I led a poetry workshop at the Joy Center this evening. The theme of the workshop was "The Spirit of Jim Henson," in honor of what would have been his 83rd birthday on September 24. For me, it was something that cracked me open and let some light spill in.
I'm not sure if this is a poem. It's raw, pretty much unedited. But it contains some truth.
Saint Marty wants to thank everyone who showed up tonight. You are all amazing.
Silent Night
by: Martin Achatz
A middle-of-the-night moment. My wife, in the midst of postpartum depression that later morphed into bipolar, asleep beside me. Our daughter, wailing in the darkness. I got out of bed, stumbled to the bassinet, swaddled in new-father-I-don't-know-what-the-hell-I'm-doing fear. There was this alien thing in the room, ember-faced, quivering like a bubble ready to pop. I hesitated, then reached down, placed my hand on her chest, began to sing the only song I could think of. Silent Night. Holy night. My voice was thick with sleep. All is calm. All is bright. Slowly my daughter calmed, calmed, stopped screaming, stopped quaking. Sleep in heavenly pe-eace. She grabbed my thumb, pulled it to her mouth, started sucking on it. Sle-ep in heavenly peace. She fell asleep, the nail of my thumb pressed against her sparrow tongue. I stood there for over an hour, until my hand and arm numbed, prickled, not wanting to end the moment: my daughter, reaching out, taking hold of me, turning me into something she needed.
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