January 22: Eat It Well, Letting Go, Years of Therapy

Santiago hooks the fish . . . 

"He's taken it," he said. "Now I'll let him eat it well."

He let the line slip through his fingers while he reached down with his left hand and made fast the free end of the two reserve coils to the loop of the two reserve coils of the next line. Now he was ready. He had three forty-fathom coils of line in reserve now, as well as the coil he was using.

"Eat it a little more," he said. "Eat it well."

Eat it so that the point of the hook goes into your heart and kills you, he thought. Come up easy and let me put the harpoon into you. All right. Are you ready? Have you been long enough at table?

"Now!" he said aloud and struck hard with both hands, gained a yard of line and then struck again and again, swinging with each arm alternately on the cord with all the strength of his arms and the pivoted weight of his body.

Nothing happened. The fish just moved away slowly and the old man could not raise him an inch. His line was strong and made for heavy fish and he held it against his back until it was so taut that beads of water were jumping from it. Then it began to make a slow hissing sound in the water and he still held it, bracing himself against the thwart and leaning back against the pull. The boat began to move slowly off toward the North-West.

So there it is.  Santiago and the fish are one now, and the battle that consumes the rest of the book begins.  The man is old.  So is the fish.  And they become locked in this struggle of endurance, each carrying their crosses of experience and time.

If you are getting tired of me writing about grief and loss, you may want to take a break from reading Saint Marty for a couple weeks.  My sister Rose's funeral is at the beginning of February, so the little boat of my life is going to be pulled by this fish for a while.  And unlike other losses I've experienced in my life, I'm going to try to allow myself time to lean into this process of letting go.  Embrace the whole messy onslaught of emotions.

You see, most of the time, when I am dealing with difficulties, I throw myself into work and teaching and church.  I keep myself so busy that, by the time I sit down on my couch at the end of the day, the only thing I can think about is sleep.  I think it's a family trait.  We tend to suppress rather than express.  Hence, my years of therapy.

About eight years ago, I lost my brother.  The year after that, my sister died of lymphoma of the brain.  Three years ago, it was my father.  This past October, my mother.  Now, my angel of a sister, Rose.  It has been a catalogue of losses.  But that's what life is.  No matter how hard you love, how tightly you hold on, there comes a time when you have to open your fingers and just . . . give that blessing back to the universe.  

So, this is me.  Puffy eyes.  Runny nose.  Laughing one minute. Ugly crying the next.  Angry in the morning.  Peaceful in the afternoon.  Angry again at night.  I'm carrying around so many versions of myself.  If you don't like what you see, stick around.  Another Marty will show up momentarily.

The me that is typing this post right now is peaceful.  Pretty soon, I'm going out to pick up some pizza for my family.  We're going to have a night of games.  I wonder which version of myself will show up for that?  

The drawbridge is down, and all the different Saint Martys are storming the castle.