According to Douglas Adams, 42 is the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything. These last few days, I've been sort of searching for answers myself. Trying to survive in a life that seems a little bit out of control . . .
December 3, 2019. 10:34 p.m.
I find myself staring at a blank computer screen at the moment. I am really tired. Falling-asleep-at-the-keyboard tired. Consequently, this will be a very short post.
Last night, I attended my first Christmas party of the holiday season. It was a gathering of local poets. We brought dishes to pass, wine and beer to drink. We ate and talked and indulged and listened to poetry for about three hours. It was a wonderful way to end a Monday.
Today, I worked for ten hours. Then I went to see my therapist. Then I had a meeting at the university. Then I cleaned at church. Then I spent two hours putting together my final exam for my two film classes. It is that time of the semester (and year) where I begin to feel overwhelmed with obligations. Things to grade. Presents to buy. Poems and essays and letters to write. For a little while this evening, I gave into self pity and simply sat in my car, letting it wash over me.
However, the only way I can survive at the moment is by simply keeping my eye on the immediate task before me. If I start playing the crystal ball game, gazing into the future, I might as well go to bed and stay there for a very long time. But I can't really afford to sleep until New Year's Day, so, instead, I snooze off in front of my laptop.
December 4, 2019. 5:06 p.m.
It is the eve before my daughter's nineteenth birthday. Yes, she was born on Krampustag. December 5, which also happens to be Walt Disney's birth date, as well.
It is kind of hard to wrap my mind around the fact that I am the father of an almost 20-year-old young woman. I couldn't have wished for a better daughter. She's smart, kind, and compassionate. One of my sisters says that my daughter has an "angel light" around her. People who are broken or hurting are drawn to her like moths to a front porch light. I see that all the time, even in myself. When I am around my daughter, I feel better, calmer, more grounded.
I had no idea what I was doing when I was raising my daughter. She sort of taught me how to be a father. What worked. What didn't. I've made lots of mistakes, as any first-time parent does. My daughter has grown up to be a lot like me. She's driven to always be the best at whatever she does. She goes out of her way to help people in need. She is accepting to a fault. There's not a judgmental bone in her body. And she's funny.
I don't know what I did to deserve a daughter like her. Perhaps, on the night she was born, God looked down on me and thought, "Oh, boy. This one is going to need a lot of help. Better send Celeste." She is one of my proudest achievements. When I am gone from this life, maybe people will remember some of my poems. Maybe not. Maybe someone will stumble across this blog and read it. Maybe not. But I know that someone will meet my daughter in the future--a moth drawn to her light--and that person will think, "I wonder where this wondrous creature came from?" And she may say my name, with love.
That is how Saint Marty wants to be remembered. As an incantation of love spoken by his daughter.
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