August 16: "Mockingbirds," Writer of the Year, Blueberry Muffin

Mary Oliver has nothing better to do . . .

Mockingbirds

by:  Mary Oliver

This morning                                         and blessed them.

two mockingbirds                                  When the gods rose

in the green field                                   out of their mortal bodies.

were spinning and tossing                     like a million particles of water

                                                              

the white ribbons                                   from a fountain,

of their songs                                         the light

into the air.                                            swept into all the corners

I had nothing                                         of the cottage,

better to do                                            and the old couple,

than listen.                                             shaken with understanding,

I mean this                                             bowed down--

seriously.                                               but still they asked for nothing

In Greece,                                              beyond the difficult life

a long time ago,                                    which they had already.

an old couple                                         And the gods smiled as they vanished,

opened their door                                  clapping their great wings.

to two strangers                                    Wherever it was

who were,                                              I was supposed to be

it soon appeared,                                   this morning--

not men at all,                                       whatever it was I said

but gods.                                                I would be doing--

It is my favorite story--                         I was standing

how the old couple                                at the edge of the field--

had almost nothing to give                    I was hurrying

but their willingness                              through my own soul,

to be attentive--                                     opening its dark doors--

and for this alone                                   I was leaning out,

the gods loved them                              I was listening.

Mary Oliver has opened up the doors and windows of her soul in this poem, listening to the mockingbirds singing in the green fields, perhaps thinking they may be angels or gods.  And maybe they are.  If there's one thing the stories of the Bible and mythologies teach us, it's that divinity comes in many shapes and sizes, with wings and without.

It has been kind of a crazy day, full of divine encounters for me.

My morning started with writing on the library roof with one of my best friends, who is also a hell of a poet.  It was gorgeously warm, with a slight breeze.  For a little less than an hour, we sat up there, scribbling in our journals, admiring the distant waves of Lake Superior.

Then, as I was settling into my office for the rest of the day, there was a knock on the door.  In came three friends from the Marquette Arts and Culture Center.  One of them was carrying a box from Babycakes, my favorite baker to buy muffins in the morning.  Another friend was carrying an award with a sticky note on it that read "Writer of the Year 2023 Marty Achatz."  

I was completely gobsmacked.  I hugged them.  Thanked them.  Hugged them all again.   I may have said something like "You're kidding me!" a few times.  I couldn't believe it.  After they left my office, I sat down in my desk chair and cried a little bit.  Okay, cried a lot.

Then, after I had finally regained control of myself, I started to work again.  The library's PA sounded:  "Attention patrons.  If you happen to see Marty today, please congratulate him.  Marty was been chosen to receive the 2023 Marquette Art Award for Writer of the Year."  And I started crying again.

The entire day was blessing after blessing after blessing after blessing.  So many friends and family members reaching out with love and well wishes.  One of my favorites:  "Duh!  All-around Human of the Year, I'd say."

So, the doors and windows of my heart were blown wide open today, and an angel or God stepped right in and got comfortable.

Maybe Saint Marty should have shared his blueberry muffin, but he didn't.

A poem from this morning:

Being Mary

by:  Martin Achatz

Last night, I lay on my couch,

listened to my neighbors gathered

around their firepit with friends 

and Martha, their Great Dane.  

I couldn't hear their words,

the stories they were telling each

other, only their laughter, the knuckle

snaps of the fire, and Martha's loud,

insistent barks rising into the night

like sparks.  And I thought of all

the things I should have been doing.

Laundry to fold.  Dishes to wash.  Papers

to grade.  Poems to write.  But I didn't

move.  Instead, I took in those gentle 

sounds of happiness outside my window,

knew that I was being Mary, 

sitting at the feet of Jesus

as he told jokes, gave advice, while 

my sister Martha made dinner, 

swept the table of crumbs, maybe

poured more wine into everyone's mugs.

I didn't feel guilty.  I just sat

there, amazed at Jesus' toes

flashing under the stars.

August 15: "Wrens," Worrier and Fretter, Miracles Happen

Mary Oliver admires feathered diligence . . . 

