February 9: Better with the Sun, Short and Sweet, Sunrise

Santiago meets the morning sun . . . 

He tried to increase the tension, but the line had been taut up to the very edge of the breaking point since he had hooked the fish and he felt the harshness as he leaned back to pull and knew he could put no more strain on it. I must not jerk it ever, he thought. Each jerk widens the cut the hook makes and then when he does jump he might throw it. Anyway I feel better with the sun and for once I do not have to look into it.

This post will be short and sweet.  Today, I went back to work after a couple days off following my sister's funeral.  I have to admit that I wasn't looking forward to this return.  When the alarm went off, I felt as if I could have slept for another two or three or twelve hours.  Remember, my main preoccupation since my sister's funeral on Saturday has been napping.

Yet, as I drove into the sunrise this morning, I sort of felt like Santiago after a long night on the boat.  I enjoyed watching color leach into the clouds.   When I got to the library, I enjoyed catching up with my office mate.  Ditto for teaching in the afternoon.  Then, beers and pizza and cake with one of my best friends from the Upper Peninsula Children's Museum.  And after that, I hosted a virtual reading given by one of my oldest and dearest writing buddies.  

It was a good easing back into the regular stream of life.  Sure, there is still tension on the fishing line of my life.  A big, dark fish pulling my little dinghy along.  But, the sun was on my back, and I was surrounded by good people who care a great deal about me.

Saint Marty can't ask for much better than that.

October 7: Silent Film, Richly Blessed, This Little Light

The guards drew together instinctively, rolled their eyes.  They experimented with one expression and then another, said nothing, though their mouths were often open.  They looked like a silent film of a barbershop quartet.

"So long forever," they might have been singing, "old fellows and pals; So long forever, old sweethearts and pals--God bless 'em--"

Have to apologize for my absence last night.  I was not bunkered down, waiting out a fire-storm.  I was at the monthly poetry workshop I lead at the Joy Center in my home town of Ishpeming, right in the heart of the Upper Peninsula.  There were lots of old pals and colleagues there.  We wrote about ghosts, watched one of my favorite haunted house movies (The Changeling), and ate.

You know, I have realized this Saint Marty's Day that I have been richly blessed this year.  So much good has happened in my life.  If I were in a silent film of a barbershop quartet, the subtitles would probably be the lyrics of "This Little Light of Mine" or Pharrell Williams' "Happy."

I know I'm sounding very Up With People, but I have been very lucky this year, connecting with new friends and reconnecting with old ones.  That has been one of the greatest blessings of being chosen Poet Laureate.  I get to go places, read poems, talk about poetry, and meet wonderful people all over the Upper Peninsula.

Of course, there are still troubling things happening in the world--locally, nationally, and internationally.  So much division and strife.  These last couple days, there was a registered nurses' strike at the local hospital.  Good people, walking a picket line to make the community a better, safer, healthier place.  And, of course, there was Las Vegas this week.  Donald Trump.  Brexit.  North Korea.  There are plenty of things to worry about, and I'm not ignoring them.

However, for today, I'm going to watch my silent film, read the subtitles, hum a song.

Sing with Saint Marty:  "This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine..."

October 7: Nurses' Strike, Philip Levine, "What Work Is"

Over the last few days, the registered nurses at a local hospital went on a two-day strike. 

Through five months of negotiations, the administration only spoke to the nurses through lawyers.  The hospital is owned by a very large, national healthcare system that seems to have little concern for its reputation within the community.  This healthcare system spent over a million dollars bringing in travel nurses, housing and feeding those nurses, and changing all the security locks within the hospital. 

Many of my best friends are registered nurses who simply want to take care of their neighbors and friends safely.  Instead, they are being forced to work 16, 17, and 18-hour shifts because of inadequate staffing.  They are good people.  Tired people.  People who care about caring.

This morning, those people tried to return to work at the end of the two-day strike.  They found the entrances locked to them. 

