January 26: I Wish I Could See, NEA Grant, Small Things

Santiago wishes on a fish . . . 

Then he looked behind him and saw that no land was visible. That makes no difference, he thought. I can always come in on the glow from Havana. There are two more hours before the sun sets and maybe he will come up before that. If he doesn't maybe he will come up with the moon. If he does not do that maybe he will come up with the sunrise. I have no cramps and I feel strong. It is he that has the hook in his mouth. But what a fish to pull like that. He must have his mouth shut tight on the wire. I wish I could see him. I wish I could see him only once to know what I have against me.

Most of the time in life, you really have no idea what you're up against, like Santiago.  He knows there is a fish at the end of his line.  That's all.  The old man can guess on its size and shape and kind.  It might be a marlin or a swordfish or a tuna.  Whatever it is, at this moment in the book, the fish is in charge, pulling the boat away from land.

This afternoon, I finished writing a $20,000 NEA grant for the library.  It's a project that I have been working on for almost three full weeks.  I drafted and emailed and budgeted.  Checked and doublechecked.  Wrote and rewrote.  And then, at precisely 2:37 p.m., I clicked a "submit" button, and all of that work went out into the sea of the internet.

Now, I am Santiago, sitting in my little skiff, watching my fishing line to see if the big fish will take my bait.  (I realize that I'm belaboring this metaphor, but it's all I got.  My mind is pudding at the moment.)  I won't know until April whether or not the grant is successful.  What I can say is that I tried my hardest.

This evening, I am once again really tired.  Since COVID hit me, I have experienced this nocturnal dip in energy.  It may not have anything to do with the virus and everything to do with my situation.  My life has not been peaceful by any means.  

So I hold onto small things in the hours from dusk to dawn.  My puppy sleeping on the couch beside me, her tiny deep breaths.  A poem or two from Mary Oliver.  It's a Wonderful Life or The Santa Clause on the television.  A kind message from a friend.  My daughter asking me how my day was.  My son covering me with a blanket when he sees me sleeping on the couch.

All blessings.

Saint Marty's boat may be tiny, but the sea is large and kind.