Wrens

by:  Mary Oliver

here I go

into the wide gardens of

wastefields blue glass clear glass

and other rubbishes blinking from the

dust from the fox tracks among the

roots and risings of

buttercups joe pye honey

suckle the queen's

lace and her

blue sailors

the little wrens

have carried a hundred sticks into

an old rusted pail and now they are

singing in the curtains of leaves they are

fluttering down to the bog they are dipping

their darling heads down to wet

their whistles how happy they are to be

diligent at last

foolish birds

I'm not quite sure why Oliver thinks the wrens are foolish in this poem.  They could be foolish because they're drinking from the bog.  Or because they're happy.  Or because they're diligent and industrious at last, instead of frittering away their days and nights among the buttercups and Joe Pye weed.  If I were a betting person, though, I'd lay $20 on the diligence and industry thing.  Oliver strikes me as a person who, if she had wings, would have spent all of her waking hours flying from trees to lakes to fields of Queen Anne's lace.  She wouldn't have wasted her time with the work of worry.

Of course, I'm a worrier and fretter.  Most faithful disciples of this blog know that about me.  A good portion of my days are spent in a state of anxiety, trying to keep up with work and grading and blogging and poeting.  For instance, final grades for the summer semester were due by noon today.  So, like a diligent wren gathering sticks, I spent yesterday, all of last night, and this morning writing my final comments on papers, responding to student emails, and putting my math minor to work calculating grades.  In total, I've had about three hours of sleep in the last 48 hours.

I write this not because I'm looking for sympathy or amazement or disdain.  Far from it.  I write this because I think Mary Oliver would probably have shaken her head at me, as she does with the wrens, and said to herself, "Foolish saint."  And she would be right.

I haven't experienced a whole lot of Mary moments in the last two days.  Because I  haven't had the time to pay close attention to the world around me.  Instead, I was focused on computer screens and electronic essays, with not a whole lot of amazement to spare.  

Now, Mary taught at universities and colleges for almost 20 years.  She was very familiar with the inside of a classroom.  So, I'm sure that she experienced the grading crunch at certain times in her life.  That means that she probably had to take time out of her miracle chasing to pick up a red pen and sit with a stack of student writing.  In short, she was a foolish bird at times, too.

When I got home this afternoon, I took a nap.  Then I ate and watched the movie Inception.  After that, I got off the couch, picked up my iPhone, and stepped outside to flush a covey of wonder from the world.  I listened to the birds talking back and forth in the twilight.  Found some interesting trees and a rabbit or two in my backyard.  And saw the sunset.

Even when Saint Marty's tied up in knots with work and worry, miracles happen.  Right outside his window.

August 14: "Porcupine," Long Day, "Moose"

Mary Oliver wants to see a . . . 

Porcupine

by:  Mary Oliver

Where                                      almost done

the porcupine is                       to himself

I don't                                      For years I have wanted to see

know but I hope                      that slow rambler,

it's high                                   that thornbush.

up on some pine                      I think what love does to us

bough in some                        is a Gordian knot,

thick tree, maybe                    it's that complicated.

on the other side                     I hug the dogs

of the swamp.                         and their good luck,

The dogs have come              and put on their leashes.

running back, one of them     So dazzling she must be--

with a single quill                   a plump, dark lady

in his moist nose.                   wearing a gown of nails--

He's laughing,                        white teeth tearing skin

not knowing what he has       from the thick tree.

Mary Oliver has never seen a porcupine.  She's just imagines what an encounter with one would be like, and she envies her dogs for getting up close and personal with that dark, plump lady with a gown of nails.

I don't have a lot of energy tonight.  It has been a long day.  I've been trying to finish grading for my summer class, and I have quite a bit left to do tonight.

But I did write a poem today in response to Oliver's poem.

Saint Marty has always wanted to see a . . .

Moose

by:  Martin Achatz

They are all around, like pine

needles or bracken or field

mice, but I have never

seen one with its building

of body, crown of branches.

They hide-and-seek with me,

staying deep in the forest

where the green heart of the world

beats.  I've heard they walk

along lake bottoms, submerged,

holding the oxygen in their

lungs like buried treasure.  That

is what I want.  To see one

climbing from the surf

of Lake Superior, shaking off

water in great sheets,

gulping the fresh air.  Like something

newborn, fresh from the womb

of God.

