April 3, 2026: “The Willows,” Triduum, “Good Friday”

I only get to write this once a year—happy Good Friday!

Yes, Lent is over., and were are in the middle of the Triduum of the Christian calendar.  Yesterday was Maunday Thursday.  (Pretty much all services—aside from the Catholic ones—were canceled yesterday due to a snow and ice storm.)  I did not go to church yesterday.  Today, however, I played two Good Friday commemorations, one Catholic and one Lutheran.

I have to be honest.  Lenten and Easter music just don’t excite me.  I’ve been a church musician for close to 40 years now (started playing pipe organ when I was 17 years old), and I still dread Ash Wednesday with all its minor keys and dirges.  I know Lent is supposed to be a time of preparation and sacrifice, headed toward the loudness and light of Easter morning, but I won’t cry if I never have to play “O Sacred Head Surrounded” or “Jesus Christ is Risen Today” again.  (Let me stress:  I’m against the crappy hymns and music of Lent and Easter, NOT the seasons themselves.)  You would think that, after 21 centuries, churches might have come up with a few good pieces of liturgical Eastertide music.

Now, before I start getting comments from angry churchgoers listing favorite Lent and Easter tunes, I will say that, given the choice between the funereal ditties of Lent and the overwrought anthems of Easter, I will choose the overwrought.  I can get into a rousing chorus of “Up From the Grave He Arose” as much as the next Christian, but it’s just so . . . ostentatious is the word I’m looking for, I guess.  I prefer subtlety.  What can I say?  I’m a poet.

Marie Howe gives us a subtle poem today . . . 

The Willows

by: Marie Howe

As we are made by what moves us,

willows pull the water up into their farthest reach

which curves again down

divining where their life begins.

So, under travels up, and down and up again,

and the wind makes music of what water was.

A beautiful little poem that packs a lot of joy.  It’s a celebration of “what moves us.”  Water—the one thing we (trees, plants, birds, insects, human beings) all depend upon.  We can go for days without food.  Water, on the other hand, is necessary for survival.  

Howe’s words more to me about Lent and Easter than “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” ever has.  Because it’s about the force that sustains and uplifts us.  Even the wind sings a water hymn in the last line.  That’s what this season is about—walking across a desert and finding a cool, fresh running river at the end.  Whether you’re a Christian or not, we can all understand the relief of a glass of icy water on a hot summer day.  

You see what I’m getting at, I hope.  For me, Lent and Easter aren’t about the ashes and bells and incense and chants.  This season is about being offered a hose to slurp from after sweating in the fields all day long (metaphorically speaking).  

There’s another ice storm blowing in tonight.  I’m sure the grocery stores in the area were jammed with people trying to get their last-minute Easter shopping done prior to the freezing rain.  Think Black Friday, but everyone is fighting over hams and baskets and Cadbury Creme Eggs.  My wife and I did our final shopping last weekend.  We’re not planning on going out a whole lot tomorrow.  (I may hit the laundromat, but that’s about it.)

Saint Marty wrote a poem during one of his Good Friday services today . . . 

Good Friday

by: Martin Achatz

I sit,

listen

to this

familiar

story of betrayal, love, forgiveness, redemption,

think how my mom, with knees calcified by

arthritis,

knelt in

church every

Good Friday,

knobbed 

knuckles

folded, 

accepted 

her pain

like a kiss 

from her 

dead mother.

April 1, 2026: “Seventy,” April Fool, “Contemplating Old Age”

Nobody tried to make me an April Fool today.  No pranks.  No tall tales.  When I got home from work, my son came down the stairs from his bedroom and said to me, “Celeste says she’s pregnant.”  I didn’t fall for it; I’ve survived too many first days of April.  Perhaps I’ve become jaded in my old age.

Marie Howe writes about getting old . . . 

Seventy

by: Marie Howe

So, I’ve grown less apparent apparently:

The young men walk their dogs, and when our dogs meet

we look at the dogs without raising our eyes to each other.

The fathers stand outside the elementary school laughing

with the mothers—Exactly, one of them says to the other—

my passing presence faded like a well-washed once-blue cotton shirt.

Finally, I can slip through the world without being so adamantly in it.

And look, here comes the blind photographer

walking as he does, his hand resting on the shoulder of his companion.

And now the riot of children pouring through the open school doors.

Late winter, an unseasonably warm afternoon

and the summer ice cream truck at the corner—

cold early March and there it is—playing its familiar kooky tune.

There’s some good things about getting old, according to Howe.  The most important perk:  growing less apparent.  She’s able to walk down the street, pick up her kid from elementary school, and not be viewed as a sexual object, or be noticed at all.  Old age brings anonymity.

I spent most of today working on library stuff for May.  Literally, I sat at my desk for eight hours, typing and pointing and clicking.  The good news is that I actually got a lot of shit done, including all of the programming for May.  Now, sitting and typing this post at 10 p.m., I am exhausted.  

