"I wish the boy was here," he said aloud and settled himself against the rounded planks of the bow and felt the strength of the great fish through the line he held across his shoulders moving steadily toward whatever he had chosen.
When once, through my treachery, it had been necessary to him to make a choice, the old man thought.
His choice had been to stay in the deep dark water far out beyond all snares and traps and treacheries. My choice was to go there to find him beyond all people. Beyond all people in the world. Now we are joined together and have been since noon. And no one to help either one of us.
Perhaps I should not have been a fisherman, he thought. But that was the thing that I was born for. I must surely remember to eat the tuna after it gets light.
My favorite part of this passage? That final paragraph, where Santiago questions being a fisherman and then makes that statement: "But that was the thing that I was born for." He is so sure in his belief. There's no regrets about lost opportunities. No old loves or stalled ambitions. Santiago is doing what he was intended to do with his life.
I don't think a lot of people can say that about themselves. I know I can't. It has taken me a long time to get to the place I'm at right now. Along the way, I've been a busboy, hospital housekeeper, painter, and bookseller. I worked for over 25 years in the healthcare industry. Through most of my adult life, I've taught university-level English courses, even when I was scraping blood off the floors of surgical rooms. Aside from teaching, I can't say that I felt a calling to do any of those other occupations. They were simply a means to an end--a way to pay the bills and support my family.
Now, I find myself working for the largest public library in the Upper Peninsula, scheduling readings and concerts and workshops. Submitting grants to the National Endowment for the Arts. Talking with doctors and art historians and United States Poets Laureate. Some days, I sit in my office, wondering at my dumb luck. To be able to do something you love and get paid for it, that's a true blessing.
Don't get me wrong. I still struggle and stress. Get angry and depressed. That's all part of being a broken human in a very broken world. My posts from the last few weeks have been a chronicle of pain and loss. (Health crises. A car accident thrown in for good measure.) Every time I've faced challenges these last 14 or so days, I didn't fall on my knees and give thanks to my risen savior and Lord. Nope. I pretty much did what Santiago does in the passage above--question my actions and life choices.
I am a poet. I understand the world through words. When I face difficulties in life, I turn to language. Tomorrow night, I am leading a poetry workshop. These past two weeks, I have been working on a poem that I will read at my sister's funeral this Saturday. Poetry helps me make sense of senselessness. I have been gifted with this ability.
Some people are fisherman. Some are doctors. Cooks. Nurses. Mechanics.
Saint Marty was born for poetry. And chocolate.
❤️
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