Saint Marty supports the nurses of the hospital because those nurses care for his family and friends.

What Work Is

by:  Philip Levine

We stand in the rain in a long line

waiting at Ford Highland Park. For work.

You know what work is—if you’re

old enough to read this you know what

work is, although you may not do it.

Forget you. This is about waiting,

shifting from one foot to another.

Feeling the light rain falling like mist

into your hair, blurring your vision

until you think you see your own brother

ahead of you, maybe ten places.

You rub your glasses with your fingers,

and of course it’s someone else’s brother,

narrower across the shoulders than

yours but with the same sad slouch, the grin

that does not hide the stubbornness,

the sad refusal to give in to

rain, to the hours of wasted waiting,

to the knowledge that somewhere ahead

a man is waiting who will say, “No,

we’re not hiring today,” for any

reason he wants. You love your brother,

now suddenly you can hardly stand

the love flooding you for your brother,

who’s not beside you or behind or

ahead because he’s home trying to   

sleep off a miserable night shift

at Cadillac so he can get up

before noon to study his German.

Works eight hours a night so he can sing

Wagner, the opera you hate most,

the worst music ever invented.

How long has it been since you told him

you loved him, held his wide shoulders,

opened your eyes wide and said those words,

and maybe kissed his cheek? You’ve never

done something so simple, so obvious,

not because you’re too young or too dumb,

not because you’re jealous or even mean

or incapable of crying in

the presence of another man, no,   

just because you don’t know what work is.

November 8: Light and Darkness, Jennifer Reeser, "Elizabeth Leaves a Letter for Dr. Frankenstein"

I am tired.  Tomorrow is coming, regardless of who wins the presidential election.  The sun will rise, and, in a couple of weeks, the United States will celebrate Thanksgiving.  Then Christmas and New Year's.

I am not feeling really great about my country right now.  Or hopeful.  At a time when we are supposed to be focusing on light and love, I am seeing a whole lot of darkness.  I want to believe that all will be well.  I want to believe in charity and joy.  I do.

Saint Marty isn't giving up yet.  There are still good people in the world.  They just aren't in Ohio . . . or Texas . . . or Florida . . . You get the idea.

Elizabeth Leaves a Letter for Dr. Frankenstein

by:  Jennifer Reeser

Whether the clouds had abandoned Geneva that evening
no one can say now, but what I remember are roses
bruised at their edges, and china cups yellowed with age.
“I am too sick of interior vapors,” I told you,
“Find us a corner of sunlight, and hammer it down...
Tell me again I’m so lovely the insects won’t bite.”
Do you remember it, Victor? A time before pleasure
turned into sacrilege hungry to threaten the dead.
So many secrets you whispered -- but I, like a child
drawn to myself, hale and hearty to hear my own weeping,
bored by your ghost stories, left you both late and too soon.
Sunshine deserted or altered the tops of the grasses
subtly, with each changing breeze, as the shadows required --
dark, but not black, like my hair; and you claimed that each instant
some auburn-browed woman appeared, I re-entered your mind.
Later or sooner, our futures will enter it, too.
Now, though, it seems hope’s a difficult vision to conjure;
what you imagine of beauty so lodged in grim trivia
even the sentences spoken inside it are dark.
Mourning will fade, though, I know -- like your Ingolstadt nightmare.
Bells will resound. I will come to you. All will be well.

May 21: Vaporous Goodness, Yoga, Visions of Goodness

Once, when his son was only five or six and they were sitting on a beach by Lake Sebago, watching the water, Robert asked [Ives] what God looked like.  It was that time of day when the changing light and wind had made the water choppy and mysterious, when the silt had risen like clouds of dark milk from the lake bed to just below the surface.  In those moments, when Ives told Robert, "God is a spirit," he imagined Him as a vaporous  goodness inside people's being.