Not a picture of a moose, but she's still pretty cute . . .

August 13: "In Pobiddy, Georgia," Bayou, Lon

Mary Oliver visits a cemetery . . .

In Pobiddy, Georgia

by:  Mary Oliver

Three women

climb from the car

in which they have driven slowly

into the churchyard.

They come toward us, to see

what we are doing.

What we are doing

is reading the strange,

wonderful names

of the dead.

One of the women

speaks to us--

after we speak to her.

She walks with us and shows us,

with a downward-thrust finger,

which of the dead

were her people.

She tell us

about two brothers, and an argument,

and a gun--she points

to one of the slabs

on which there is a name,

some scripture, a handful of red

plastic flowers.  We ask her

about the other brother.

"Chain gang," she says,

as you or I might say

"Des Moines," or "New Haven."  And then,

"Look around all you want."

The younger woman stands back, in the stiff weeds,

like a banked fire.

The third one--

the oldest human being we have ever seen in our lives--

suddenly drops to the dirt

and begins to cry.  Clearly

she is blind, and clearly

she can't rise, but they lift her, like a child,

and lead her away, across the graves, as though,

as old as anything could ever be, she was, finally,

perfectly finished, perfectly heartbroken, perfectly wild.

One of my favorite things to do in new places is visit local cemeteries, as Oliver does.  In this poem, she says she does it to marvel at the strange and wonderful names on the stones.  I do it to get a feel for the history of a place.  For example, in the town where I live, you can wander through the older sections of the local graveyard and, by paying attention to the dates, figure out when the 1918 flu epidemic hit the area.  It doesn't take Sherlock Holmes to figure it out.  An entire section of graves contains dozens of headstones for children who succumbed to that pandemic.  (I'm sure, 100 years from now, someone will be doing the same thing for the COVID-19 pandemic.  We will become tragic history.)

I even watch YouTube videos of cemetery tours.  The ones I find most fascinating are visits to the graves of famous people.  Singers.  Actors.  Musicians.  Presidents.  Historical figures.  Just a couple days ago, I saw a video in which the host of the show discovered the urn of Edmund Gwenn in a vault of unclaimed cremains.  (Gwenn won an Oscar for playing Kris Kringle in the original Miracle on 34th Street.)  For 60 years, nobody knew for sure where his ashes were.  And there the host stood in front of the camera, holding the urn of Santa Claus.

Yes, I know this past time is a little on the creepy side.  But, for a few moments, when Oliver is reading the names on the gravestones in Pobiddy, Georgia, or when that YouTube host is holding that urn, the dead are remembered.  Their names are given breath, and they are resurrected for a short while.  I think that is a great gift.  A Mary moment.

I went to visit a nature preserve today.  A bayou that is taken care of by the Upper Peninsula Land Conservancy.  It was a beautiful day, full of sunshine and a cool breeze.  As I strolled along the paths and across the bridges constructed by the UPLC, I found myself thinking of a wonderful man whom I had the privilege of calling a friend.  His name was Lon.

Lon was a writer and teacher and saunterer and environmentalist.  He had a wicked sense of humor and a love for almost all human and animal kind (excluding Donald Trump and his red-hatted army of willful ignoramuses).  I've never known anyone who relished life more than Lon.  Every once in a while, when I was working at an outpatient surgery center, Lon would phone, to check on me and tell me a joke.  On special occasions, he would show up with a cheesecake and more jokes.  Lon's smile and laugh were the Eighth and Ninth Wonders of the World.

Lon and his beautiful wife, Lynn, were huge supporters of the work of the UPLC and the preservation of the bayou.  As I sauntered down the trails, watched the sunlight in the trees, listened to the birds, I thought of Lon.  Felt him walking beside me.  He was there.  And I spoke his name aloud.  Gave him breath.  

When I got back to my car, I checked my cell phone.  Out of the blue, there was a message from Lon's wife.  Lynn was reaching out to tell me how much she was enjoying my work for the library, all the programs I offer.  She added at the end of her message, "Your friend Lon would, too!"

Lon was working his Lon magic today.  Filling the world with laughter and beauty and love.

It was a gift for Saint Marty.

A picture from the bayou . . .