September 24: "The Four Moon Planet," Too Much of a Good Thing, Sunset

Is there ever too much of a good thing?

Living in the United States has been difficult these past eight years.  Ever since a certain man was elected President of the United States in 2016, it seems as though people have been given a free license to spew hate and more hate.  It's been difficult seeing friends and family drinking the Trump Kool-Aid and goose-stepping behind him.

Of course, hatred never goes gently into that good night.  It screams, bites, lies, argues, and screams some more.  And then it runs for President of the United States again.  Love, understanding, compassion, empathy, and beauty are as rare as albino deer or solar eclipses.

Billy Collins shares some beauty . . . 

The Four Moon Planet

by: Billy Collins

I have envied the four-moon planet.
-The Notebooks of Robert Frost


Maybe he was thinking of the song
“What a Little Moonlight Can do”
and became curious about
what a lot of moonlight might be capable of.

But wouldn’t this be too much of a good thing?
and what if you couldn’t tell them apart
and they always rose together
like pale quadruplets entering a living room?

Yes, there would be enough light
to read a book or write a letter at midnight,
and if you drank enough tequila
you might see eight of them roving brightly above.

But think of the two lovers on a beach,
his arm around her bare shoulder,
thrilled at how close they were feeling tonight
while he gazed at one moon and she another.

I want to focus on something beautiful tonight, because there's enough cruelty and hate in the world at the moment.

It is a picture from my drive home, the last remnants of sunlight slowly leeching out of the heavens.  Dark clouds were piled up above me, and, as I watched, the gold and orange faded from the sky like an old photograph.  But, for a few brilliant minutes, beauty was center stage, and I felt like everything is going to be alright.  

I asked at the beginning of this post if there can ever be too much of a good thing.  Too much hope.  Or too much love.  Or too many beautiful sunsets.  

Saint Marty's unequivocal answer to that question:  no.    

January 2: "Highway," Inner Hermit, Hitchhiking

Billy Collins hitchhikes . . .

Highway

by:  Billy Collins

Hitchhiking alone,

I notice an ant

walking in the opposite direction.

I don't know if Collins ever went hitchhiking.  Of course, metaphorically speaking, everyone is on the road to somewhere.  As a poet, Collins certainly understands the need to move from one place to another--from the first word to the last word in a poem, for example.  I've said it before in previous posts, and I'll say it one more time:  change is inevitable.  Nothing stays the same, no matter how much you crave the status quo.

The other part of this poem equation is whether you hitchhike alone or with a companion.  I enjoy being left to my own devices.  However, human beings are social animals.  We all need a certain amount of interaction, even if it's with an ant walking away from you down a highway.  

Today, I spent a lot of time by myself.  I'm on vacation right now from all of my occupations.  For the next seven or so days, I am going to be indulging my inner hermit.  I'm not able to do this very often, as most of my jobs require a great deal of public interaction.  And I enjoy this interaction.  But I truly am an introvert at heart, so it takes a great deal of energy on my part to be in social situations.  At the end of most days, my peopling skills have been pretty much tapped out, and I need to recharge.

That's why I always take this first week of January off.  There's very little I'm doing for the next seven days that requires me to exercise my peopling skills.  I can stay at home, walk my dog, stream movies, read a book, write, and nap.  In fact, I've just listed all of my plans for the coming week.  (WARNING:  If you send me a text this week, it may take a while for me to respond.  If you call me, I probably won't answer.  And if you invite me to any kind of social gathering, I will politely decline.)

Think of me as that ant walking in the opposite direction, trying to escape human contact.

Saint Marty is now going to hitchhike to his couch, turn on a movie I've watched a hundred times before, and let the sun set outside his window.  A-L-O-N-E.

November 29: "On Winter's Margin," Abundance and Starvation, Sunset

Mary Oliver is the prince of crumbs . . .

On Winter's Margin

by:  Mary Oliver

On winter's margin, see the small birds now

With half-forged memories come flocking home

To gardens famous for their charity.

The green globe's broken; vines like tangled veins

Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.

With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs;

By time snow's down, the birds amassed will sing

Like children for their sire to walk abroad!

But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk

Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines;

And what I dream of are the patient deer

Who stand on legs like reeds and drink the wind;--

They are what saves the world:  who choose to grow

Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.

Winter's margin--that is where I find myself right now.  Oliver, too.  For her, the admission price to walk through the entrance to the silent wood is a half loaf of bread to share with the birds amassed in the snow.  The birds sing for their feast while the solitary hawk circles above and deer lap up the currents of cold air.  Winter's margin is both abundance and starvation.

At this time of the rolling year, as Dickens would say, it's easy to focus on the darkness that is slowly chewing down the day.  The winter solstice is fast approaching, and soon light will be as precious and scarce as honeycomb.  For many, this squalor of winter brings on times of struggle.  Long days of exhaustion and hunger.

