June 2: The Dying Moon, Diane Seuss, Glaciologist

Santiago wakes the boy . . . 

The door of the house where the boy lived was unlocked and he opened it and walked in quietly with his bare feet. The boy was asleep on a cot in the first room and the old man could see him clearly with the light that came in from the dying moon. He took hold of one foot gently and held it until the boy woke and turned and looked at him. The old man nodded and the boy took his trousers from the chair by the bed and, sitting on the bed, pulled them on.

The old man went out the door and the boy came after him. He was sleepy and the old man put his arm across his shoulders and said, "I am sorry."

"Qué va," the boy said. "It is what a man must do."

They walked down the road to the old man's shack and all along the road, in the dark, barefoot men were moving, carrying the masts of their boats.

I led a poetry workshop this evening.  Because, to paraphrase the boy, "It is what a poet must do."

My son and wife attended, and a friend joined via Zoom, as well.  All the writing prompts tonight were based on the poems of Diane Seuss, and it was a really good.  Everyone wrote wonderful pieces.  

My son has one more day of school left, and I couldn't be happier that this academic year will soon be over.  In fact, I don't know who's going to be more relieved--me or my son--at 2 p.m. tomorrow.  I can't protect my son from the world forever.  And I can't protect him from himself.  He will face challenges, and he will have to live with the choices he makes, good or bad.  

I'm glad he writes poetry.  Because he tends to avoid his feelings.  Compartmentalize them if they are too painful or frightening.  When he writes his poems, however, he opens that door just a little bit and lets some light in.  I'm hoping that will help him.  He feels everything.  A lot.  And he suppresses everything.  A lot.

No parent in their right mind hopes that a child grows up to be a poet.  That's like wanting your son or daughter to have a third arm or get married at 13 years of age.  Yet, when I asked my son yesterday what he was really passionate about, what he loved most, he said, without a pause, "Poetry."  I have a poet on my hands.

Now, he may grow out of this poetry thing, although it's been going on for a while now.  Perhaps, in six months' time, he'll want to be a glaciologist or an astrophysicist.  Or maybe a poet glaciologist.  Or a astrophysical poet.  As long as he's happy and honest with himself, that's all that matters.

Saint Marty is counting down the hours to summer.