June 30: "How Would You Live Then?", What Ifs, Values

Mary Oliver asks a lot of "what if" questions . . . 

How Would You Live Then?

by:  Mary Oliver

What if a hundred rose-breasted grosbeaks

     flew in circles around your head?  What if

the mockingbird came into the house with you and

     became your advisor?  What if

the bees filled your walls with honey and all

     you needed to do was ask them and they would fill

the bowl?  What if the brook slid downhill just

     past your bedroom window so you could listen

to its slow prayers as you fell asleep?  What if

     the stars began to shout their names, or to run

this way and that way above the clouds?  What if

     you painted a picture of a tree, and the leaves

began to rustle, and a bird cheerfully sang

      from its painted branches?  What if you suddenly saw

that the silver of water was brighter than the silver

     of money?  What if you finally saw

that the sunflowers, turning toward the sun all day

     and every day--who knows how, but they do it--were

more precious, more meaningful than gold?

Of course, all of the questions Oliver asks are pretty amazing exercises in imagination.  They're questions only poets and prophets would probably contemplate.  But the most important question of all resides in the title:  "How Would You Live Then?"  If any or all of these "what ifs" were real, would it change how you interact with the world on a daily basis?  Oliver makes no attempt to answer any of the questions she asks.  Maybe she knows that any answer is simply not going to be as interesting as the question itself.

I think all human beings play this "what if" game because every human being has ideas of what would make the universe better.  For Oliver, it's rose-breasted grosbeaks orbiting her head and an oil painting of a tree suddenly coming to life.  Those are things that Oliver values.  My "what ifs" will be different than Mary Oliver's or Clarence Thomas's, or Mark Zuckerberg's or Pope Francis's.

So, in the spirit of Oliver's poem, I've decided to provide some of my own "what ifs."  No answers, just questions.

What if the sun crowed like a rooster as it climbed into the morning sky?

What if my puppy could speak and tell me exactly where she wanted me to scratch her?

What if Lake Superior sang "The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald" every time a boat launched into its waters?

What if pizza helped you lose weight?

What if skunks smelled like blooming lilacs?

What is angels walked around like in the Old Testament, knocking on front doors, looking for dinner and a place to spend the night?

What if you replace the word "angels" with "homeless people" in the previous question?

What if the whole world just ignored Donald Trump for the rest of his life?

What if rainbows tasted like fresh homemade bread?

What if everyone made Christmas tapioca instead of Christmas cookies?

What if all the nuclear stockpiles in the world transformed into fruits and vegetables and potable water?

What if I won the Nobel Prize in Literature this year?

What if Bigfoot walked out of the woods and bitch slapped anyone drilling for oil in Alaska?

What if there were term limits for Justices on the United States Supreme Court?

What if all the fossil fuels in the world turned back into fossils?

What if all the fossils in the world turned back into dinosaurs?

What if Jesus stopped by for a visit to tell everyone that love is love is love?

What if people in the United States were just as concerned about guns as they are about drag queens?

What if Elvis really is still alive?

What if the stars at night whispered bedtimes stories from the heavens?

What if poets and artists ran the world?

What if Saint Marty could make the lame walk; the blind see; and Republican politicians become poor, Black, and transgender?

June 29: "Morning at Blackwater," Gratitude, "Hard Work"

Mary Oliver on facing a new day . . . 

Morning at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

It's almost dawn

and the usual half-miracles begin

within my own personal body as the light

enters the gates of the east and climbs

into the fields of the sky, and the birds lift

their very unimportant heads from the branches

and begin to sing; and the insects too,

and the rustling leaves, and even

that most common of earthly things, the grass,

can't let it begin--another morning--without

making some comments of gladness, respiring softly

with the honey of their green bodies, and the white

blossoms of the swamp honeysuckle, hovering just where

the path and the pond almost meet,

shake from the folds of their bodies

such happiness it enters the air as fragrance,

the day's first pale and elegant affirmation.

And the old gods liked so well, they say,

the sweet odor of prayer.

For Oliver, morning is the time when the whole world and everything in it wakes up, stretches, yawns, and says one of the simplest affirmations/prayers that exists:  thanks.  One little syllable that holds so much power.  Gratitude can literally transform a shitty day into a party.  Because you can't be sincerely grateful and sad or pissed or disappointed at the same time.  Only one of those emotions can exist at the same time.

Last night, I received a text from a poet friend.  As most of my faithful disciples know, one of my dearest friends, Helen, passed away at the end of last summer.  The text gave me details about a memorial service for Helen that took place yesterday, I believe.  On a rock ledge in Maine, overlooking the Atlantic, Helen's husband, children, grandkids, friends, and family met.  They read poems, told stories, and threw Helen's ashes into the waves where they rainbowed the foam and surf for a few seconds. 

I can say this with 100 percent certainty:  Helen would have loved that celebration.

All morning today, I kept thinking of Helen.  How she met the world with joy and gratitude in her heart every day.  How she took nothing for granted, from the wild raspberries growing along a hiking trail to seagulls having sex on a picnic table.  Everything was holy to Helen.  Each tiny piece of this universe was important.

I met with my poet friend who sent me that text about Helen.  We wrote together this morning for a little while, and I found myself, without planning to, composing a psalm of praise for Helen.  It came unbidden, like a blush of bee balm blooming where it has never bloomed before.  And it sang with the voices of birds and insects and grass.

Tonight, I give thanks for my friend Helen, who is probably hiking the mountains of eternity right now with Mary Oliver.

Saint Marty's psalm of praise:

Hard Work

by:  Martin Achatz

I think of you, dear friend, how

everything seemed so effortless

for you.  Even though I know you 

struggled, that struggle remained 

below the surface, submerged 

like the largest part of an iceberg,

a city beneath the waves.

Your daily 20-mile hikes. 

Your trips full of mountain

climbing, searching for holy

sites of poetry and shrines

of stones piled into altars

by ancient peoples.  It all seemed

so easy for you.  You embraced

the daily habits of your life

with the energy of a hummingbird

drunk on flowers.  Being your friend

was like riding on a comet

sometimes, you pointing out

all the passing stars and moons

and satellites.  You made me

want to be Mary Oliver, scribbling

poems in homemade journals.

You even made the work of grief

easy because tears were not

your thing.  You are now wind

and ocean and seal and salt.

I saw a crow in my backyard

this morning, and that was

you, too, scratching the back

of the sun with your rusty caws.

June 28: "Sea Leaves," Wonder Hunting, Contact Us

Mary Oliver walks along the beach . . . 

