July 21: Bird Was Gone, Okay to Be Sad, Lamaze Class

Santiago loses his bird friend . . . 

Just then the fish gave a sudden lurch that pulled the old man down onto the bow and would have pulled him overboard if he had not braced himself and given some line.

The bird had flown up when the line jerked and the old man had not even seen him go. He felt the line carefully with his right hand and noticed his hand was bleeding.

"Something hurt him then," he said aloud and pulled back on the line to see if he could turn the fish. But when he was touching the breaking point he held steady and settled back against the strain of the line.

"You're feeling it now, fish," he said. "And so, God knows, am I."

He looked around for the bird now because he would have liked him for company. The bird was gone.

I could say something cliché right now about the way that people come in and out of your life like birds on the ocean.  And that would be true.  If you live long enough, you will lose friends and family.

Here is what I learned today--it's okay to sad.  It's normal.  So, me sitting on the couch at night, watching the same sad movie, over and over, or reading the same sad book, over and over, is alright.  Because, when life feels out-of-control, overwhelmed with loss after loss, a narrative that is predictable/controllable is . . . comforting.  I know what happens at the end--who lives or dies or ends up on suicide watch in a hospital bed.  

I'm sad.  No getting around it.  Today, as I worked in my office at the library, sadness would swoop down out of nowhere, and I would sit at my desk, breathing through it.  Sometimes crying.  It probably sounded as if I was giving birth for eight-hours.

But here I sit on my couch.  It's almost midnight, and I'm exhausted but not tired.  The idea of going through lamaze classes again at work tomorrow kind of makes me want to call in sick.  I won't do that.  Because the alternative is to sleep on the couch all day long, and that would be a complete and total surrender.

When my alarm goes off, I will crawl out of bed, brush my teeth, shave, and get dressed.  At work, I will try to figure out how to stave off darkness.  I will buy my family Taco Bell for dinner.  Clean at church.  Get ready to travel to Calumet to record a couple radio shows on Sunday.  In short, I'll stay busy until I can't. 

And then I'll breathe, feel, and wait for the sun to rise again.

Saint Marty's blessing today:  blue sky, sunshine, and mini-corndogs with poet friends.