October 29: "Watercoloring," Notice Beautiful Things, My Mother

As a poet, I sort of train my senses to notice beautiful things that other people might not even give a second glance/smell/taste/feel.  A rainbow slick of oil in a mud puddle.  The breath of autumn yellowing a maple tree.  The sound of waves from a lake I can't see.  The sweet smoke of burning pine branches.  

Most artists (whether poet, sculptor, photographer, dancer, or whatever) are close observers.  

Billy Collins tries his hand at painting . . . 

Watercoloring

by: Billy Collins

The sky began to tilt,

a shift of light toward the higher clouds,

so I seized my brush

and dipped my little cup in the stream,

but once I streaked the paper gray

with a hint of green,

water began to slide down the page,

rivulets looking for a river.

And again, I was too late--

then the sky made another turn,

this time as if to face a mirror

help in the outstretched arm of a god.

These last few days, I have been a little . . . distracted.  It's simply felt like my brain has been about five steps behind me since Saturday or Sunday.  Of course, last weekend was anything but normal, so I thought that may have something to do with it, too.

Then I realized tonight that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death.  October 28, 2021.  Three years.  It seems like forever ago, and it seems like just yesterday.  It's strange how I am so observant of a pile of leaves rattling around in the wind or a ginger candy sitting on my tongue, but I completely forget such an important moment in my life.

When I told this story to a friend this evening, she told me to celebrate my mother in a special way.  So here goes . . .

Her name was Betty, and she loved black walnut cake and coconut clusters.

She made the best tapioca pudding in the world, and her spaghetti sauce was the stuff of legend.

Reading was one of her favorite pastimes, and she taught me to love books.

One of her favorite movies was On Golden Pond.

I've never seen anyone pray harder than my mom.  She always had a rosary in her hand, her lips moving silently.

She worked as an advocate for special needs children, giving help and guidance to parents trying to navigate the educational system.

When my sister, Sally, was dying, my mother sat holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's okay.  Don't be afraid.  It's okay.  I love you.  Don't be afraid."

She believed I could do and be anything. 

Join Saint Marty in raising his glass to honor his mother tonight.  There aren't enough words in the universe to describe her.

January 27: An Angel's Face, Prayer Life, Construction/Remodeling

I had not been seated very long ere a man of a certain venerable robustness entered; immediately as the storm-pelted door flew back upon admitting him, a quick regardful eyeing of him by all the congregation, sufficiently attested that this fine old man was the chaplain. Yes, it was the famous Father Mapple, so called by the whalemen, among whom he was a very great favorite. He had been a sailor and a harpooneer in his youth, but for many years past had dedicated his life to the ministry. At the time I now write of, Father Mapple was in the hardy winter of a healthy old age; that sort of old age which seems merging into a second flowering youth, for among all the fissures of his wrinkles, there shone certain mild gleams of a newly developing bloom- the spring verdure peeping forth even beneath February's snow. No one having previously heard his history, could for the first time behold Father Mapple without the utmost interest, because there were certain engrafted clerical peculiarities about him, imputable to that adventurous maritime life he had led. When he entered I observed that he carried no umbrella, and certainly had not come in his carriage, for his tarpaulin hat ran down with melting sleet, and his great pilot cloth jacket seemed almost to drag him to the floor with the weight of the water it had absorbed. However, hat and coat and overshoes were one by one removed, and hung up in a little space in an adjacent corner; when, arrayed in a decent suit, he quietly approached the pulpit.

Like most old fashioned pulpits, it was a very lofty one, and since a regular stairs to such a height would, by its long angle with the floor, seriously contract the already small area of the chapel, the architect, it seemed, had acted upon the hint of Father Mapple, and finished the pulpit without a stairs, substituting a perpendicular side ladder, like those used in mounting a ship from a boat at sea. The wife of a whaling captain had provided the chapel with a handsome pair of red worsted man-ropes for this ladder, which, being itself nicely headed, and stained with a mahogany color, the whole contrivance, considering what manner of chapel it was, seemed by no means in bad taste. Halting for an instant at the foot of the ladder, and with both hands grasping the ornamental knobs of the man-ropes, Father Mapple cast a look upwards, and then with a truly sailor-like but still reverential dexterity, hand over hand, mounted the steps as if ascending the main-top of his vessel.

