July 11: As Desperate as I Am, 1985, Cindy Hunter Morgan

Santiago is desperate . . . 

During the night two porpoise came around the boat and he could hear them rolling and blowing. He could tell the difference between the blowing noise the male made and the sighing blow of the female.

"They are good," he said. "They play and make jokes and love one another. They are our brothers like the flying fish."

Then he began to pity the great fish that he had hooked. He is wonderful and strange and who knows how old he is, he thought. Never have I had such a strong fish nor one who acted so strangely. Perhaps he is too wise to jump. He could ruin me by jumping or by a wild rush. But perhaps he has been hooked many times before and he knows that this is how he should make his fight. He cannot know that it is only one man against him, nor that it is an old man. But what a great fish he is and what he will bring in the market if the flesh is good. He took the bait like a male and he pulls like a male and his fight has no panic in it. I wonder if he has any plans or if he is just as desperate as I am?

I wrote last night about being in a blue funk.  These moods sort of come out of nowhere, and they hang on for quite some time.  They've been a constant in my life since I was a teenager.  The first one was in 1985, after my high school graduation.  I lost someone I dearly loved, and I spent that June, July, and August in my bedroom, shades pulled, lights off, face pressed into my pillow.  I barely held on that summer.  I was just as desperate as Santiago facing that unseen fish after months of failure.

The most difficult part of these funks is making it through a day.  It takes so much more effort to appear normal and happy.  To do everyday tasks.  By nighttime, after teaching and emailing and event hosting, I'm pretty exhausted.

Now, I know that I'm a very lucky person.  My struggles are tiny compared to the current struggles of some people in my life.  Really tiny.  Please know that I am aware of all of the blessings I possess, but I'm seeing those blessings through a fog right now.  A thick fog.

Here is what I'm going to do until I reach the other side this canyon:  I'm going to talk about one blessing from each day.

Tonight's blessing was poet Cindy Hunter Morgan.  I hosted a reading by her at the library this evening.  Her poems were haunting.  Beautiful.  Heartbreaking.  They filled me with . . . love for a broken world.  I forgot to be sad for a while, and that was worth the price of admission.

Saint Marty is going to read a poem now and go to bed.