October 22: "Snakes in Winter," Rimed with White, Therapy

Mary Oliver and serpents . . . 

Snakes in Winter

by:  Mary Oliver

Deep in the woods,

under the sprawled upheavals of rocks,

dozens lie coiled together.

Touch them:  they scarcely

breathe; they stare

out of such deep forgetfulness

that their eyes are like jewels--

and asleep, through they cannot close.

And in each month the forked tongue,

sensitive as an angel's ear,

lies like a drugged muscle.

With the fires of spring they will lash forth again

on their life of ribs!--

bodies like whips!

But now under the lids of the mute

succeeding snowfalls

they sleep in their cold cauldron:  a flickering broth

six months below simmer.

The world is getting ready for its long winter's nap.  Like the snakes in Oliver's poem, the woods and lakes around me will soon fall into a state a deep forgetfulness until the fires of spring lash forth again.  The flickering broth of snow and ice is just below the horizon of sunrise.

Winter used to be my favorite season of the entire rolling year.  Until I grew up and had to shovel that

shit.  Nowadays, I'm a summer addict.  I love stepping outside my front door at 1 a.m. and hearing the peepers and crickets sending up their summer ostinato to the stars and moon.  Love not having to worry about heating bills and frozen water pipes.  

Unfortunately, eight months of the year, the Upper Peninsula is rimed with white.

This evening, I led an online poetry workshop.  Several of my best poetry friends showed up to write with me.  It's one of my favorite things to do on Sunday nights,  kicking off a new week with fellowship and laughter and poems.  It puts me in a positive frame of mind to face the inevitability of another Monday.  Tonight, especially, was good therapy for me--all of the writing prompts based on some of my favorite poems by some of my favorite poets.

Yes, I said therapy, because poetry does elicit strong emotional responses from me.  As does writing.  The thought of winter does bring on doldrums in me.  Like Oliver's snakes, I just want to find a hole, crawl into it, and wait for the world to thaw.  Picking up pen and journal, or sitting down with my laptop to tap out a blog post, is therapeutic.  Often, after I'm done writing, I feel energized, as if my soul/psyche has just risen from a long hibernation.

Winter is on the way.  I can taste it in the air like wood smoke.  Soon, my little part of the world will be an Ansel Adams winterscape--all monochrome and frozen.

But Saint Marty is warm tonight because of the simmer of friends and words and poetry.

November 4: Therapy, Decorating, and Magic 8-Ball

I had a therapy appointment this afternoon.  The therapist is a good friend of mine.  We've known each other for many years, and she's seen me through some pretty tough times.  And she doesn't mind telling me, in a very professional way, when I'm full of shit.

She didn't have to say that to me today.  Mostly we talked about jobs and money.  When I start panicking about bills and past due notices and whatnot, my friend has a way of reeling me back from the stratosphere of oblivion.  She offers common sense advice and poses some difficult questions.  But I always leave my sessions with her feeling calmer, more in control.

I spent a portion of this morning putting up Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations at the medical office where I work.  It's one of the few duties in the place that I thoroughly enjoy.  This year, I'm including some of my poems in the displays, so I'm really excited about it.  I'm sure nobody is going to take the time to read the poems, but my poetry will be there.  That makes me happy for some reason that I can't explain.  It's like seeing my book of poems on the shelf in a bookstore.  Even though nobody is going to buy it, there's the possibility that someone will.  There's hope.

This evening, my Magic 8-Ball question is about finances:

Will my financial situation improve in 2014?

And the answer from that guru of positivity, Holden Caulfield, is:

"I'm sorry, sir, but we have our--"

Well, that's a pretty clear answer.  My therapist friend wouldn't put much stock in it.  Her bullshit detector would be going off.  I mean, all I did was ask the question, flip through my copy of The Catcher in the Rye, and stick my finger on a page.  It's not a message from God or anything.


Saint Marty needs a better Magic 8-Ball book next year.

No bullshit this afternoon for me

December 7: Bereft, Sleepover, P.O.E.T.S. Wish

…A pale light, rising in the outer air, fell straight upon the bed; and on it, plundered and bereft, unwatched, unwept, uncared for, was the body of a man.

Not a very happy moment in A Christmas Carol. But it’s not supposed to be. Scrooge is witnessing the results of a lifetime of greed and cruelty and thrift. It ain’t purty, that’s for sure. Nobody cares whether the dead man on the bed is dressed or naked, tended by mourners or eaten by rats. The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come is pulling out all the stops at this point in the narrative.

There’s a part of me that feels compassion for Scrooge. I mean, he had a crappy childhood; he drove away the one woman who loved him; he’s emotionally bereft, unwatched, unwept, and uncared for. Of course, he’s the cause of most of his problems, but I still feel sorry for the poor bastard.

My daughter’s birthday sleepover is tonight. So far, we have only one girl definitely coming. We have one I-don’t-think-so girl and two I-have-to-check-with-my-mom girls. Last night while we were watching TV, my daughter looked at me and said, “What if nobody comes to my sleepover?” I wanted to pick her up and hold her and hug her like I used to when she was three. I didn’t do that. I smiled at her and said, “Sweetie, we’re going to have a great time whether you have one friend here, three friends, or no friends. We’re going to go to a movie and get popcorn, and then we’re going to come home and have pizza. It’s going to be great.”

That’s what I said. What I was thinking was, “I don’t want to see my little girl hurt and upset because she thinks her friends don’t care about her.” And, “What kind of ingrates does my daughter hang out with?” And, “How much is this going to cost me in therapy later on?” And, “Please, God, let these other girls come through for my daughter.” Pretty much, I was all over the place.

My daughter is not Ebenezer Scrooge. She gets along with everybody. She’s kind to everybody. Sure, she has the normal tweenage girl fits and tantrums, but she really cares about her friends. I don’t want her disappointed and sad tonight. I want her to laugh and giggle and dance and celebrate at her twelfth birthday party.

That’s Saint Marty’s P.O.E.T.S. Day wish.



This sleepover doesn't look like too much fun