Seas Leaves

by:  Mary Oliver

I walk beside the ocean, then turn and continue walking just beside the first berm, a few yards from the water which is at half tide.  Eventually I find what I'm looking for, a plant green and with the flavor of raw salt, and leaves shaped like arrowheads.  But before that, down the long shore, I have seen many things:  shells, waves, once a pair whimbrels, gulls and terns over the water, rabbits long-legging it through the thickets above the berm.  I kneel and pick among the green leaves, not taking all of any plant but a few leaves from each, until my knapsack is filled.  Keep your spinach; I'll have this.  Then I stroll home.  I'll cook the leaves briefly; M. and I will eat some and put the rest into the freezer, for winter.  The only thing I don't know is, should the activity of this day be called labor, or pleasure?

Oliver encounters wonders as she walks--shells, waves, whimbrels, gulls, and rabbits.  I'd venture to say that she probably discovered something inspirational everywhere she went, whether a beach or parking lot or college classroom.  If you keep your eyes open and your mind focused on beauty and awe, you will find amazement.  In the poem, Oliver collects amazement, brings it home, cooks part of it up, freezes the rest for winter.  So, when she misses the beach during the cold months, all she has to do is thaw out her little pieces of frozen wonder.

I'd like to say that I'm just like Oliver, walking through my days, collecting mystery, but I'm not.  I'm just like everyone else, blinders on, eyes focused only on what's ahead.  So oftentimes I miss sunsets and hummingbirds and pussy willows.  Because I'm not paying attention.  I'm not Mary Oliver.

I'm a husband.  Father.  Brother.  Teacher.  Poet.  Musician.  Sometime performer.  I wish I could add Wonder Collector to that list, but I can't.  As a poet, I should be on the lookout for wonder all the time, like Ahab searching the horizon for the spout of the white whale.  I should be obsessed with wonder.  

For example, today was cold and rainy.  Didn't see much sun at all.  Of course, the sun being visible in the heavens is not a prerequisite for wonder.  I work on the second floor of a library, so I can look out the windows on one side of the building and pretty much see the entire city on a clear day.  Today was not clear.  Yesterday was hazy, too.  Because of the wildfires in Canada, my little part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan has been under Air Quality warnings from the National Weather Service for over a week.  Young children, older adults, and individuals with breathing and lung problems are supposed to avoid being outside for extended periods.  Two days ago, the air outside smelled like a dumpster fire.  All day long.

As I said, there wasn't much about today that filled me with wonder or awe or amazement, and I don't have any pieces of wonder on ice in my freezer, either.  However, I did receive what's called a "Contact Us" email from a library patron.  Usually, these messages contain suggestions for programs.  Or they're from artists or musicians or writers who want to appear at the library.  Sometimes, they're complaints.  This "Contact Us" was different.

It was from a person who attended a show in which I performed on Monday evening at the library.  I read some of my poetry, sang a little, and acted in a skit.  The audience member who sent the message was from out of town and, by happenstance, ended up attending the show.

I carried around a printed copy of the email all day today because it was so kind, thanking me for my poems.  In fact, "kind" doesn't even begin to describe what this patron said about my writing.  You see, I've never been that confident about my writing.  (Most writers I know are fairly insecure, in my experience.)  This communique was like a lover letter of a review from The New York Times.

So, you really don't always have to go wonder hunting.  Sometimes, wonder hunts you down when you least expect it.  And it takes your breath away, like a sunset on a lake.

On this gray, soggy night, Saint Marty found light and amazement.

June 27: "Just Lying in the Grass at Blackwater," Dark Matter, Answers

Mary Oliver thinks about death . . . 

Just Lying in the Grass at Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

I think sometimes of the possible glamour of death--

that it might be wonderful to be

lost and happy inside the green grass--

or to be the green grass!--

or, maybe the pink rose, or the blue iris,

or the affable daisy, or the twirled vine

looping its way skyward--that it might be perfectly peaceful

to be the shining lake, or the hurrying, athletic river,

or the dark shoulders of the trees

where the thrush each evening weeps himself into an ecstasy.

I lie down in the fields of goldenrod, and everlasting.

Who could find me?

My thoughts simplify.  I have not done a thousand things

or a hundred things but, perhaps, a few.

As for wondering about answers that are not available except

in books, though all my childhood I was sent there

to find them, I have learned

to leave all that behind

as in summer I take off my shoes and my socks,

my jacket, my hat, and go on

happier, through the fields.  The little sparrow

with the pink beak

calls out, over and over, so simply--not to me

but to the whole world.  All afternoon

I grow wiser, listening to him, 

soft, small, nameless fellow at the top of some weed,

enjoying his life.  If you can sing, do it.  If not,

even silence can feel, to the world, like ahppiness,

like praise,

from the pool of shade you have found beneath the everlasting.

I know what y'all are thinking:  here he goes, writing his depressing shit again.

That's a fair apprehension.  I mean, I have a penchant for gravitating toward dark matter.  That's what interests me, sometimes to the point of distraction.  Each ache in my knee or throb in my head, an indication of a fatal condition.  In my defense, I have been an insulin-dependent diabetic since I was 13-years-old, so I've probably had more than my share of encounters with near death.  I could give Emily Dickinson a good run for her money.  Death has kindly stopped for me on many occasions.

But I don't find Mary Oliver's depiction of eternal darkness all that dark.  It is, in fact, full of, as she says, glamour.  Green grass.  Pink roses.  Affable daisies.  Athletic rivers.  A little sparrow with a pink beak, calling and singing.  Dare I say that Oliver's death is full of life?  It really is.

Death is sort of the end of all the human groping for answers, according to Oliver.  Because you become part of the grass and lake and blue iris, the questions don't matter so much anymore.  In fact, they don't matter at all.  When the struggle of heart and lungs and brain ceases, we pretty much find out the answers to the questions that have plagued humankind since we crawled out of the primordial gravy so long ago.  The soul.  God.  Jimmy Hoffa.  Amelia Earhart.  Bigfoot.  We will either know it all, or it just won't matter anymore.  (I'm really holding out hope for Bigfoot.)

Remember those moments when we were kids and did things like purposely stomp through mud puddles or lie on our backs and stare up at the clouds, trying to make them into penguins or dolphins or goldfish?  Those were really good days.  Simple as peanut butter sandwiches.  Filled with wonder.

I hope that's what death is like.  Fingers of grass.  Blue, blue sky.  And clouds that look like Falkor the Luck Dragon.

Saint Marty hopes that's his neverending story.

June 26: "Terns," Trudging Forward, Future

Mary Oliver distracted by terns . . .

Terns

by:  Mary Oliver

Don't think just now of the trudging forward of thought,

but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.

It's summer, you never saw such a blue sky,

and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,

sweeping over the waves,

chattering and plunging,

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes

happy as little nails.

The years to come--this is a promise--

will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought

where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,

than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.

