He remembered the time he had hooked one of a pair of marlin. The male fish always let the female fish feed first and the hooked fish, the female, made a wild, panic-stricken, despairing fight that soon exhausted her, and all the time the male had stayed with her, crossing the line and circling with her on the surface. He had stayed so close that the old man was afraid he would cut the line with his tail which was sharp as a scythe and almost of that size and shape. When the old man had gaffed her and clubbed her, holding the rapier bill with its sandpaper edge and clubbing her across the top of her head until her colour turned to a colour almost like the backing of mirrors, and then, with the boy's aid, hoisted her aboard, the male fish had stayed by the side of the boat. Then, while the old man was clearing the lines and preparing the harpoon, the male fish jumped high into the air beside the boat to see where the female was and then went down deep, his lavender wings, that were his pectoral fins, spread wide and all his wide lavender stripes showing. He was beautiful, the old man remembered, and he had stayed.
That was the saddest thing I ever saw with them, the old man thought. The boy was sad too and we begged her pardon and butchered her promptly.
The story of this pair of marlins is sad. No getting around it. In some ways, it's a love story, the male refusing to leave the female's side, even as she is dying. Then, after the old man and boy haul her into the boat, that one final leap of the male, high above the waves, into the sky, as he tries to see what has happened to his mate.
This passage lends itself to reflecting on grief and loss. I returned to work today after my train wreck of a weekend. I can honestly say that I wasn't sure I would last the entire day. My body is sore, and I still feel a kind of exhaustion in my bones that, if I were a Russian consumptive, only three weeks of sleep and trip to a health spa in Badenweiler, Germany, would help. However, I did last. I count that as a victory.
There is something healing about doing mental or physical labor that takes your mind off what's troubling you. For several hours today, I focused on library programming, a letter of recommendation for a student, more library programming, an afternoon meeting, and, at the end of the day, a virtual astronomy event. Yesterday, I taught two classes, went home, and slept for several hours. Today, it was good being around other people, not focusing on low blood sugars, car accidents, or my sister's death. It was a day of planning. Looking forward instead of back.
At the beginning of every semester when I teach mythology, I tell my students--especially the most jaded, cynical ones--that mythology/religion aren't antonyms. They just attempt to answer different questions. For scientists, the question they seek to answer is "how." How did the universe form? How do cancer cells work? How long does it take for a meteor to circle the galaxy and return to our solar system?
Mythology asks the question "why." Why does suffering exist in the world? Why are we here? Why do fools fall in love? Different mindset and approach.
I have been focusing a whole lot on "why" these last couple weeks. Searching for meaning in seemingly meaningless situations. Of course, I'm not really receiving many adequate answers. And then anger and frustration and sadness and self-pity step in.
I'm a little like that male marlin in the passage above. Jumping out of the ocean, scraping heaven, trying to find answers to my unanswerable questions. I don't know what the rest of this week has in store for me. Saturday morning, I will be sitting in church, honoring the life of my sister. We will say a rosary, greet friends and relatives, sing songs, and celebrate a Mass. In between now and then, I'm just going to take it slowly, moment by moment.
That's the best Saint Marty can do.
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