January 16: "On Meditating, Sort Of," Failures, Dreams

Mary Oliver meditates on meditation . . . 

On Meditating, Sort Of

by:  Mary Oliver

Meditation, so I've heard, is best accomplished

if you entertain a certain strict posture.

Frankly, I prefer just to lounge under a tree.

So why should I think I could ever be successful?

Some days I fall asleep, or land in that

even better place--half-asleep--where the world,

spring, summer, autumn, winter--

flies through my mind in its

hardy ascent and its uncompromising descent.

So I just lie like that, while distance and time

reveal their true attitudes:  they never

heard of me, and never will, or ever need to.

Of course I wake up finally

thinking, how wonderful to be who I am,

made out of earth and water,

my own thoughts, my own fingerprints--

all that glorious, temporary stuff.

I think that poetry is my meditation.  And maybe writing these blog posts.  Anything that takes me out of myself and my own obsessive mind, for even a little while, is meditation.  Of course, there's always the return to myself, as Oliver says the "earth and water" of who I am.  Yet, it's good to be able to expand a little.  To think of things other than my own insignificant problems and insecurities.

Today, I want to meditate on a person who's been a part of my life for over 30 years.  She's been by my side during some of the most difficult times of my life, and she has been the root of some of the most difficult times of my life, as well.  She knows me better than any other person on this planet.  I think she would say the same about me.

I don't often write about my relationship with this person straightforwardly.  Our life together has been, at times, tumultuous, and the difficulties we've experienced have been incredibly personal and painful.  Yet, through all of it, I've never lost faith in her love for me, and I try to demonstrate on a daily basis my love for her (sometimes no that successfully, I'm afraid).

Believe it or not, living with a poet is not the easiest thing in the world.  I can only speak for myself, of course, but I know that I can be withdrawn, sad, surly, emotional, and a little selfish at times.  I don't think that's unusual for a poet.  To be any kind of artist requires, I think, a certain degree of self-centeredness.

The fact that the person I'm writing about today has stuck with me this long is kind of amazing.  Yet, in the life we have carved out for ourselves, she has faced tremendous struggles, as well, with mental illness, self esteem, sexual addiction, and self harm.  She bears the scars of these struggles.  Literally.  I know that each day she gets out of bed is a victory for her.  Each night she climbs into bed, a battle with herself that she has won.

We take the people closest to us for granted.  Because we trust that, no matter what shit storms we create, those people will always be there to pick up the pieces.  I am guilty of this.  Every day, I commit first degree taking for granted.  It's not something of which I'm proud.  

So, today, I want to pay close attention.  Meditate on this person.  I want her to know that I think she's amazingly brave and beautiful.  That I see her trying to be the best she can be, each and every day.  That's all that anybody can ever do.  

Today is Martin Luther King Day, and I think that Dr. King would agree with me on this point.  We all need to try to be the best versions of ourselves, even if we sometimes fail abysmally.   Because, each time we fail, we're one step closer to our dreams.  We are all wonderfully created--out of earth, water, thoughts, fingerprints, and failures.  All that glorious, temporary stuff.

Saint Marty is proud to have a life partner who, no matter how many times she stumbles, never gives up on her dreams.

February 2: Drink Beer, Four Years Ago, Last Poet Laureate Thoughts

 Merton gets metaphysical, without getting physical . . . 

We could have made even more of it than we did. I think we all had a sort of a feeling that we could be hermits up on that hill: but the trouble was that none of us really knew how and I, who was in a way the most articulate, as well as the least sensible, whenever it came to matters of conduct and decisions concerning good and evil, still had the strongest urges to go down into the valleys and see what was on at the movies, or play the slot machines, or drink beer. 

The best we could do about expressing our obscure desire of living lives that were separate and in some sense dedicated was to allow our beards to grow, which they did more or less slowly. Lax ended up with the best. It was black and solemn. Rice’s was rather ragged, but it looked fine when he grinned, because he had big teeth and slanting eyes like an Eskimo. I myself entertained the secret belief that I looked like Shakespeare. I was still wearing the thing when I went to New York, later, and I took it to the World’s Fair. I was standing thus bearded in a side-show that had something to do with Africa, and a young man who was not an explorer, but wore a white explorer’s outfit, took me to be indeed an explorer because of the beard. Or at least he plied me with some knowing questions about central Africa. I think we were both trading on our knowledge of that wonderful movie, Dark Rapture. 