The flock thickens

over the roiling, salt brightness.  Listen,

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world

in the clasp of attention, isn't the perfect prayer,

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,

is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,

but of pure submission.  Tell me, what else

could beauty be for?  And now the tide

is at its very crown,

the white birds sprinkle down,

gathering up the loose silver, rising

as if weightless.  It isn't instruction, or a parable.

It isn't for any vanity or ambition

except for the one allowed, to stay alive.

It's only a nimble frolic

over the waves.  And you find, for hours,

you cannot even remember the questions

that weigh so in your mind.

I spend most of my days in the trudging forward of thought, distracted by all of the details of life, as Oliver describes.  And I don't think I'm alone in this.  My life sort of requires me to think ahead, plan ahead, worry ahead.  Unless something stops me dead cold, because of its beauty or mystery or weirdness, I am always one or two or three steps/hours/days/weeks/months ahead in thought.

I know this practice isn't healthy.  In fact, it causes me a great deal of stress.  Because none of us really knows what the future holds.  We don't know if we are even going to wake up tomorrow morning or be spirited away in the middle of the night by some little comet of blood in our heads.  (Sorry.  This is the way my brain works.  I'm constantly distracted by these kinds of thoughts.)

Today, for example, was filled with planning ahead.  This morning, I took my puppy for a physical therapy appointment for her injured leg.  For an hour, I worked with the therapist, helping her stretch, ultrasound, and exercise my dog.  I'm doing this so that my dog will have the most mobility possible for the rest of her life.  Planning ahead.

I had an event this evening at the library, and I was a performer in the show.  So, I spent the bulk of my time setting up mics and chairs, printing out sketches and set lists, selecting poems and essays to read.  Basically, doing everything within my power to make sure that the show went smoothly.  Planning ahead again.

You see what I mean.  I didn't have a chance to walk down to Lake Superior and watch the ducks or geese.  (I've never seen a tern in my little corner of Lake Superior, but I'm terrible at identifying birds.)  The only time I lived in the present today were the two hours I was performing.  You sort of have to be in the moment when you're onstage.  Other than that, I was physically here, but my mind was planning for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  

The only creature in my life that lives in the moment is my dog.  She doesn't worry about the future.  Pretty much, she lives from meal to walk to meal, with occasional trots around the backyard to relieve herself.  That's her life.  She gets hungry, food is given to her.  She has a full bladder, out to the lawn she goes.  She gets tired, her pillow is right next to her for a nap.  In. The.  Moment.

I think all our lives would be so much simpler and better if we lived like my dog.  Pay attention to what is in front of your face, be it terns, the moon, or a hot fudge sundae.  Let the future take care of itself until it becomes the present.  

Now, Saint Marty needs to go for a walk around the backyard.  His bladder is full.  (Just kidding.)

June 25: "North Country," Greatest Gifts, Mother's 92nd Birthday

Mary Oliver celebrates gifts . . . 

North Country

by:  Mary Oliver

In the north country now it is spring and there

     is a certain celebration.  The thrush

has come home.  He is shy and likes the 

     evening best, also the hour just before

morning, in that blue and gritty light he

     climbs to his branch, or smoothly

sails there.  It is okay to know only

     one song if it is this one.  Hear it

rise and fall, the very elements of your soul

     shiver nicely.  What would spring be

without it?  Mostly frogs.  But don't worry, he

arrives, year after year, humble and obedient

     and gorgeous.  You listen and you know

you could live a better life than you do, be

     softer, kinder.  And maybe this year you will

be able to do it.  Hear how his voice

     rises and falls.  There is no way to be

sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are

     given, no way to speak the Lord's name

often enough, though we do try, and

especially now, as that dappled breast

     breathes in the pines and heaven's

windows in the north country, now spring has come,

     are opened wide.

Most people believe all good things in life must be earned.  My father taught me the only way to get ahead in life was through hard work.  There was no such thing as a free handout.

Oliver knows this maxim is complete bullshit.  The greatest gifts are just that:  gifts.  Spring follows winter every year, whether or not you've busted your ass during the long cold months of January, February, March, and April.  The thrush returns every year to sing his song, humble and obedient and gorgeous.  Last night, after a long period of heat and humidity, it rained.  A deluge.  And now, the world looks scrubbed clean and new.  Everything has taken a deep green breath.

I didn't pay for spring.  Didn't bribe the birds to return to sing me into summer.  And I certainly didn't seed the sky with silver iodide to make it rain.  These things just happen of their own accord, and all I can do is sit back and try to remember to give thanks, as Oliver does.

That doesn't mean that everyone should quit their jobs, sit back, and wait for the great Jeff Bezos of Creation to deliver happiness to their front doorsteps.  It doesn't work that way.  What I'm saying is that every one of us--myself included--takes for granted the great gifts that surround us all the time.

Go outside and take a deep breath.  If you can do this without burning your trachea and lungs, offer up thanks.

Go to your kitchen sink, turn on the faucet and collect a cool glass of water,  Drink it.  If you can do this, offer up thanks.

Go to the banks of a river or shores of a lake or ocean.  Listen to the music of the water and waves.  Watch the sunlight swim in the tides and currents.  If you can do that, offer up thanks.

Go to your fridge and find a fresh apple or piece of leftover pizza.  Eat it.  Slowly.  Savor each mouthful.  If you can do that, offer up thanks.

You get the idea.  We don't appreciate things like clean air or clean water or rivers or apples until they are gone.  We forget to give thanks for these daily gifts.

Today would have been my mother's 92nd birthday.  She was part of my life, every day, for over half a century.  For me, she was like oxygen or water or the spring.  I thought she would always be there.  Took her presence for granted.  Until she was gone.

I didn't earn my mother's love.  She just loved me.  Period.  Even when I fucked up, which I did frequently.  She was one of the greatest gifts in my life, and I didn't do anything to deserve her except be her son.

Today, Saint Marty offers up thanks for his mother, and a poem . . .

Heart to Heart

by:  Martin Achatz

Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.

June 24: "Wild Wild," Love Chooses Us, Difficult Journey

Mary Oliver's definition of love . . .

Wild Wild

by:  Mary Oliver

This is what love is:

the dry rose bush the gardener, in his pruning, missed

suddenly bursts into bloom.

A madness of delight; an obsession.

A holy gift, certainly.

But often, alas, improbable.

Why couldn't Romeo have settled for someone else?

Why couldn't Tristan and Isolde have refused

the shining cup

which would have left peaceful the whole kingdom?

Wild sings the bird of the heart in the forests

     of our lives.

Over and over Faust, standing in the garden, doesn't know

anything that's going to happen, he only sees

     the face of Marguerite, which is irresistible.

And wild, wild sings the bird.

Love is a force that can't be controlled.  That's Oliver's point here.  Romeo doesn't choose to fall in love with Juliet.  Tristan doesn't choose Isolde and devastation.  Love is a wild thing in the forests of our lives.  A bird that keeps singing in the feral trees under the feral sun and stars.