The perpendicular parts of this side ladder, as is usually the case with swinging ones, were of cloth-covered rope, only the rounds were of wood, so that at every step there was a joint. At my first glimpse of the pulpit, it had not escaped me that however convenient for a ship, these joints in the present instance seemed unnecessary. For I was not prepared to see Father Mapple after gaining the height, slowly turn round, and stooping over the pulpit, deliberately drag up the ladder step by step, till the whole was deposited within, leaving him impregnable in his little Quebec.

I pondered some time without fully comprehending the reason for this. Father Mapple enjoyed such a wide reputation for sincerity and sanctity, that I could not suspect him of courting notoriety by any mere tricks of the stage. No, thought I, there must be some sober reason for this thing; furthermore, it must symbolize something unseen. Can it be, then, that by that act of physical isolation, he signifies his spiritual withdrawal for the time, from all outward worldly ties and connexions? Yes, for replenished with the meat and wine of the word, to the faithful man of God, this pulpit, I see, is a self-containing stronghold- a lofty Ehrenbreitstein, with a perennial well of water within the walls.
But the side ladder was not the only strange feature of the place, borrowed from the chaplain's former sea-farings. Between the marble cenotaphs on either hand of the pulpit, the wall which formed its back was adorned with a large painting representing a gallant ship beating against a terrible storm off a lee coast of black rocks and snowy breakers. But high above the flying scud and dark-rolling clouds, there floated a little isle of sunlight, from which beamed forth an angel's face; and this bright face shed a distant spot of radiance upon the ship's tossed deck, something like that silver plate now inserted into Victory's plank where Nelson fell. "Ah, noble ship," the angel seemed to say, "beat on, beat on, thou noble ship, and bear a hardy helm; for lo! the sun is breaking through; the clouds are rolling off- serenest azure is at hand."

Nor was the pulpit itself without a trace of the same sea-taste that had achieved the ladder and the picture. Its panelled front was in the likeness of a ship's bluff bows, and the Holy Bible rested on a projecting piece of scroll work, fashioned after a ship's fiddle-headed beak.

What could be more full of meaning?- for the pulpit is ever this earth's foremost part; all the rest comes in its rear; the pulpit leads the world. From thence it is the storm of God's quick wrath is first descried, and the bow must bear the earliest brunt. From thence it is the God of breezes fair or foul is first invoked for favorable winds. Yes, the world's a ship on its passage out, and not a voyage complete; and the pulpit is its prow.

You will forgive me if I focus on one specific image from this little chapter--the angel's face in the isle of sunlight above the storm-tossed ship.  It's a Thomas Kinkade-ish kind of painting.  Bright light in a storm.  Darkness suffused with grace.

It has been a long week, will be a longer weekend.  I have much to accomplish this Saturday and Sunday.  My house, which is in a state of construction, needs to be put in some kind of order for Book Club tomorrow night.  Straightening, sweeping, mopping, and vacuuming.  Then, we also have to empty out our attic by Monday, because the construction/remodeling is switching upstairs.  Then I have writing and school stuff to get done.  Lesson plans.  Quizzes to grade.  Poems to assemble for a radio program.  And, to top it all off, I have to put together my annual evaluation materials for the university.

If you are one of my Constant Readers, you will know that I am sort of like that ship in the storm right now.  Feeling a little tossed about.  Rough seas this weekend and next week.  I try not to panic in times like this, but I don't always succeed in controlling my sense of overwhelmingness.  Yes, I made up that word.  It's the best way to describe what I'm feeling at the moment.

I used to pray a lot.  Had a devotional that I read daily.  A series of prayers that I recited.  My spiritual life was pretty good.  I still go to church every weekend, on Saturday AND Sunday.  Play the pipe organ.  Sing in the choir.  However, a while ago, for some reason, I fell out of the habit of prayer.

When I did pray daily, I felt more centered.  As a Catholic, I grew up saying the rosary daily with my family.  (Actually, I was forced to do that by my parents.)  For those of you unfamiliar with the rosary, it's like meditation.  You say certain prayers, contemplate mysteries, and use "prayer beads" to do this.  It's a practice that's calming, grounding.  It's Catholic yoga.

Basically, when I'm in the middle of a hurricane, I have always found harbor in prayer and meditation.  And I need to get back to that practice.  Especially this weekend and week.

Saint Marty is thankful for grace in the middle of chaos.