February 3: Painterly Ambitions, Poetic Ambitions, My Sister

Although it depressed him that he had not made more out of his painterly ambitions, his talents had still led him to a secure and comfortable life.  Mr. Mannis [Ive's employer] himself was quite fond of Ives and paid him a good salary:  if he'd wanted to move up to an area like Westchester, he probably could have afforded to.

Ives had a lot of ambitions in his younger years.  He wanted to be a famous oil painter.  You know, live in a loft in New York in abject poverty, painting masterpieces that nobody understands.  He wanted to be a famous cartoonist.  Have a daily strip in all the newspapers.  He wanted to be a famous animator.  Own his own studio and make dwarves and princesses dance and sing.  Like all young people, he was going to conquer the world.

When I was younger, I had very similar ambitions.  I was going to be a famous author.  Spend my days sitting at my desk, writing novels and short stories and poetry collections.  Win my first Pulitzer by the time I was 24.  The Nobel by the time I was 40.  Retire by 50 to a beach house in Hawaii.  Yes, that was supposed to be my life.  My poetic ambitions.

Now, if I had a more realistic understanding of being a full-time poet, my ambitions may have been a little more modest.  A published chapbook and poetry collection by the time I'm 50.  A teaching job at some small university (tenure-track, if possible).  And a slightly popular blog with a small, but loyal, following.

My reality:  one poetry collection and a slightly popular blog with a small, sometimes loyal following.   Two beautiful kids.  A loving wife.  Small house.  Part-time teaching gig at the university.  And a constantly tired disposition.

Tonight, I'm pretty exhausted.  I got a call at 3:00 a.m.  My sister had fallen on the front steps of her house and, literally, couldn't get up.  After pulling, straining, and pushing my sister, we called the ambulance for the second time that night.  She is now an inpatient, and she's either going to be admitted to the physical rehab unit at the hospital, or to a local nursing home.

I'm asking any person who reads this post to pray for my sister.  Again.  She's not in good shape, physically or mentally.  She needs a miracle.  Not the burning-bush kind of miracle.  More like the I-got-an-extra-scoop-of-raisins-in-my-Raisin-Bran kind of miracle.  Something small like my sister walking down a hallway by herself.  That's the kind of answered prayer she needs tonight.

And, if you have a little extra time, Saint Marty is still looking for a tenure-track job at the university.  Say a prayer for him, too.

The burning question:  did anybody bring some marshmallows?