We don't choose love.  Love chooses us.

Faithful disciples of this blog know the struggles my wife and I have faced during our marriage.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  It has been a difficult journey.  A lot of our family members, at different points during the past 30 years, haven't understood the reasons I've stood by my wife.  In a culture that sometimes treats marriages and relationships like paper plates, to be used and thrown away.

(Please don't misunderstand me.  I'm not saying there aren't legitimate reasons to leave a long-term relationship or marriage.  Physical abuse.  Mental abuse.  Emotional abuse.  Sexual abuse.  Drug abuse.  All of these are deal breakers.  I'm not judging anyone.  This post is about me and my relationship with the woman I've loved for over 30 years.)

I have stayed with my wife because we don't choose love.  Love chooses us, as I've said.  I wish I'd read Oliver's poem about 20 years ago, when the difficulties entered our marriage.  Then--when people asked me the question "Why are you staying with her?--I could have just handed them a copy of "Wild Wild" and walked away.

Love isn't always easy.  Sustaining love is damn hard.  It is all the things Oliver lists:  a madness or delight, an obsession, a holy improbable gift.

Saint Marty hears that wild wild bird song all the time.

June 23: "The Poet with His Face in His Hands," Regrets, Delusional

Mary Oliver doesn't want to hear lamentation . . .

The Poet with His Face in His Hands

by:  Mary Oliver

You want to cry aloud for your

mistakes.  But to tell the truth the world

doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't

stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't

hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines

of tocks and water to the place where

the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that

jubilation and water fun and you can

stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,

on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing

of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

This is an unusual Mary Oliver poem, I think.  Usually, she takes all human experience and finds something beautiful in it.  Even grief and despair.  It seems as though Oliver has no patience for regret, however.  Regret adds no voice to the music of the universe.  Joy is the jubilation of waterfalls.  Sadness is the thrush singing of the stone-hard beauty of everything.  Regret?  That's a noise that needs to be drowned out, a dissonant grace note in the overall composition of creation.

Everyone has regrets over missed opportunities.  Things not said.  Passions not followed.  Unrequited loves.  Requited loves.  Soured relationships.  Me?  I'm the patron saint of regrets.  For instance, I am one class away from having an undergraduate degree in computer science.  Right now, I could be designing computer games in Silicon Valley and making a six-figure salary.  Maybe hobnobbing with Bill Gates or running Apple after the death of Steve Jobs.

If you think I'm delusional, you're right.  I am.  But that's what regrets are:  delusions.  They are those "if only" moments that lead to fantasies about money and fame and happiness.  If only I'd gotten that computer science degree, I could afford to send my kids to the best schools.  Get a second car for my wife to drive.  Purchase a nice, four-bedroom, three-bathroom house with a heated driveway and wrap-around porch.  Of course, all my faithful disciples will recognize this "if only" as complete bullshit.

I have a good life.  A beautiful wife, two smart, funny kids, a house, a car, and jobs that help my pay my bills and usually bring me joy.  Plus, I have published a collection of poems, and people seem to dig what I write.

Is my life ideal?  No.  But whose life is?  I have family and friends who love me and whom I love.  Roof over my head.  Ice cream in the fridge.  And a blue-eyed puppy who melts my heart by just reaching out and putting a paw on my arm.

So, I'm with Mary Oliver on this one.  (I usually agree with her, if you haven't noticed.)  Regrets are useless.  They belong in the recesses of a cave behind sheets of joyful dancing water.  Because life is too short to spend any time lamenting over what could have been.

Saint Marty prefers to spend his time celebrating what is.

June 22: "Fireflies," Proximity, James Baldwin

Mary Oliver on the need for intimacy . . .

Fireflies

by:  Mary Oliver

At Blackwater

fireflies 

are not even a dime a dozen--

they are free,

and each floats and turns

among the branches of the oaks

and the swamp azaleas

looking for another

as, who doesn't?

Oh, blessings

on the intimacy

inside fruition,

be it foxes 

or the fireflies

or the dampness inside the petals

of a thousand flowers.

Though Eden is lost

its loveliness

remains in the heart 

and the imagination;

he would take her

in a boat

over the dark water;

she would take him 

to an island she knows

where the blue flag grows wild

and the grass is deep,

where the birds

perch together,

feather to feather,

on the bough.

And the fireflies,

blinking their little lights,

hurry toward one another.

And the world continues,

God willing.

This poem is about closeness.  The fireflies seek each other out by flashing in the oaks and swamp azaleas.  Rivers rush toward lakes and seas and oceans.  Foxes and flowers--basically, everything--are hungry for each other, because that's what we're all crave:  proximity.  Companionship.  Love.

The world continues because of this impulse.

I am the youngest of nine children.  That means that I never lacked human companionship as a kid.  I was surrounded by my sisters and brothers.  All the time.  There were few places in our home where privacy existed.  Bathrooms.  Bedrooms, sometimes.  (Until I was in high school, I shared a bedroom with one of my older brothers.  When you're a horny teenage boy, closeness like that puts a cramp in your style.)  Dinners were huge events where we all sat around the table, competed for food, and unpacked our days.

So I came to be a pretty social animal, at least within the confines of my family.  I like people.  I like being around people.  Until I don't.

As with most individuals, I have my Greta Garbo moments when I want to be alone.  Being a poet sort of necessitates a certain amount of solitude and isolation.  That doesn't always mean physical isolation.  I watched a documentary once about the life of writer James Baldwin.  A friend of Baldwin described how he saw the writer in the middle of a loud, unruly party.  Baldwin was scribbling in a notebook.  After a while, he put down his writing utensil, closed the notebook, and said something like, "It's done, baby."  He'd just completed the manuscript of The Fire Next Time, if memory serves.  That book went on to become one of the seminal works about race relations published in the 1960s.  And Baldwin finished it in a house full of drunken guests.

Most of the writing I'm able to complete in a day isn't done in sound-proof, panic room conditions.  I don't lock myself in my office and yell at noisy family members because, for the most part, noisy family members are my inspiration.  Just as Baldwin seemed to thrive on the energy of throngs.  My poems and blog posts and essays are cobbled together during or between moments of chaos.  For example, this blog post started life this morning after a library staff meeting.  Was continued during and after lunch.  Now, I'm finishing it as I wait for a concert to begin at the library.  This whole day has been a piecemeal of stolen writing moments surrounded by gaggles of people.

Sometimes, I wish for a schedule that would allow me to write consistently for a few hours in complete aloneness.  But, except for one or two writing conferences I've attended, that has never been my reality.  Instead, I'm a firefly flashing in a field of fireflies.  The dampness inside the petals of a thousand flowers.  James Baldwin scratching out words in the middle of a crowded room.  Proximity.  Companionship.  Love.

