March 8: From That Height, In Comparison, Ukraine

Santiago thinks about perspective . . . 

An airplane passed over head on its course to Miami and he watched its shadow scaring up the schools of flying fish.

"With so much flying fish there should be dolphin," he said, and leaned back on the line to see if it was possible to gain any on his fish. But he could not and it stayed at the hardness and water-drop shivering that preceded breaking. The boat moved ahead slowly and he watched the airplane until he could no longer see it.

It must be very strange in an airplane, he thought. I wonder what the sea looks like from that height? They should be able to see the fish well if they do not fly too high. I would like to fly very slowly at two hundred fathoms high and see the fish from above. In the turtle boats I was in the cross-trees of the mast-head and even at that height I saw much. The dolphin look greener from there and you can see their stripes and their purple spots and you can see all of the school as they swim. Why is it that all the fast-moving fish of the dark current have purple backs and usually purple stripes or spots? The dolphin looks green of course because he is really golden. But when he comes to feed, truly hungry, purple stripes show on his sides as on a marlin. Can it be anger, or the greater speed he makes that brings them out?

This little reflection by Santiago reminds me of that scene from Dead Poets Society when Robin Williams/Mr. Keating hops on top of his desk and talks about looking at the world in a different way.  That's what Santiago is doing here.  He's thinking about what his world looks like from the window of an airplane.  How much smaller and bigger it is all at once.

Tonight's post is going to be short.  I'm tired, and I have "miles to go before I sleep," as Robert Frost says.  This will be just a check-in, to say that I am alive and functioning.  Nothing huge and catastrophic happened today.  It was just . . . busy.

Of course, these days, nothing really seems huge and catastrophic in comparison to what's going on in Ukraine.  Vladimir Putin wreaking military Armageddon on a country and its people.  Last night, I heard about a young Ukrainian girl who was one her way home after delivering medical supplies to a veterinary clinic.  The girl encountered some Russian soldiers.  She was shot and killed in the street.  (A friend of mine, who currently lives and works in Ukraine, communicated this story.  The girl was a former student of my friend.)

This is what's going on in the world.  Innocent people being murdered.  Men, women, and children.  Sadly, this is nothing new on the face of the planet.  We've all heard/seen it before.  Nazi Germany.  Stalinist Russia.  Rwandan genocide.  Humans are very good at killing each other on massive scales.

Ukraine puts things into perspective.  My problems are tiny.  Insignificant.  Everybody I love is safe and healthy.  I don't have to worry whether a bomb is going to fall on top of my house.  Or that my daughter is going to be raped and slaughtered by soldiers on her way home from school.  I am incredibly blessed.

I could ask you all to pray for Ukraine right here.  That would be appropriate.  I believe in the power of prayer.  Yet, I know, by the time I type the last period on this post, more people will have been murdered in that country, and any prayer I utter will seem . . . not enough.  

I'm not sure how this all will end.  How history will judge us as we sit back and watch Ukrainians be massacred.  Many weeks ago, we knew this was going to happen.  Here we sit.  It's happening.  T. S. Eliot wrote, "This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / This is the way the world ends / Not with a bang but a whimper."

Saint Marty is feeling a little like a hollow man tonight.  Whimpering these words.

Here's a way to bring a little light into the world of someone I care about.  Vote for my sister-in-law, Cindi Carlson, who is up for a very big prize:

Vote for Cindi Carlson

March 7: The Champion, Good Fortune, Overnight Recognition Story

Santiago reflects on his glory days . . . 

For a long time after that everyone had called him The Champion and there had been a return match in the spring. But not much money was bet and he had won it quite easily since he had broken the confidence of the negro from Cienfuegos in the first match. After that he had a few matches and then no more. He decided that he could beat anyone if he wanted to badly enough and he decided that it was bad for his right hand for fishing. He had tried a few practice matches with his left hand. But his left hand had always been a traitor and would not do what he called on it to do and he did not trust it.

The sun will bake it out well now, he thought. It should not cramp on me again unless it gets too cold in the night. I wonder what this night will bring.

I have had some good fortune in my life.  I won a full-ride scholarship to go to college.  Teaching and doctoral assistantships to go to graduate school.  I sent my first manuscript of poems to one prospective publisher, and it was accepted.  When I was in high school, I entered a playwriting competition.  I didn't win, but I did receive a signed letter from Stephen Sondheim, talking about my script and telling me how much he liked it.  I was served as Upper Peninsula Poet Laureate.  Twice.  A few years ago, I was given the Part Time Faculty of the Year Award by the university where I teach.  Last year, I submitted a $20,000 grant proposal to the National Endowment for the Arts for the library where I work.  We got it.

As you can see by that short little laundry list, I have been very lucky in my professional life.  Of course, I worked very hard for every lucky thing that's happened to me.  Lots of late nights, long hours, and personal sacrifices.  Most of the time, what some people call "luck" is the result of a little talent, a lot of late nights, and tenacity.  When she was a young, working mother, Toni Morrison would get up at 5 a.m. to write before her kids woke.  Then she punch a time clock as an editor at a publishing house.  She did this for years and years before she became a full-time writer and won the Pulitzer and Nobel.

There are no such things as overnight success stories.  There are, however, overnight recognition stories.  That's when people work their asses off for a long time and finally someone notices.  Again, luck has nothing to do with it.  It's all about sweat and resilience.  Never giving up.