I find I tire more easily now.  I’m not sure if this is a symptom of old age, or if I simply overwork myself on a daily basis.  Plus, I spent a few hours this afternoon and tonight trying to figure out a credit card issue.  (I wasn’t successful.  I’m going to have to call my credit union tomorrow morning.)  I used to be able to get by on about three or four hours of sleep a night.  Not any more.  Now, my goal when I get home is to get in my pajamas as quickly as possible.  Naps have become my favorite pastime.

That’s my wisdom for tonight.  I feel old and tired.  It doesn’t help that it’s Holy Week.  For church musicians, these next seven days are like a fraternity hazing.  If I make it to Sunday afternoon, I will be ready for a long Easter slumber.

Saint Marty even wrote a poem about feeling old . . . 

Contemplating Old Age

by: Martin Achatz

All day I nurse a sour belly, knee ache, back

twinge.  I catalogue yesterday’s events, pray

I haven’t slipped a disc, torn some cartilage.  My

spry days, when I could run five miles, traverse

mountain paths, sleep only two hours  a

night, are long gone, replaced by naps, flour

allergies, piss trips at midnight, a potbelly.

How did I get so old?  It snuck up on me,

the way Christmas sneaks up, with fruitcake,

cards, dead friends and family, all the wrack

time inflicts before your final curtain call.

March 22, 2026: “Before,” Sundays, “Lost on an Island”

Most faithful disciples of this blog know that I dislike Sundays intensely.  

This animosity has nothing to do with God or religion or faith.  I’m a cradle Catholic; play keyboard/pipe organ at several different denominational churches every weekend; and say prayers every morning and night (and at various times during the day).  The reason I dislike Sundays:  they come before Mondays and the start of another work week.  

Monday through Friday, I feel like Sisyphus—pushing that boulder uphill until I reach the summit on Friday.  On Sunday, that fucker rolls back to the bottom of the hill, and I start trudging down to start the whole process all over again.  

Marie Howe writes about a boulder . . . 

Before

by: Marie Howe

The boulder once dust, will be dust again,

but today, so filled with its own heaviness,

it can’t hear the grunts of the men who push and roll it

                                                                        to the mouth of the tomb,

and it can’t yet conceive how else it might be moved.

Howe is talking about mortality here, echoing the blessing that’s repeated every Ash Wednesday:  Remember that you are dust, and to dust you shall return.  Howe’s boulder has consciousness.  It knows its own weight, but it doesn’t know all the back-breaking effort it took to get it to that tomb entrance.

I’m feeling the weight of that boulder tonight as I prepare to head into another week of teaching and library work, and I’m not excited.  It always feels as though I’m just starting to relax as the weekend comes to an end.  I even took a little nap this afternoon, which is a luxury I rarely allow myself.  Now it’s almost 10 p.m., and the boulder is starting its downward descent.

Don’t get me wrong.  I love working at the library, and there are aspects of teaching that really energize me.  However, the heaviness of the next five days is overwhelming.  Plus (and most church musicians can back me up on this fact), the Lenten/Easter season adds extra stress and weight to life. Palm Sunday is in seven days, and then Holy Week, with all the bells, whistles, smoke, and chants.  In two weeks, I will look like a refugee from a George Romero flick.

I guess the takeaway from tonight’s post is that I’m tired.  Tired of the daily grind.  And politics.  And President 47.  And Republicans.  And war.  And divisiveness.  47 has ruined basically the last ten years of life in the United States (and the world).  If I could just stay home, write poems, and take my puppy for walks, I would.  (With the price of oil and gas rising every day, that’s pretty much all I’ll be able to afford to do.)

This weekend, I watched a movie starring Michael Caine as a dying Thomas Pynchon-esque writer.  It was titled Best Sellers.  One of Michael Caine’s catchphrases in the film is “bullshite.”  (I don’t think I need to translate that for you.)

Allow me to say this:  I’m tired of all the bullshite going on in my country and around the globe.

The only bright spot this Sunday was the Zoom poetry workshop I led this evening, with some of my best friends participating.

Saint Marty wrote the following poem in workshop tonight.  It’s about being lost and found  . . . 

Lost on an Island

by: Martin Achatz

Some people think it’s impossible

to get lost on an island, with all

its coast to guide you home to

where you began.  I’m here to tell you

you it’s easy to get lost on a piece

of land surrounded on all sides

by water, fresh or salt, that water

isn’t a street sign or highway

marker telling you how far to

the next McDonald’s or gas station

or rest area.  Water encourages

lostness with its waves and currents

and horizons.  If anything, water

wants to turn us all into Odysseus

sailing 20 years before he crawls

onto Ithaca’s shores, driven

by a yearn for the arms of Penelope

or wet nose, rough tongue of Argos

waiting by the palace door those two

decades.  Even on an island, yes, 

it’s easy to get lost, be lost, stay lost.