And now, Saint Marty has just one thing left to say--"It's done, baby."

Two of Saint Marty's favorite fireflies . . . 

June 21: "Song for Autumn," Summer Solstice Sun, Haiku Workshop

Mary Oliver's love song to autumn . . .

Song for Autumn

by:  Mary Oliver

In the deep fall

     don't you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

     the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

     freshets of wind?  And don't you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,

     warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come--six, a dozen--to sleep

     inside their bodies?  And don't you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

     the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow?  The pond

     vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

     its blue shadows.  And the wind pumps its

bellows.  And at evening especially,

     the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

This is why I love Mary Oliver--poems like this.  The world is unpredictable and beautiful, and every time I encounter Mary on the page, I find myself stunned into wonder.  

I took a haiku writing workshop this afternoon.  I've always loved the simplicity of haiku--its concentration on image and surprise.  At the end of a haiku, I feel as if I will never see the world quite the same way.  I am altered.

Now, I'm not going to turn this post into a lecture on poetic form.  Not going to recite my favorite haiku,  (It's "The Pope's Penis" by Sharon Olds, although some may argue with me about its haiku-ness.)  Not going to talk about syllabics or nature imagery.  If you want a poetics lesson, there are plenty of good books out there on the subject, written by people much smarter than me.  

What I will say is that I think Mary Oliver writes extended haiku.  Her poems are firmly grounded in nature and the seasons, and, when I read them, I am transported.  Sometimes stunned and breathless.  She does that at the end of today's poem, making the firewood hungry for flames.  I will never think of autumn in quite the same way, and autumn has been my favorite season all my life.

So, during today's poetry workshop, we were given 40 minutes to go outside to the library's flower gardens and write haiku, as many as we could.  There I sat with a large group of poets, under the summer solstice sun, trying to capture the mystery of creation in three short lines of verse.  

Now, at the end of the longest day of the year, I will confess that, although they are short and fairly simple in imagery and language, haikus are a bitch to write.  I always imagined Mary Oliver sort of living a life of constant wonder, each waking moment a haiku.

Of course, I'm sure that Mary struggled with language and writing, as all writers do.  Her simple, beautiful poems are the result of divine inspiration and many, many hours of poetic blood, sweat, and tears (not always in that order).  Effortless writing requires a lot of effort.

Saint Marty wants to be Mary Oliver when he grows up.

Some haiku from this afternoon . . . 

Summer Solstice Haiku

by:  Martin Achatz

In the blooming violets

     a chipmunk

gorges on purple. 

A small green caterpillar

     on a friend's thumb

          crawls toward butterfly.

A finger of lupine

     points at me.

"Write!" it says.

Church steeple

     against June sky

makes me thirsty for wine.

Blue birdbath 

     in library shadow

washes away words.

Spider on my journal

     page doesn't care

about syllables or lines.

Poets

     in a June garden

          picking poems.

June 20: "Honey Locust," Being Thankful, Not-Shitty Things

Mary Oliver bee-ing grateful . . . 

Honey Locust

by:  Mary Oliver

Who can tell how lovely in June is the

     honey locust tree, or why

a tree should be so sweet and live

     in this world?  Each white blossom

on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed--

     a new life.  Also each blossom on a dangle of flowers

          holds a flask

of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed.

     The bees circle the tree and dive into it.  They are crazy

with gratitude.  They are working like farmers.  They are as 

     happy as saints.  After a while the flowers begin to

wilt and drop down into the grass.  Welcome

     shines in the grass.

                                        Every year I gather

handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey

     melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong,

both when they are crisp and ripe, and even at the end

     when their petals have turned dull yellow.

                                                                So it is

if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is

     not a single inch of emptiness.  Gladness gleams

all the way to the grave.

My favorite line in this poem is "They are crazy / with gratitude . . ."  The bees are so wild with gratitude for the sweetness of the honey locust that they are diving into it, having a bee religious experience with it.  Gratitude is their jam, filling them with happy holiness.

Since this poem is all about being thankful, from white blossom to gladness gleaming "all the way to the grave," I thought I'd provide a list of things that I am grateful for in my life.  Because it is so easy simply to focus on all the shitty things that happen in a day instead of all the not-shitty things.

Honey locust in my life today:

1. The fruit smoothie my wife made me this morning for breakfast.  Full of berries and yogurt.  It was enough to make me feel like Lazarus rising from the tomb.  The sweetness of my wife's love.
2. My friend, Jody, who, despite being down-and-out because of shoulder surgery, can still send texts with one hand that crack my shit up.  The sweetness of friendship.
3. My son who gets my weird humor and poet obsessions.  I know he would follow me into the woods to go Bigfoot hunting if I asked him.  The sweetness of a fellow freak.
4. My daughter.  She has seen me at my best and worst.  And she still crocheted me a Father's Day present.  The sweetness of a giving heart.
5. All my poet friends.  Because they see light in darkness, and they understand that sometimes dusk is just as beautiful as dawn.  The sweetness of poets.
6. Girl with a Pearl Earring.  Because a movie doesn't have to have screaming car chases and serial killers.  A movie can be about art and love and desperation and inspiration.  And it is thrilling.  The sweetness of film.
7. The roof of the library where I work.  I spent a few minutes this morning, taking in the view, staring at the endless blue of Lake Superior, being happy to be above the hustle and bustle for a little while.  The sweetness of perspective. 
8. Mary Oliver, for being Mary Oliver and reminding me each day what a gift life is, even in sadness  The sweetness of words.
9. Mosquitoes.  That's right, I said mosquitoes.  For showing up every spring with their buzz and blood lust.  Even the tiniest of lives is worth celebrating.  The sweetness of itching.
10. Libraries.  You know, until I started working for a library, I never realized how important they are.  Necessary, even.  Libraries are for kids learning to love books.  Teens learning to live life.  Adults learning to be open-minded and accepting.  The sweetness of intellectual freedom.
11. My family.  My siblings and parents.  I was a strange child, chronically distracted, wildly obsessive.  I saw the original Star Wars (prior to ":  A New Hope) 27 times in the theater, before I could drive or had money to spend.  The sweetness of unconditional indulgence.
12. Juno.  My mini Australian shepherd.  She's sweet and tough and loving.  After she was severely attached by a 90-pound dog, Juno taught me about recovery and survival.  The sweetness and strength of puppy kisses.
13. A journal.  As I scribble these final words on the final page of this journal, I wonder at the writing process.  Ideas.  Abandoned ideas.  Poems.  Abandoned poems.  Sketches.  Abandoned sketches.  The sweetness of creativity.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Saint Marty is a very lucky bee.

