October 10, 2026: “The Gate,” Being Cheerful, “Super El Niño Winter”

I have been counseled by one of my faithful disciples to cheer up, that all of my posts recently have been too sad.

When I started this blog over ten years ago, I had no idea what I was doing.  I wrote about saints and martyrs, birthdays and funerals.  In the past, I even included a comic strip that I drew.  I studied books and poets I love, and, most importantly, wrote about the messiness of life.  ‘Cuz life is fucking messy.

The Nobel Prizes were announced this past week.  I love watching and following these announcements because they are about honoring individuals and organizations and groups who have made significant, positive contributions to the world. It’s a celebration of humankind at its very best.  Yes, the world can be a flaming pile of trash, but it can also be wonderful.  Sometimes, this happens simultaneously.  

Marie Howe writes about her entry into the wider world . . . 

The Gate

by: Marie Howe

I had no idea that the gate I would step through

to finally enter the world

would be the space my brother’s body made.  He was

a little taller than me:  a young man

but grown, himself by then,

done at twenty-eight, having folded every sheet,

rinsed every glass he would ever rinse under the cold

and running water.

This is what you have been waiting for, he used to say to me.

And I’d say, What?

And he’d say, This—holding up my cheese and mustard sandwich.

And I’d say, What?

And he’d say, This, sort of looking around.

Sometimes, it does take another person to make you see the world clearly.  In this poem, Howe’s brother is the catalyst.  He reminds her to take time to appreciate the world and life, from the smallest of pleasures (a cheese and mustard sandwich) to the largest (actually being with someone you love—her brother).  

The faithful disciple who instructed me to cheer up is my catalyst tonight.  I do realize that my posts from the last few months have been difficult to read.  Messy. That’s because my life over the last few months has been difficult to live.  Messy.  When you’re lost in a dark wood, it’s difficult to find the stars.  For Dante, that process of finding joy took three really long books.  And I doubt anyone told the great poet to cheer up after he completed Inferno. 

But my disciple is right.  I need to provide a little relief from all the darkness I’ve been writing about.  Hear this, though:  telling a person who is struggling with clinical depression to cheer up doesn’t work.  I don’t choose to feel this sadness.  No person would.  I’m on a journey, just like Dante, and I have to get through all the circles of depression before I can start climbing toward the light.

Along the way, though, I can still celebrate the cheese and mustard sandwiches (to borrow an image from Howe) along the way.  Tonight, my sandwich was that my 18-year-old son sat and watched a movie with me after we had dinner.  It was a horror movie based on a Stephen King novella.  My son really got into it, although he kept trying to figure out what was going to happen next.  (He guessed some plot elements correctly.)  After it was over, he got up, turned to me, said, “That was good,” then disappeared into his room upstairs.  

It was almost like winning the Nobel Prize in Literature.  A true blessing.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight based on this prompt:  Write a poem that makes light of something serious . . . 

Super El Niño Winter

by:  Martin Achatz

It’s historic, they say, this warming brought on

by ocean temps and jet streams, but I don’t care

as I sit in a lawn chair in my backyard

this New Year’s Eve, slathered with enough SPF 50

to turn me into a ghost.  Pina colada in one hand, 

cell phone in the other, I try to remember where

I stashed my snow shovel in the garage last

April after I was sure no more blizzards were

being imported from Canada.  Even the geese are

still here, mistaking Lake Superior for the Gulf Coast.

Here’s one strutting by me now, breast white

as a snowbank, waiting for that urge

to stretch his wings, join that arrow of honkers

flying south for the summer.

October 9, 2026: “The Grave,” Saint Marty’s Day, “Phaeton”

Greetings Faithful Disciples!

Monday was Saint Marty’s Day and it was a wonderful 24 hours.  I received so many messages from friends and family.  It was a lovely reminder that I am loved and appreciated.  (In recent months, as you know, I’ve struggled with sadness and a strong sense of worthlessness.)  It was like medicine for me.  My great niece from Detroit, who made a pilgrimage to the Upper Peninsula to visit us, sent me a beautiful message that put me in the weeds.  Cried for a good five minutes.

In the last few years, I’ve become more and more aware of my own mortality.  Just this past year, two high school friends died, one unexpectedly and one after a brief cancer battle.  My time is limited.  EVERYONE’s time is limited.  Birthdays just make that fact harder to ignore.  I think that’s why birthdays become less and less exciting as time goes by.

Marie Howe writes about  visiting her dead brother . . . 

The Grave

by: Marie Howe

That first summer I lay on the grass above it as if it were

a narrow bed, just my size,

lying on the ground above my brother’s body like a log

floating on lake water above its own shadow.

