March 16: Remember to Sleep, Pizza and Beer, "Praise for the Nun of Amherst"

Santiago must eat and sleep . . .

But remember to sleep, he thought. Make yourself do it and devise some simple and sure way about the lines. Now go back and prepare the dolphin. It is too dangerous to rig the oars as a drag if you must sleep.

I could go without sleeping, he told himself. But it would be too dangerous.

He started to work his way back to the stern on his hands and knees, being careful not to jerk against the fish. He may be half asleep himself, he thought. But I do not want him to rest. He must pull until he dies.

Santiago is trying to keep maintain his strength and his sanity.  Because he knows that he is about to face a pretty difficult battle.  I love that he has to remind himself to sleep, because I often have to do the same thing with myself.  I work until I drop, usually.

But this week, I haven't been that busy in the evenings.  Not many library events.  No real obligations to worry about.  Tonight, my family and I met some friends for pizza and beer.  Usually on these Wednesday evenings, I have to set an alarm to remind myself that I have a program to host or another meeting to attend.  Didn't have to do that today.  Instead, we sat at our table and talked and laughed and drank.

And I give thanks for that.  It made me feel like I was almost in charge of my life.  It also demonstrated that I need to schedule some downtime for myself at least once a week.  When I left the pub, I felt renewed, a little drunk, and gloriously relaxed.

Saint Marty's new prescription for good mental health:  take one pizza, two beers, and two friends one time per week.  Unlimited refills (of the prescription, not the beers.)

And another Lenten poem for tonight . . . 

Praise for the Nun of Amherst

by:  Martin Achatz

Lord—send the buzz of poetry
A fly—black as the grave—
Bless me with the gift of verse—
The ghost of Emily.

Fill my lines with feathers—Lord—
Song perches in my skull—
My spirit hops—It caws—It crows—
It fills the air with hymns.

If my psalm seems narrow—weak—
Thin fellow in the grass—
Pardon my unbraiding words—
They stumble into bog.

But if my music makes White Heat
Against vermilion cloud—
Take flight with me—My Heart—My Love—
Toward dim Eternity.