June 19: "White Heron Rises Over Blackwater," Accomplishments, Just as Vital

Mary Oliver on being accomplished . . .

White Heron Rises Over Blackwater

by:  Mary Oliver

I wonder

     what it is

          that I will accomplish

               today

if anything

     can be called

          that marvelous word.

               It won't be 

my kind of work,

     which is only putting

          words on a page,

               the pencil

 

haltingly calling up

     the light of the world,

          yet nothing appearing on paper

               half as bright

as the mockingbird's

     verbal hilarity

          in the still unleafed shrub

               in the churchyard--

or the white heron

     rising

          over the swamp

               and the darkness, 

his yellow eyes

     and broad wings wearing

          the light of the world

               in the light of the world--

ah yes, I see him.

     He is exactly

          the poem

               I wanted to write,

It's particularly American to think about accomplishments as a way to measure success.  Whenever I meet a person for the first time, inevitably the same question bubbles to the top of the conversation:  "So what do you do?"

If you have a profession like mechanic or nurse or teacher or plumber, you are accepted into the fold of everyday, meat-and-potatoes life.  Because everyone understands jobs like these.  Tangible occupations with tangible accomplishments.  I take my car to my mechanic friend, and she will change my brake pads.  I talk to my cousin who's a nurse, and he advises me to have a suspicious-looking mole removed.  I turn to a teacher friend for advice if my kid is struggling with math, or my plumber brother if my bathtub drain is gurgling.

However, if the answer to the question "What do you do?" is "I'm a poet," the reactions of new acquaintances are polite--an awkward smile, uncomfortable laugh--or outright confusion, bordering on rudeness--"I better watch my grammar" or "Not much money in poetry, is there?"

Auto mechanics and nurses are essential/necessary.  Poets are mysterious.  They do strange things like watch freighters glide across a morning harbor and then go home to write about it.  Poetic accomplishment can't be readily measured.  I may have written a beautiful sonnet this morning, but that freshly-mowed lawn will receive more attention and praise that my elegant use of iambic pentameter.

Yet, for me, writing poetry is just as vital as being a cook.  Throwing together a lasagna is important work, satisfying hungry bellies.  On the other hand, poetry satisfies a hungry mind and soul.  Think about it.  When a person dies, the immediate response of friends and family is to drop off casseroles and meat trays, I'm assuming because the grief stricken are too grief-stricken to think about food preparation and consumption.

Don't misunderstand me.  Any act of kindness, big or small, makes the world a better place.  But salami and ham rolls simply can't bind up or comfort a broken heart.

The day my sister, Rose, died last year, I sat down with a collection of poems by Peter Markus titled When Our Fathers Return to Us as Birds.  In the book, Markus writes about the death of his father and the grieving process.  That book did more to comfort me than any tuna noodle bake could.  (My wife's cousin did drop off a bottle of Bailey's Irish Cream that night, which also helped.)

Big emotions are difficult to understand and master.  Often, finding the right words to perfectly capture grief or joy or fear or love makes this broken universe a little more endurable.  That is the greatest accomplishment of poetry.

Saint Marty is a poet, so watch your grammar and keep an eye out for white herons rising into the silky blue heavens.

June 18: "Oxygen," Great Commission, Father's Day

Mary Oliver tends the fire . . .

Oxygen

by:  Mary Oliver

Everything needs it:  bone, muscles, and even,

while it calls the earth its home, the soul.

So the merciful, noisy machine

stands in our house working away in its

lung-like voice.  I hear it as I kneel 

before the fire, stirring with a

stick of iron, letting the logs

lie more loosely.  You, in the upstairs room,

are in your usual position, leaning on your

right shoulder which aches

all day.  You are breathing

patiently; it is a

beautiful sound.  It is

your life, which is so close

to my own that I would not know

where to drop the knife of

separation.  And what does this have to do

with love, except

everything?  Now the fire rises

and offers a dozen, singing, deep-red

roses of flame.  Then it settles

to quietude, or maybe gratitude, as it feeds

as we all do, as we must, upon the invisible gift:

our purest, sweet necessity:  the air.

Everything on this planet needs oxygen in some way.  It's the element that binds us all together, fueling life and love and fire and finches.  In the time I have typed these words, I have taken exactly 12 breaths.  Twelve bites of oxygen to keep this machine of lungs and blood and muscles and bones running.  

Of course, as Oliver points out, the soul (if you believe in souls) doesn't require oxygen to continue to exist.  But, for the time that the soul is tied to this world, it uses the body as its Millennium Falcon, its Enterprise.  And oxygen is the coaxium or dilithium crystals (depending on your sci fi universe of choice) that powers the body.

I've been thinking a lot about the soul today, for some reason.  Today is Father's Day in the United States, 24 hours set aside to honor fathers and father figures.  I attended two church services this morning, and the sermons were all about Christ sending his disciples out into the world to spread the good news.  In Biblical terms, it's called the Great Commission.  Gathering souls for God.

My dad forced me to go to church when I was young.  It wasn't a choice.  We were expected to attend Mass every weekend.  (For the most part, I followed this edict, except for a couple years of rebellion in my late teens, when I attended the Church of Burger King every Sunday, instead.)  For a long time, as well, my father forced my siblings and me to recite the rosary after dinner.  After the dishes were cleared off the table and the food put away, we all got on our knees and prayed.

In a way, I suppose, my dad was doing his part for the Great Commission.  Teaching my siblings and me how to live good, devout lives.  Of course, as children are wont to do, we all followed our own paths.  None of us have turned our backs on God, but none of us get down on our knees every day to recite the rosary, either.

Through my whole life, the lessons I learned from my parents have guided my actions as an adult and husband and father.  I am the person I am today because I was raised by two loving individuals.  I might not have liked all of my father's beliefs or ideas, but I always knew that I was loved.  That was the oxygen of my family.

I have tried to be the oxygen for my kids.  My daughter taught me how to be a father.  My son taught me how to be a father unconditionally, no matter what.  You see, I spent a lot of time as a teenager and young adult wondering if my dad really even liked me because I was so different from all of my brothers and sisters.  And I voted for Michael Dukakis in my first U. S. presidential election.

I think that both my kids know that I love them without question.  That I'm proud of the young people they've become.  My job as their dad is to keep that fire burning brightly for the rest of my life.  That is a child's sweetest necessity.  That is a father's Great Commission--to be that oxygen.