                                                       ***

During the first winter I drove there one afternoon

after Tom and Andy and Beth and Dor and Bahia had been there.

When I stepped out of the car their footprints marked the snowy lawn:

the men’s big boots, the women’s smaller ones,

and Bahia’s little boot prints, as big as my hand, looping and falling down

into a snow angel next to his grave, then another messy angel on it,

and, a grave or two away, another one, and the little blotch where she got up

and brushed herself off.  For some crazy reason I was wearing

high-heeled shoes in the snow, and, walking back to the car, they made

ovals and dots, fat exclamation marks,

walking inside the steps of my brothers and sisters.

                                                       ***

One November, years later, I went there with Andy

who was, by then, as old as John was when he died,

as we lay on the frozen ground,

me, using my scarf as a pillow, on John’s grave,

and Andy, on top of our father’s grave, one grave away,

and we talked like that for a little while, companionably,

like an old couple talking in bed,

our eyes closed against the sunlight,

and when I cried, Andy didn’t seem to wish me to stop, and that

was a kind of happiness,

lying there with my living brother, talking about our family.

The ground was cold.

Eventually the chill crept through our coats and jeans and

we scuffled up—Andy reached down

to give me his hand—and then it was over.

We walked together back to the car and away from them.

As you can probably guess, this poem does nothing to lift my spirits.  It’s about the death of Howe’s brother, who, I believe, was a victim of the AIDS epidemic.  She misses him and wants to be as close to him as she can.  So she drives to his grave and lays down on it.  Perhaps presses her ear to the ground, half-expecting, I’m sure, to hear her brother’s laughter or heartbeat.  

Ten or so years ago, my parents and all of my siblings were still alive.  I knew loss, but peripherally—acquaintances and grandmothers and colleagues.  I was like Dante, lost in a dark wood in the midpoint of my life, grief chasing me through the trees, baying and snarling.  These days, I’m surrounded by my dead.  They wake me up in the middle of the night.  Drive to work with me.  Sometimes, they even teach my classes and write my poems.  

Both my father and mother lived long lives.  They buried two of their children and most of their close friends.  Their funerals were small affairs, consisting of my siblings, a few close relatives, and a handful of acquaintances.  Advanced age has a way of winnowing attendance of memorial services.  Yet, I firmly believe both my parents were surrounded by ghosts in their last days—Virgils to shepherd them on their journeys.  Mom and Dad were living, breathing haunted houses.

I’m not planning on shuffling off this mortal coil any time soon.  Hopefully, I will be around to haunt you for many Saint Marty Days to come. I don’t want to be a ghost, whispering my gratitude into the ears of loved ones.  While I can still draw breath, I want to say “thank you” to everyone who has helped, loved, encouraged, consoled, and lifted me up during my life. 

Because the real gifts in life aren’t Apple watches or iPads or cars or roses or balloons or tapioca.

It’s the people.

Saint Marty wrote a this poem a little while ago.  A meditation on youth and mortality . . . 

Phaeton

by: Martin Achatz

Phaeton slipped the keys for his dad’s
Firebird into his pocket, climbed out
his bedroom window, hot-footed
to the garage where he shifted the waiting
chariot into neutral, let it glide down
the driveway into the street. Phaeton slid
behind the wheel, ignited the engine, felt
horses trembling awake beneath the hood.
He stomped on the gas, and his world
lunged from 0 to 60 to 70 to 80 to 90,
each curve and bend of the road
a challenge to inertia and gravity.
Phaeton aimed his nose toward sunrise,
rolled down his window, and cruised, sure,
like every teenager, he was going to live forever.

October 3, 2026: “The Cold Outside,” Absence, “The Impossibility of Honey”

Greetings, faithful disciples.

In my last post, I gave you a catalogue of trials and tribulations, from a broken sewer line to a strong bout of clinical depression.  I’ve always believed that the Book of Job in the Bible was allegorical.  I mean, who would believe so much shit could be heaped on the head of such a decent, honest human being?  And with God’s approval?  Today, I would file Job’s story under nonfiction versus religious studies or philosophy.  In short, because of my experiences these last few months, I understand Job’s struggles a LOT more.  

I’m not looking for sympathy.  Everyone deals with sadness and calamities in their lives.  That’s part of being a human being.  The world is a broken place, with broken people calling the shots.  My little laundry list of struggles is pretty inconsequential compared to Super El Niños and genocides and famines.  In fact, most people would look at my life and think, “What the hell do you have to be upset about?”  And those people would be correct.

That doesn’t negate the power of prolonged depression.  Rationally, I know I’m a really lucky person—roof over my head, food in the fridge, warm clothes, and jobs that pay all the bills (for the most part).  Overwhelming sadness, however, is not rational.  It comes from a place of worry, fear, and anxiety.  

