July 21: Ultimate Question, Chasing Dreams, Fishing

And now a few words from the stupendous super computer, Deep Thought . . .

"Might I make an observation at this point?" inquired Deep Thought.

"We'll go on strike!" yelled Vroomfondel.

"That's right!" agreed Majikthise.  "You'll have a national Philosophers' strike on your hands!"

The hum level in the room suddenly increased as several ancillary bass driver units, mounted in sedately carved and varnished cabinet speakers around the room, cut in to give Deep Thought's voice a little more power.

"All I wanted to say," bellowed the computer, "is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything."  He paused and satisfied himself that he now had everyone's attention, before continuing more quietly.  "But the program will take me a little while to run."

Fook glanced impatiently at his watch.  

"How long?" he said.

"Seven and a half million years," said Deep Thought.

Lunkwill and Fook blinked at each other.

"Seven and a half million years!" they cried in chorus.

Seven and a half million years for a stupendous super computer to figure out the meaning of life, the universe, and everything.  I don't feel quite so bad that I'm still working out what I'm going to be when I grow up.

When I was my son's age, I was sure I was going to be a full-time writer/movie director.  That was my dream.  I read biographies of famous writers all the time.  Robert Frost,  Charles Dickens.  Ernest Hemingway.  William Faulkner.  I studied the work of directors I admires.  Steven Spielberg.  George Lucas, Alfred Hitchcock, John Ford.  I was committed to this dream.

Of course, as so often happens with dreams, reality intervened.  I graduated from high school and found myself majoring in computer science at college, while stealthily stacking up credits from the English Department.  Eventually, I realized that I didn't want to spend my life communicating with computers (even if they were stupendous super computers).  Then I went to graduate school and stacked up some advanced degrees in English and creative writing.

And here I sit now.  Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Contingent English professor at a university.  Full-time medical office worker.  I am NOT Robert Frost or Alfred Hitchcock.  I can barely cobble together enough time to write a little, 500-word blog post every day.  I struggle with depression on a daily basis.  My wife struggles with mental illness and sexual addiction.

Hardly the happily ever after I envisioned as a ten-year-old boy armed with a library card and a boatload of dreams. 

I miss those times when anything seemed possible.  I know that I will probably never direct a Hollywood film like Jaws or Vertigo.  I'm not going to be the next Stephen King or J. K. Rowling.  I still have those writerly aspirations, but they are mostly relegated to daydreams driving home from work.  That's right.  I have become Walter Mitty, imagining myself as a world-famous writer, winning the Nobel Prize for Literature, owning a mansion with a swimming pool and library. 

Last night, my kids went fishing.  They landed a couple big ones.  My kids are full of dreams right now.  The future is a wide sea, and they have the fishing rods in their hands.  I hope they never give up or settle.  I hope they keep chasing their dreams until they come true, whatever they are.  I hope they continue to land the big ones.

Saint Marty will be happy if he lands a nap sometime this week. 

June 29: Saint Peter, Fishing, Dinner

One of today's feast saints is Peter, disciple and one of the most flawed men in the whole Jesus narrative.  I mean, he argues with Jesus, denies Jesus (three times!), and hides in fear after Jesus' crucifixion.  Peter's faith was far from perfect, that's for sure.  He's a man after my own heart.  I mean, if Peter can be that screwed up and still become the first leader of the Christian church, there's still hope for me.

I was pretty hard on myself last night.  If you couldn't tell from yesterday's post, I wasn't in the greatest of moods.  It didn't change when I got home.  I just couldn't shake a sense of...I guess the best word I can come up with is "failure."  I felt like a failure last night.  Some members of my Spiritual Autobiography Workshop didn't show up, so I postponed the session.  Then I started going through a collection of my newest poems, nearly 100 pages of verse.  I didn't like what I read.  I found a couple of typos.  Each poem struck me as trivial, stupid, repetitive.  I finally had to put the binder away.

My daughter helps me

My daughter called me from the trailer park last night.  She was homesick.  At 9:30 p.m., I drove out and picked her up.  When she saw me at the door of the trailer, she wrapped her arms and legs around me, and I carried her to my car.  When she got home, she took a shower, and then we watched an episode of M*A*S*H while she ate a bowl of ravioli.  After she was done eating, she sat next to me, holding my hand.  My daughter made me feel loved, cherished, important at the end of a day where I felt small, sad, and a little useless.

Part of the work in the Spiritual Autobiography Workshop is to develop your ability of "noticing."  At our first meeting, I talked with the group members about paying attention, recognizing the evidence of God in your life.  It's a practice that not very many people exercise, including myself.  However, last night, I exercised it.

I was defeated and depressed.  I couldn't even muster enough self-confidence to appreciate my own poetry.  I was just sitting on the coach, wallowing.  Then my daughter called.  Within an hour of being with her. of taking care of her needs, I was feeling God in my life.  My daughter changed my attitude, made me sense God's love.  By loving her, I knew I was loved.

I know that sounds corny, but I've held on to that feeling today.  Of course, by about mid-morning, I started getting phone calls from home.  My daughter and son were screaming at each other.  My daughter somehow managed to completely soak her only pair of shoes.  My daughter had an argument with her best friends.  My daughter wasn't invited to go fishing with her cousins.  Typical ten-year-old kid stuff.  Yet, even those phone calls let me know that I was important, loved.

Tonight, I am meeting my family for dinner.  My wife will be there with my son and daughter.  I will hear the horror stories of the day.  I will hear how my daughter missed using her new tackle box and fishing lures.  (Peter is also the patron saint of fishermen.)  Listening to all the chaos and drama, I will be happy.

Because Saint Marty will be noticing.