The cottage would have made a good hermitage, and I now wish we had more exploited its possibilities. Lax was the only one who had the sense to get up, sometimes, very early in the morning, about sunrise. For my own part I usually slept until about eight, then fried a couple of eggs and swallowed a bowl of cornflakes and started at once to write. The closest I got to using the solitude for meditation was when I spent a few afternoons under a little peach tree in the high grass of what might have been a lawn, and read, at last, St. Augustine’s Confessions and parts of St. Thomas’s Summa. 

I had accepted Lax’s principle about sanctity being possible to those who willed it, and filed it away in my head with all my other principles—and still I did nothing about using it. What was this curse that was on me, that I could not translate belief into action, and my knowledge of God into a concrete campaign for possessing Him, Whom I knew to be the only true good? No, I was content to speculate and argue: and I think the reason is that my knowledge was too much a mere matter of natural and intellectual consideration. After all, Aristotle placed the highest natural felicity in the knowledge of God which was accessible to him, a pagan: and I think he was probably right. The heights that can be reached by metaphysical speculation introduce a man into a realm of pure and subtle pleasure that offers the most nearly permanent delights you can find in the natural order. When you go one step higher, and base your speculations on premises that are revealed, the pleasure gets deeper and more perfect still. Yet even though the subject matter may be the mysteries of the Christian faith, the manner of contemplating them, speculative and impersonal, may still not transcend the natural plane, at least as far as practical consequences go. 

Merton knows how to attain sanctity.  His friend, Lax, gave him that knowledge.  All he has to do is desire sanctity.  Really want it, deep down in his soul.  Then, he needs to act on that desire.  It's sort of like having a pair of warm socks in your drawer.  If you don't put those socks on your feet and walk around in them, they are simply the idea of warmth.  Not warmth itself.

I didn't want these first days of February to sneak by without a few words.  I'm tired.  Really tired.  I spent most of today in my library office, planning events and concerts, reading the poetry of Natasha Trethewey.  Nothing I did today will feed hungry people or provide shelter for the homeless.  Yet, I do believe that art is important.  Can change the world.  If it is put into action.

Around four years ago, I was named Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Two years ago, I was chosen to serve a second term.  It has been one of the greatest joys of my life.  I have met some wonderful people.  Gained some amazing friends.  Enjoyed some wonderful artistic opportunities.  

I've taught classes to kindergartners, middle schoolers, high school seniors.  Led nature-writing workshops and organized poetry readings.  I've raised a thousands dollars for homeless shelters and food pantries.  Became a regular performer on a radio variety show.  All because of poetry.  

I would even venture to say that the reason I have my new programming position at the library is because of poetry.  Being a part of a thriving artistic community has made a huge difference in my life.  It has sustained me.

These last four years have not been without challenges.  In fact, I would say that I have faced some of the most difficult times of my life these last four years, as well.  I've lost my sister and father.  Had close family members battling addiction and mental illness.  Faced some really impossible financial issues due to addiction and mental illness.

Through it all, however, I have been blessed, as well.  People have blinded me with goodness and generosity.  I don't think I've deserved all this grace.  In fact, I know that I haven't deserved it.  But you don't earn grace.  Grace is something that just appears in your life without warning, filling you with gratitude and relief.

Tonight is my last night as Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Tomorrow morning, I'm scheduled to go into a TV studio, talk about my work as Poet Laureate, and then learn who will succeed me in the position.  Some wonderful people are in the running this selection cycle.  Any one of them will make wonderful laureates.

I find myself reflecting right now.  Thinking of all the things I could have done better as Poet Laureate.  Should have done better.  Causes I should have championed.  Issues I should have addressed.  Work I should have done.  I was given a rare opportunity as a poet to make a difference in the world.  I tried not to squander that opportunity.  If I succeeded, it was because of the people who answered the phone when I called for help.  If I failed, it was because I ignored that same phone when God called me.

It has been my privilege to be Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula these last four years.  I take responsibility for the mistakes I've made.  And I give thanks for the good I've been able to accomplish with the help of all of my beautiful poet friends.  Know this:  the universe is a better place because of you.

Saint Marty loves you all.