Marie Howe writes about looming dread . . . 

The Cold Outside

by: Marie Howe

Soon I will die, he said—that was during the heat wave that summer:

the orange lilies bending toward the house beside the driveway,

the heater in his car broken on blasting.

And the green shade flapped against the window screen,

as if what was out there inhaled and exhaled,

sliding away from the window, banging lightly against the sill,

sucked flat against the screen,

then peeling off and blowing out again.

Today the cold outside is bright and brittle,

heaps of hard snow between the sidewalk and the street,

and look, someone has shoveled a narrow path in front of the bakery,

so that, walking, a person has to step aside

and let another person through,

or pass through as the other person steps aside.

Soon I will die, he said, and then

what everyone has been afraid of for so long will have finally happened,

and then everyone can rest.

This is not an easy poem.  It’s a hard poem, filled with hard reality.  I’ve seen enough of my loved ones fade away and die to know both the pain and relief of loss.  My brother died suddenly, only after suffering for years with the effects of a stroke.  My sister, Sally, struggled for over two years, and my sister, Rose, was in and out of the hospital several times in the last year of her life.  Both of my parents ended up in nursing homes near the end of their lives.

Emily Dickinson wrote that Death “kindly stops” to pick up passengers, because, in the face of immense, daily anguish, mortality IS kind.  Terrifying (if you don’t believe in an afterlife), but kind.  I think Death did kindly stop for my mom, dad, sisters, and brother.  And don’t forget that the other passenger in Dickinson’s fatal carriage ride, besides Dickinson herself, is Immortality.  That’s the reason I find Dickinson’s vision of the Grim Reaper almost hopeful.  It’s not an end.  It’s a journey.

Of course, that knowledge doesn’t make the absence of someone you love any easier.  Loss is loss, and it comes with a whole trainload of grief.  As a way to combat my recent depression, I’ve been streaming episodes of the sitcom M*A*S*H.  It’s a TV show I have clear memories of watching with my entire family, every week.  Sure, my father was sort of MAGA-ish before MAGA was even a thing.  And yes, I didn’t always understand the episodes dealing with the insanities of war when I was younger.  But Hawkeye and BJ and Klinger and Colonel Potter and Hot Lips and the rest of the 4077th showed up every week, without fail.  

I often get stuck on movies and TV shows, watching them over and over and over to the dismay of my wife and son.  I reread books from my youth, as well.  I can’t tell you how many times I’ve visited Holden Caulfield or Wilbur and Charlotte or Willy Wonka.  It’s comforting to know how the story ends, even if that ending is incredibly sad.  (Charlotte’s death destroys me every time.)  No surprises.

That’s very comforting for a person dealing with overwhelming fear and anxiety and sadness.  It’s like a security blanket.  Sure Holden has a breakdown at the end of The Catcher in the Rye, but he’s getting help and will eventually be reunited with his beloved little sister Phoebe.  Yes, the Korean War ends and Hawkeye returns to Crabapple Cove, but he survived.  If I know the fates of all these characters I love, I don’t have to worry about the future (which, for me, is a constant source of Sturm und Drang).  

Last Sunday, my puppy was attacked again by a German shepherd.  The attack resulted in some serious wounds that required surgery.  There is a row of staples running down my puppy’s back; it looks like she’s been zippered into her body.  She’s going to be alright, thank God.  However, this past week has been really difficult for me, mood wise.  Let’s just say that even Hawkeye couldn’t save my emotional life.

I’m going to be okay.  I tell myself that every morning.  Remind myself of it frequently during the day.  Repeat it as I’m drifting off to sleep.  It’s my mantra at the moment.  I’ll keep chanting it in my head until my puppy is healed, my plumbing problems are fixed, and you-know-who is no longer occupying the Oval Office.  At the moment, those things seem impossible.

But Saint Marty knows, as the song goes, the sun will come out tomorrow.  In the meantime, here’s a poem Saint Marty wrote about impossible things that are true . . . 

The Impossibility of Honey

by: Martin Achatz

Saturn is gas, would float in a bathtub

lead snows on Venus’s mountaintops

Jupiter’s red pupil is a 300-year-old storm

winter lasts 42 pitch-black years on Uranus

the Sun dances in Mercury’s skies—rising, stopping, reversing

one volcano on Mars could swallow Arizona

Neptune was discovered through math:  x + y = planet

ice mountains float across Pluto’s surface

and bees fly 750 miles on Earth to create 

          a single teaspoon of sweetness

September 4, 2026: “The Promise,” Coping, “Lovely Ghosts of All My Dead”

It has been a long couple weeks, full of stress and trials at work, broken sewer pipes and digging up the front yard at home.  Sprinkle in the start of the fall semester at the university and my continuing struggles with sadness, and that pretty much describes the second half of August and start of September for me.

