the mastodon then.

Here on the pulse of this new day
You may have the grace to look up and out
And into your sister's eyes, into
Your brother's face, your country
And say simply
Very simply
With hope
Good morning.

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 7: Tired but Satisfied

It has been a long day.  I still haven't recovered from Independence Day weekend.  Lost quite a bit of sleep on Friday and Saturday.  Up late, up early.  I am totally ready to go to bed, but I'm going to have a piece of pizza first.

Even though I'm really beat, I'm satisfied with what I accomplished this evening.  Submitting poetry for publication is an act of hope.  Until I receive my rejections, I have something to look forward to and dream about.  That's the best part of the process.

Saint Marty chooses hope tonight.

Hope is relative, I guess