See that beach there?  I bet it’s named

after somebody who got lost and built

a shack on the sands and called it

home.

March 21, 2026: “Jack and the Moon,” Daughter’s Visit, “Playing Fetch with a Ghost”

Well, it has been about one week since the blizzard hit.  We’ve had a couple sunny days to melt some of the snow.  The banks are definitely not as tall as they were on Tuesday.  My driveway is down to bare concrete in places.

My daughter and her significant other drove up from Mount Pleasant for a visit this past Wednesday.  They just left for their return trip about a half hour ago.  Of course there were tears (on my and my son’s part).  Of course our puppy is going to miss them terribly; my daughter has had a special connection with her since we brought her home.  Sometimes I’m not sure who my daughter is more excited to see during visits—us or our mini Australian shepherd.

Marie Howe writes about her puppy . . . 

Jack and the Moon

by: Marie Howe

After driving home through the forest,

I curled into bed to sleep, but Jack wouldn’t let me.

He whined and barked—high-pitched barks I’d not heard before.

No, I said, from under the blanket.  No.

Still , he barked and paced and paced and barked.  No Jack!

Then yelped strange high yelps, followed by low growls, as if he might,

by the mere scope and scale of his pleading, persuade me, 

until I did finally throw off the covers and open the front door

through which he hurried, not to sniff or pee, but to sit on the lawn,

his back to me, a small white dog facing the moon

lit by light so bright I could have read these words within it.

And when I went to fetch him, he scooted farther away to sit

tucked into himself, gazing into the flooded distance.

A very cold night—I stood a while at the open door—calling Jack!

Jack come, come now! (willful, stubborn dog!)

And when he didn’t come, I curled on the couch,

wrapped in a shawl and dozed for I don’t know how long . . . 

then woke, went again to the door and said quietly, Jack.

It was then he turned and came in, cold and calm, soaked with the moon.

For most of my kids’ childhoods, we did not have a dog.  Up until the time my daughter was a one-year-old, we did have a crazy cocker spaniel named Nick.  I use the crazy “crazy” with intention.  Nick was highly protective.  He didn’t like strangers, and, I think, when we brought our newborn home from the hospital, he saw her as a stranger. I could almost see what he was thinking as he sniffed and nosed our daughter:  What is this strange-smelling thing?  Why is dad holding her instead of playing ball with me?  

When our daughter began to walk, my wife and I made the difficult decision to re-home Nick.  It’s not that we didn’t love him anymore.  I just had a vision of our daughter toddling after him and him not liking it too much.  (My hands still bear scars from Nick biting me when I took shoes or food out of his jaws.). We didn’t want to chance our little girl becoming a chew toy for Nick.

I was the most attached to our cocker spaniel.  When I was living downstate by myself, attending graduate school, Nick was my companion.  He sat in my lap while I studied, slept at the foot of my bed.  We went for walks and runs.  I was lonely, and he made me less lonely.  

He would also steal pizza from my plate.  Chew up new shoes.  Bark at the sounds my neighbor made in the apartment next door.  Once, a lady from the Methodist church I attended stopped by with a homemade apple pie as a welcome gift.  Nick barked and snarled so loudly that she wouldn’t come into the house.

So, you can see why we had to re-home our little cocker spaniel.  It was one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make.  For weeks after, I had nightmares of Nick sitting in an empty cage, whining and moaning for me to come save him.  I felt that guilt for years.

That’s why I refused to get another dog, even when my daughter and son begged me for one.  Only when my daughter was in college and son in middle school did I relent, and it was one of the best decisions of my life.  Our current canine is the most loving dog I’ve ever met.  Docile.  Submissive.  Sweet.  She quickly became everyone’s favorite family member.

Tonight, as I’m sitting on the couch writing or watching TV, our puppy will jump up next to me.  I will scratch her ears and belly, and I know I’ll still be able to smell my daughter’s shampoo or perfume on her.  She’ll carry my daughter’s scent around all next week.  When it starts to wear off, our puppy will go into the bedroom where our daughter slept and roll around on the bed to drive the smell into her hair and pores again.

Our dog is young; she’s going to be with us for many years to come, and that fills me with hope and happiness.  She’s not going to graduate from college and move out.  Or get a job in another city or state or country.  She won’t fall in love with her high school sweetheart and get married.  She’s our baby, and she’s going to remain our baby.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about his crazy cocker spaniel for today . . . 

Playing Fetch with a Ghost

by: Martin Achatz

Most people don’t believe me:  I

am haunted by a cocker spaniel, a

revenant that runs his ghostly

tongue over my fingers at night as

I sleep, presses his ectoplasmic 

nose in my crotch, inhaling

all my smells, as if my salt and sweat

called him back from whatever canine

heaven he found himself in

after he chased that final stick I 

threw on his final walk, watched him

zoom away through the hungry pines.