January 16: A Great Help, Man-of-War Bird, "Meditations on Breath"

Santiago catches a fish . . . 

"The bird is a great help," the old man said. Just then the stern line came taut under his foot, where he had kept a loop of the line, and he dropped his oars and felt the weight of the small tuna's shivering pull as he held the line firm and commenced to haul it in. The shivering increased as he pulled in and he could see the blue back of the fish in the water and the gold of his sides before he swung him over the side and into the boat. He lay in the stern in the sun, compact and bullet shaped, his big, unintelligent eyes staring as he thumped his life out against the planking of the boat with the quick shivering strokes of his neat, fast-moving tail. The old man hit him on the head for kindness and kicked him, his body still shuddering, under the shade of the stern.

"Albacore," he said aloud. "He'll make a beautiful bait. He'll weigh ten pounds."

A man-of-war bird leads Santiago to a school of dolphin and, eventually, the tuna fish he catches.  Sometimes in life, help comes from the most surprising places--a bird, a tuna, a stranger in line at McDonalds, a group of poets.

It has been a long weekend.  I spent most of the afternoon and evening at the hospital today, in my sister's room in the ICU.  She is not doing well, and so I've been allowing myself to experience difficult thoughts and emotions all day.

This evening, I led a poetry workshop for a group of my poet friends.  I thought about cancelling it, but ultimately decided to move forward.  I'm glad I did.  It proved to be a very healing experience.  Help in a difficult time from an unexpected source.

Saint Marty gives thanks tonight for his wonderful friends.

Something from tonight's workshop . . .

Meditations on Breath

by:  Martin Achatz

Breath is darker than a plum as it ripens on the branch.  It swells, blossoms in summer dark until, too heavy, it embraces gravity, becomes something sweet underfoot.

Breath is sharp as winter wind that grabs you by the throat, shakes you, tosses you, shakes you again.  Until you find yourself standing like a moose on a rocky shore, shaking off a curtain of water, opening your mouth after a long march under a mossy lake.

Breath is precious as one single snowflake, drifting, spinning, falling without anyone noticing its fragile perfection.