Here's the other side of the coin:  professional success doesn't always coincide with personal happiness.  In fact, those two conditions rarely go hand-in-hand.  There is always a price to be paid for any kind of success.  I try to keep that in mind whenever I see someone who seems to be on top of the world.  Even saints face long nights of the soul, when God seems as distant and silent as the stars.

Saint Marty is still waiting to be an overnight Nobel Laureate.

Please vote for my sister-in-law Cindi for this contest.  She has earned her "overnight" success:

Cindi Carlson DIY Hero Contest

March 6: Odds Would Change, Arm Wrestling, Big Recognition

Santiago remembers a moment of victory in his life . . . 

As the sun set he remembered, to give himself more confidence, the time in the tavern at Casablanca when he had played the hand game with the great negro from Cienfuegos who was the strongest man on the docks. They had gone one day and one night with their elbows on a chalk line on the table and their forearms straight up and their hands gripped tight. Each one was trying to force the other's hand down onto the table. There was much betting and people went in and out of the room under the kerosene lights and he had looked at the arm and hand of the negro and at the negro's face. They changed the referees every four hours after the first eight so that the referees could sleep. Blood came out from under the fingernails of both his and the negro's hands and they looked each other in the eye and at their hands and forearms and the bettors went in and out of the room and sat on high chairs against the wall and watched. The walls were painted bright blue and were of wood and the lamps threw their shadows against them. The negro's shadow was huge and it moved on the wall as the breeze moved the lamps.

The odds would change back and forth all night and they fed the negro rum and lighted cigarettes for him. Then the negro, after the rum, would try for a tremendous effort and once he had the old man, who was not an old man then but was Santiago El Campeon, nearly three inches off balance. But the old man had raised his hand up to dead even again. He was sure then that he had the negro, who was a fine man and a great athlete, beaten. And at daylight when the bettors were asking that it be called a draw and the referee was shaking his head, he had unleashed his effort and forced the hand of the negro down and down until it rested on the wood. The match had started on a Sunday morning and ended on a Monday morning. Many of the bettors had asked for a draw because they had to go to work on the docks loading sacks of sugar or at the Havana Coal Company. Otherwise everyone would have wanted it to go to a finish. But he had finished it anyway and before anyone had to go to work.

It has been a slow, arm wrestling kind of a day.  Trying to get thigs done.  Getting tired.  Taking a break.  Starting again.  Trying to force the day's hand down to the table.  

I ended the day leading a poetry workshop with some wonderful writers.  All good friends.  I am tired, and I'm not sure if I have won the wrestling match.  At the moment, I'm sitting on my couch, watching a documentary about Toni Morrison.  It's the second time I've watched it in the same number of days.  Morrison spent her life arm wrestling with writing and racism and misogyny. 

Earlier this evening, I learned that my sister-in-law in in the running for a $25,000 prize for her art and crafting.  Amazing.  Well-deserved.  She has been working toward art degree for several years.  Full-time job.  Full-time student.  And now, in the running for a really big recognition.  Lots of arm wrestling.

Once Saint Marty finishes typing this post, he's done arm wrestling and ready for bed. 

Voting for my sister-in-law:

Vote for Cindi Carlson

March 5: Young and Strong, WWDD, Heroes

Santiago does a little DiMaggio hero worship . . . 

"Unless sharks come," he said aloud. "If sharks come, God pity him and me."

Do you believe the great DiMaggio would stay with a fish as long as I will stay with this one? he thought. I am sure he would and more since he is young and strong. Also his father was a fisherman. But would the bone spur hurt him too much?

"I do not know," he said aloud. "I never had a bone spur."

Santiago could be wearing a WWDD bracelet in this passage.  What Would DiMaggio Do?  Would his hero be in a boat in the middle of the sea, inextricably linked to a massive fish?  Of course, he has no way to truly know the answer to that question.

Hero worship is a strange thing.  It allows you to imagine a regular person being able to perform superhuman feats of strength or intelligence or skill.  Suddenly, a baseball player can survive on the ocean like wind or current.  Can overcome a sea monster.  And do all that with a bone spur.

I have heroes in my life.  Writers.  Poets.  Artists.  Actors.  Actresses.  Filmmakers.  I just finished watching My Octopus Teacher with my son.  The guy in that movie is a hero of mine.  Last week, I watched a documentary about Kurt Vonnegut.  Hero.  Right now, I'm watching another documentary about Toni Morrison.  Hero.  Flannery O'Connor.  Sharon Olds.  Bruce Springsteen.  Hero, hero, hero.

I have closer heroes.  My sister who just died was one of my heroes.  My son, in all his 13-year-old fierce energy and truth, is my hero.  My daughter, in her intelligence and thoughtful strength.  My sisters-in-law for all the love and support they've given me in my life struggles.  My wife's cousin for her ability to make me laugh in dark times.  My wife for looking into the face of mental illness every day.  All heroes.

I think a hero is a person who teaches you something about yourself.  Who lifts you up.  Who makes you see the world full of light and hope.  That's what my heroes do.  They make me believe in the possibility of God and heaven, because their gifts aren't of this world.  Their gifts are grace.  

I hope that some day someone may think of me as a hero.  In my life, I try to lift people up.  In my work, I try to make my little corner of the universe a tiny bit more beautiful.  Maybe it will be my kids.  Or one of my students.  Or it may be a complete stranger--a person I've never met in my life.

Saint Marty believes that we all can be heroes.  It's just a matter of doing your best.  Day after day.