Saint Marty has a poem for this Father's Day:

My Son’s Cars

by:  Martin Achatz

When I read to my son, he runs
from me, as if I’m a hungry lion,
he, a well-fed Christian condemned
by Nero. I have never played with green
soldiers, refuse to buy toy guns or darts,
still have my daughter’s old dolls
in the toy chest. My son obsesses over
cars, matchbox tractors, helicopters tiny
as frogs. I don’t know where he learned
this hunger, if it somehow mutated
from some Neanderthal gene, hairy,
full of mammoth hunts, stone wheels.
He sits on the floor, growls, makes sounds
of rusty mufflers, truck engines stuck
in pools of swamp mud. I listen,
watch him shove cars across hardwood,
think of my father, the plumber, hunter,
car guy, in the front row for Our Town
when I was in high school. He watched me
the way he watches the Super Bowl
every year, as if his life depends on
his team bringing home the Vince Lombardi
Trophy. I took my bow, looked at my father,
standing, clapping, maybe understanding
Thornton Wilder’s words about how
we all go through life, ignorant of
toast mothers make for breakfast,
grass fathers mow on summer nights,
our daily acts of devotion, sacrifices
we make without even thinking.
I will sit in stadium bleachers
if my son joins the football team.
I will buy popcorn, cheer, stomp.
I will do this for him, not quite
comprehending the rules of his game,
the mechanics of toy cars pushed
straight through the walls of my heart.

June 17: "Lead," Loons, My Dad

Mary Oliver tells a sad story . . . 

Lead

by:  Mary Oliver

Here is a story

to break your heart.

Are you willing?

This winter

the loons came to our harbor

and died, one by one,

of nothing we could see.

A friend told me

of one on the shore

that lifted its head and opened

the elegant beak and cried out

in the long, sweet savoring of its life

which, if you have heard it,

you know is a sacred thing,

and for which, if you have not heard it,

you had better hurry to where

they still sing.

And, believe me, tell no one

just where that is.

The next morning

this loon, speckled

and iridescent and with a plan

to fly home

to some hidden lake,

was dead on the shore.

I tell you this

to break your heart,

by which I mean only

that it break open and never close again

to the rest of the world.

Here is a blog post to break your heart.

I live a few blocks from a small, inland lake.  During the summer months, sometimes in the morning but mostly near dusk, I will hear loons singing to the rising or setting sun.  If you've never heard the song of a loon, you've missed one of the most beautiful sounds in nature, I think.  

A loon call can be both celebration and lament.  "Look at the sun!" or "Look at the moon!" or "Winter is coming!" or "Farewell!  Farewell!"  (Loons also figure prominently in one of my dad's favorite Henry Fonda movies--On Golden Pond--a film that Jane Fonda bought solely for her dad.  It won him an Oscar, which would be a pretty cool Father's Day present.)  Loons are thought to mate for life, with the male and female building nests together out of reeds and grasses near lakeshores.  A loon unleashes its signature tremolo in response to perceived threats or territorial disputes, and as a night concert or duet with its mate.

This Father's Day eve, I'm thinking a lot about my dad for obvious reasons.  And I'm thinking about fatherhood, in general.  As I've said in previous posts, my relationship with my father was complicated.  We were very different people with very different beliefs.  Don't misunderstand--I loved my dad, and I know he loved me in his own way.  We were not a hugging family.  Physical demonstrations of love were reserved for special occasions, like births or weddings or funerals.  As a result, I can count on one hand the number of times I remember hearing my father say, "I love you."

After my dad died, I inherited many of his nice hats.  My dad was kind of a hoarder.  He never threw anything out.  Thus, I have some caps and a fedora that are probably 70-years-old.  In my mind's eye, I always picture my father wearing some kind of head covering, mostly out of necessity (he was quite bald, something else I inherited from him).

As I sit typing tonight, I am wearing my dad's fedora.  It's charcoal gray and has seen its better days.  I think it was my dad's fancy hat--the one he wore on special occasions.  When it sits on my head, I sometimes think about all the sacrifices my father made to raise and support our family.  I have eight siblings (or had--two of my sisters and one brother have died in the last few years).  Consequently, my dad worked hard to put food on the table and clothing on our backs.  That was his way of showing love for all of us.

My approach to fatherhood is quite different.  I tell my kids that I love them.  I probably say it way too much, especially to my son who is now 14-years-old and refuses to admit how cool I am.  I cry.  Hug.  Kiss.  Tell them how proud I am of their accomplishments.  If my father got his parenting style from Clint Eastwood/John Wayne, I got mine from Pa Ingalls/Michael Landon.   

My father was the best father he knew how to be.  He wasn't perfect, by any means.  But he loved us all, fiercely, in his own way.

Saint Marty isn't a perfect father, either, but he is willing to step outside to let his heart break open for the world and everything in it--loons, lakes, my wife and kids, my dad. 

June 16: "Hum," Bees This Spring, Impermanent and Imperfect

Mary Oliver admires bees . . . 

Hum

by:  Mary Oliver

What is this dark hum among the roses?

     The bees have gone simple, sipping,

that's all.  What did you expect?  Sophistication?

     They're small creatures and they are

filling their bodies with sweetness, how could they not

     moan in happiness?  The little

worker bee lives, I have read, about three weeks.

     Is that long?  Long enough, I suppose, to understand

that life is a blessing.  I have found them--haven't you?--

     stopped in the very cups of the flowers, their wings

a little tattered--so much flying about, to the hive,

     then out into the world, then back, and perhaps dancing,

should the task be to be a scout--sweet, dancing bee.

     I think there isn't anything in this world I don't

admire.  If there is, I don't know what it is.  I

     haven't met it yet.  Nor expect to.  The bee is small,

and since I wear glasses, so I can see the traffic and

     read books, I have to

take them off and bend close to study and

     understand what is happening.  It's not hard, it's in fact

as instructive as anything I have ever studied.  Plus, too,

     it's love almost too fierce to endure, the bee

nuzzling like that into the blouse

     of the rose.  And the fragrance, and the honey, and of course

the sun, the purely pure sun, shining, all the while over

     all of us.

I haven't seen any bees yet this spring.  Usually, when my lilac bushes bloom, they are swarmed with worker bees.  Perhaps because we have experienced a fairly cool May and early June, the bees aren't moving yet.  Or maybe the bees that haunt my backyard every summer have found a better place to fill their bodies with sweetness.

I've always taken those bees for granted.  Ever since I moved into this house going on three decades ago, those little workers have appeared every May to sip and dance.  Yet, here I am in 2023, with half the year gone, and not a single dark hum among the lilacs can be heard in my backyard.  The silence is pretty deafening.

If there's one thing that the last six or seven years have taught me it's that the world, and all that's in it, is temporary, including bees and trees, rocks and rivers, forests and friends.  Everything will eventually disappear.  Eight years ago, I was one of nine siblings.  Both of my parents were alive.  My friend, Helen, was still hosting solstice ceremonies and yoga workshops.  "Loss" was not a word that passed through my mind or lips very often.