The holidays used to bring me only joy and light.  I would drive around, gawking at the neighborhoods festooned with glowing decorations.  On All Saints' Day, I would unpack my Christmas tree, put a little Bing Crosby or Perry Como on the turntable, and go to town.  By the time Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas! aired, I was in full Whoville mode.  

Nowadays, I'm a little more like Charlie Brownish, in need of a nickel therapy session.  I still love the trappings of the season, but, more and more, exhaustion is my dominant state of being in December.  During the height of the pandemic, with churches closed, retailors severely regulated, and holiday gatherings all but illegal, I actually felt the peace on Earth the angels sing about in the Biblical nativity narrative.  That December 25, at home with my kids and wife, was one of the best of my whole adult life.

As with most periods of peace, though, it didn't last long.  The next year, from Black Friday onward, the Christmas crush was in full swing.  Concerts.  Plays.  Church services.  Movies.  Sales.  Cookie exchanges.  It all came roaring back, as if we hadn't learned anything from the previous holiday season.  We went from simple as hay to harried as squirrels.

And the darkness and exhaustion returned for me.

On my way home this evening, I was feeling particularly spent.  This whole week has been a series of close encounters with individuals and groups frenzied with Christmas needs and wants.  Even though it was only Wednesday, and not even December yet, I was ready for a long winter's nap.  

And then the sky exploded with light.  Gold and orange fire burned the clouds.  I stood outside.  In wonder.  In awe.  It reminded me that the universe is always filled with beauty and peace.  That yuletide gifts are everywhere, and darkness never gets the final word.  Ever.

Saint Marty feasted on the abundance of winter's margin tonight.

September 15: "The Hermit Crab," Stressful Week, What Will Be

Mary Oliver on a walk along a beach . . . 

The Hermit Crab

by:  Mary Oliver

Once I looked inside

     the darkness

          of a shell folded like a pastry,

               and there was a fancy face--

or almost a face--

     it turned away

          and frisked up its brawny forearms

               so quickly

against the light

     and my looking in

          I scarcely had time to see it,

               gleaming

under the pure white roof

     of old calcium.

          When I set it down, it hurried

               along the tideline

of the sea,

     which was slashing along as usual,

          shouting and hissing

               toward the future,

turning its back

     with every tide on the past,

          leaving the shore littered

               every morning

with more ornaments of death--

     what a pearly rubble

          from which to choose a house

               like a white flower--

and what a rebellion

     to leap into it

          and hold on,

               connecting everything,

the past to the future--

     which is of course the miracle--

          which is the only argument there is

               against the sea.

To live somewhere a long time is an act of desperation and hope, especially a place that defies hospitality sometimes.

That's what the hermit crab does in this poem.  As Oliver peers into the front window of the hermit crab's shell, she sees a creature that is both past and future. defying the tides and wrack and ruin of the sea.  It crawls into an ornament of death and scuttles away, carrying on its back what was into what is and what will be.

It has been a very long and stressful week.  When I woke up this past Monday morning, I had no idea that, five days later, a brand new car would be sitting in my driveway.  Of course, I'm enjoying all the bells and whistles of this vehicle.  Touch screen.  Backup cameras.  Lane departure warnings.  And that new car smell.  It's the same make and model as the car I drove to work five days ago, so it's not like I've traded up for bigger and better.  My foot is still firmly planted in the past as I move through the present into the future.

What was into what is and will be.

I'm not a person who deals with change easily, as most of my faithful disciples know.  I'm a creature of habit, enjoying routine and predictability.  Except for around four years in Kalamazoo, I've lived the majority of my adult life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  In that time, I've worked in healthcare for over twenty years, and I've been teaching at the local university for going on thirty years (through six English Department Heads and seven university presidents).  Three years ago, I started a new career at a library, and I have no plans of movin' on up any time soon (cue The Jeffersons theme song).

The hermit crab is an introvert.  Tries to avoid Oliver's prying stare.  Leave me alone, it seems to say as it retreats further into the pearly recesses of its chosen home.  Yes, the sea is constantly revising itself and its shoreline.  From day to day, nothing remains exactly the same.  Yet, the hermit crab thrives in this ever-changing environment, stubbornly surviving.  

My life has sort of been the same--an act of stubborn survival.  I've clung to my marriage and family like the hermit crab clings to its pastry shell, through winter and summer, hurricane and nor'easter.  There have been times when I've been battered by well-intentioned advice about what I should or shouldn't do, from divorce to parenting to new car purchases.  Some of my choices have confounded my loved ones.  And that's okay.  Sometimes the only argument against the sea is just to hang on and wait out the waves and winds and tides.

I do it for moments like tonight.  After picking my son up in my new car and driving him home, I stood outside and wondered at the blaze of sunset in the sky.  In the distance, I could hear the high school marching band playing at the football field, followed by the muted roar of the crowd and the announcer.  It was a miracle moment--reminding me of where I started, where I am, and where I'm going.

And Saint Marty has a new car to get there.