I’m very aware that my problems are not unique.  There are millions (billions?) of people worse off than me.  People dealing with food insecurity and housing insecurity and misogyny and racism and homophobia.  I have a roof over my head and clothes to keep me warm.  If I get hungry, all I have to do is open my refrigerator and rummage through the leftovers.  In the grand scheme of things, my tiny, insignificant complaints are trivial.

And yet they feel crushing to me.  Keep me up at night.  Fill my days with spasms of tears.  Overwhelm even the simplest of tasks.  This afternoon, I stood by my kitchen sink, washing dishes, and found myself crying over the loss of poet Wendell Berry.

I know the world is arbitrary.  An earthquake isn’t vengeful, and a forest fire is just a forest fire.  It’s really easy to anthropomorphize things like natural disasters and famines and epidemics, to think of them as evil.  They aren’t.  They’re just what they are.  Nothing more.  Nothing less.  

Even death isn’t necessarily good or bad. Death is just death.

Marie Howe tries to have a conversation with a ghost . . . 

The Promise

by: Marie Howe

In the dream I had when he came back not sick

but whole, and wearing his winter coat,

he looked at me as though he couldn’t speak, as if

there were a law against it, a membrane he couldn’t break.

His silence was what he could not

not do, like our breathing in this world, like our living,

as we do, in time.

And I told him:  I’m reading all this Buddhist stuff,

and listen, we don’t die when we die.  Death is an event,

a threshold we pass through.  We go on and on

and into light forever.

And he looked down, and then back up at me.  It was the look we’d pass

across the table when Dad was drunk again and dangerous,

the level look that wants to tell you something,

in a crowded room, something important, and can’t.

Depression is a haunted state, I think.  I’m surrounded by ghosts right now.  As I deal with my work troubles, as I wait for the excavator who dug up my sewer to send me his bill, the ghosts of simpler, easier times crowd my brain.  I mourn for my daughter’s five-year-old self, how I would read Charlotte’s Web to her at bedtime and she would laugh at Templeton voice.  I mourn for the Sunday dinners my sister Sally used to cook before she got sick, how we would gather at my parents’ house to eat and laugh.  I mourn for my mother’s singing when I play the pipe organ at church, how she anchored the hymns with her soprano voice.  

It all boils down to grieving for things that are gone forever.

I am coping with my blue mood as best I can.  I still cry almost every night as I’m going to sleep.  And I still experience extreme panic while driving to the library or the university during the week.  Tonight, I watched a documentary about the life of Mary Oliver, and I wept at the end of it.  Last night, my wife, son, and I had to stay at a hotel because the water line into our house was either crimped or broken, and, after everyone was asleep, I just lay in bed beside my wife, missing the taste of water from a garden hose as a kid.  Ghosts, ghosts, and ghosts.

I’m sure my therapist would tell me I’m just experiencing obsessive thoughts.  An unhealthy nostalgia for bygone times.  I don’t dispute that.  I miss not having to worry about things like collapsed sewer lines and high water bills and consumer loans.  Nostalgia is a ouija board, conjuring the ghosts of childhoods past.  Was my childhood perfect?  Absolutely not.  Nobody can truthfully claim to have had an idyllic youth. Because we’re human, and human beings are fuckups.  We fuck up relationships and jobs and cars and climate and trees and honeybees and .  . . Well, you get the idea.

I’m a fuckup on many levels, every day.  I’m not afraid to admit that.  Recently, my perceived fuckups have been overwhelming, making me question almost everything about my life.  In the last few weeks, I’ve even questioned if I’ve made a lick of difference in the universe.  On bad nights, the ghosts in my head whisper “No, you haven’t.”  On better nights, the ghosts whisper, “Maybe a little.”  (Ghosts can be pretty annoying sometimes.)

Here’s a poem for his ghosts that Saint Marty wrote a few days ago . . . 

 Lovely Ghosts of All My Dead

by:  Martin Achatz

I feel you around me all the time, your wispy

breaths in my ears, cool fingers on my forehead

at night.  Sometimes, I can hear you as I drive

my car, telling me you like this Action Bronson

song or that new novel from Ann Patchett.  

Let’s get McDonald’s this afternoon.  My treat.

We can sit all together in a booth and talk about

the Perseids in the heavens, solar eclipse in Spain,

coming El Niño winter.  We’ll stay there until 

the oil in the French fryers turns bone cold.