Much of Mr. Ives' Christmas concerns goodness inside people's being.  There is no real bad guy in the novel.  There are flawed people.  Ives' best friend physically assaults his own son, has an affair on his wife, and worries that his son is "a fairy."  Then there's the teenager who kills Ives' son.  For decades, Ives is tormented by his inability to forgive Danny Gomez.  Yet, Gomez repents, turns his life around, and for years tries to meet Ives to apologize for his stupid, violent act.  Eventually, Ives and Gomez meet, and Ives sees the goodness in Gomez's being.  Nobody is beyond redemption in Ives' world.  I think that's why I love the book so much.  It is laced with darkness and tragedy, but, in the end, it embraces a vision of a broken world populated by good people.

I went to a yoga class this evening at the gym at which I'm a member.  It's the first time I've sat in on the class.  I knew it wasn't going to be easy.  All those positions like Downward Dog and The Swan and Cradle the Elephant.  (OK, I made that last one up.)  You get the idea.  My body did things this evening that it hasn't done since my junior prom.  I barely walked five steps during the whole hour, but, by the time I was done, I was drenched in sweat.

At the end of the class, the lights were turned down in the class area, and one of the trainers did a relaxation exercise.  It was lovely.  We got down on our back on the floor, closed our eyes, and let all of the day's anxieties and pressures and problems sort of melt away.  By the time it was over, I really did feel more centered and positive.

Positivity does not come naturally to me.  I don't often focus on the goodness of people.  Generally, I distrust people.  Nobody really is completely good all the time.  That's an impossibility, unless you're Mother Teresa or the Dalai Lama.  So, I'm always on my guard.  I try to be positive and happy at work, but I've had cranky patients call me fat and bald.  I try to be supportive of my coworkers and colleagues, but I've suffered tremendous bouts of jealousy when somebody gets a literary award or a promotion.

Goodness is all around me.  I know that.  It might be vaporous, or it might be a sense of well-being after a yoga class that kicks my ass.  I wish I could remain in that state a little longer.  But life happens.

For now, though, Saint Marty is one with goodness.  Namaste.

I'm going to have one sore namaste tomorrow

July 15: A Whole Noodle, Finding Blessings, Giving Thanks

Wilbur ate heartily.  He planned to leave half a noodle and a few drops of milk for Templeton.  Then he remembered that the rat had been useful in saving Charlotte's life, and that Charlotte was trying to save his life.  So he left a whole noodle, instead of a half.

Wilbur struggles with his feelings for Templeton.  After all, the rat doesn't do a whole lot to make himself likeable.  He steals food and prowls the garbage dump.  Templeton is a rat, and E. B. White didn't have a great fondness for rats.  But White makes Templeton a hero.  Wilbur knows that Charlotte would have ended up in Avery's bug collection if it hadn't been for Templeton's buried rotten goose egg.  The little pig recognizes that the rat has been a blessing, and Wilbur gives thanks.

Sometimes it's hard to recognize blessings, especially if you're a natural pessimist, like me.  Right now, I could complain that I'm tired, that I don't have enough money to pay for my daughter's braces, that I just received another shut-off notice from a utility company.  I'm great at complaining, because modern society is geared toward making people feel inadequate.  I'm not thin enough.  My house isn't big enough.  My car isn't new enough.  I don't look like Brad Pitt or George Clooney.

Yet, blessings are all around me.  I have a job.  I work with good people.  My kids are healthy.  My car is in good shape.  My house doesn't have mice.  There's food in my refrigerator.  I sometimes get to do things I love--read my poetry, play in a band, have friends over to talk about books.  Eat an occasional brownie.  So, I really am blessed.  I have enough.  Just enough.

My prayer focus this week is giving thanks, every day.  Thanks for the good things and the bad things, because bad things (like rats) can sometimes be the catalyst of grace.

Repeat after Saint Marty:  "I am blessed.  I am blessed.  I am blessed."

A blessing for a disease-carrying, filthy rodent.