Now, I am one of six living siblings.  Both of my parents have shuffled off this mortal coil.  And Helen has made the transition from presence to memory, quickly taking on the mantle of myth.  All of my dead have returned to dust, their elemental carbon, flecked with bits of bone and teeth.  These bodies we inhabit for a short time on this planet are merely vessels--impermanent and imperfect.  

I'm not a person who holds on to curls of hair or wears a locket engraved with the whorls and scars of lost loved ones' thumbprints.  On this thumbprint of a planet, we are not what we are made of--not the fists of heart clenching and unclenching in our chests.  Not the boats of lungs cradling and shuttling oxygen to brains and limbs.  No.

We are more than all these parts.  I am more than the muscles in my fingers that push a pen across a page, trying to capture memories and thoughts.  The bees are gone.  Maybe they'll eventually reappear sometime this summer, or not.  I recently visited my parents' and sisters' cremation stones at the cemetery. What remains of their physicality--the shoulders I hugged, lips I kissed--is now grit and powder.  They have been reduced and set free.

They were more in the deer I saw grazing grass nearby that day, slowly moving their jaws, staring at me as if I was a friend they hadn't seen in a long, long time.  Someone whose name they couldn't quite remember.

Maybe the mosquitoes and bees were humming my name in their twitching ears:

Saint Marty, Saint Marty, Saint Marty.

June 15: "Thirst," Out Loud, Helen's Gospels

Mary Oliver gets thirsty . . . 

Thirst

by:  Mary Oliver

Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have.  I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons.  Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time.  Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart.  Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning.

Most people try to live the best lives that they can.  Be kind.  Laugh a lot.  Help out friends and family in need.  Read good books.  Watch good movies.  Be grateful for everything you have.

Of course, like everyone else, I try to follow these simple rules for happiness.  However, like everyone else, as well, I fail on a daily basis.  I have a thirst for the goodness I do not have, just like Oliver.  I want things that I can't afford.  If I had the money, I'd travel more.  If I had the time, I'd write and publish more.  If I had the power, I'd make sure Donald Trump went to prison for espionage and rape.  

I think those things would make me happy.  In reality, however, happiness is slippery.  Thirst for goodness that's out of reach is unquenchable.  Being an insulin-dependent diabetic since I was 13, I know a few things about thirst.  When my blood sugar gets out of control, I experience craving for water that, literally, can't be satisfied, no matter how much I drink.

Physiologically, the explanation for this thirst is pretty simple.  When the body's blood sugar gets very high, the kidneys need to produce more urine to try to excrete the excess glucose.  So, the kidneys crank out more pee, and the brain sends out messages to drink more water to make up for the fluid loss.  So, you drink more water, pee more, and then feel the need to drink more water again.  It's an unending cycle, until the blood sugar is regulated to normal levels.

And that thirst is wicked.  It's difficult to describe to non-diabetics.  It's like running the Badwater Ultramarathon through Death Valley with only an eight ounce bottle of water.  No matter how much you drink, your brain tells you to drink more, to the point where you can make yourself throw up.   

So, I understand bottomless thirst.

Tonight, I'm hosting an open mic event called Out Loud.  I inherited Out Loud from one of my best friends, Helen.  As most of my faithful disciples know, Helen passed away late last summer.  Helen was a force of creative nature--dancing between poetry and visual art and blogging and yoga.  Sometimes in the space of a few hours.

Out Loud was all Helen, from the food and flowers to organization and hosting.  It has been going on for well over ten years, every third Thursday of the month.  Even at the start of the pandemic, when everyone was sheltering in place and avoiding all human contact, Out Loud went on, prior to the Zoom revolution.  Artists and poets uploaded videos and images, and Helen emailed those files to friends and followers.

Out Loud went on and continues to go on now, in Helen's spirit.  Helen really did have a thirst for the goodness of the entire universe--plants and animals and water, people and Bigfoot and comets.  I have never met a person who reveled in life as much as her.  Helen was unafraid to jump into the deep end of the ocean (she loved water), stand in front of a group of people and make a fool of herself (she never looked foolish), get lost in a foreign land (she always found people willing to help her out), embrace darkness (she always found light), and share in sorrow (she honored the dead and was surrounded by their guiding spirits).  

Helen guzzled life as if she knew her time on this planet was going to be short.  She taught me (and everyone she knew) how to live authentically, and, in the end, how to let go with grace.

Saint Marty is still thirsty for his friend Helen's stories--gospels she shared every third Thursday for years and years.  

June 14: "The Chat," Hot Shit, Pretty Amazing

Mary Oliver birdwatches/listens/meditates . . . 

The Chat

by:  Mary Oliver

I wish

     I were

          the yellow chat

               down in the thickets

who sings all night,

     throwing

          into the air

               praises

and panhandles,

     plaints,

          in curly phrases,

               half-rhymes,

free verse too,

     with head dipping

           and wing-wringing,

               with soft breast

rising into the air--

     meek and sleek,

          broadcasting,

               with no time out

for pillow-rest,

     everything--

          pathos,

               thanks--

oh, Lord,

     what a lesson

          you send me

               as I stand

listening

     to your rattling, swamp-loving chat

          singing

               of his simple, leafy life--

how I would like to sing to you

     all night

         in the dark

               just like that.

I have a confession:  I wouldn't know a yellow-breasted chat if it perched on my head and shit in my eyes.  

After reading Oliver's poem, I did a little research.  Found some pictures.  Listened to recordings of chat song.  Read about migration and mating and habitat.  Now, I'm book smart when it comes to chats, but I probably still wouldn't recognize one unless it was wearing a name tag:  "Hello!  My name is Chat."

I have friends who are incredible birders.  With one eye closed, they can pick a pine warbler out of a lineup at 100 paces.  With both eyes closed, they can name a white-breasted nuthatch in one note.  It's a skill I've always admired.  About the only feathered creatures I can identify by song are a duck (QUACK!), a goose (HONK!), and a loon (Katherine Hepburn in On Golden Pond).  

One website said this about chat birdsong:  "...males deliver streams of whistles, cackles, chuckles, and gurgles with the fluidity of improvisational jazz."  Picture Charlie Parker with feathers.  I mean, his nickname was "Bird."  Birds sing for various reasons--claiming and defending territory ("this shit is mine!"), attracting a mate ("I'm hot shit!"), courtship duets ("Shit, I'm into you!"), and general communication (new food source--"this shit tastes good!"; incubation duty--"time to sit on the eggs, dumbshit!"; and keeping in touch while flying--"hey, shithead, I'm over here!").  

Why am I telling you all of this?  Because, when I read poems, I can sometimes get lost chasing rabbits down holes.  If I don't understand a line or reference in a line, I have to look information up.  For example, this whole bird digression started with me typing "chat bird" into Google.  Here I sit, almost an hour later, listening to recordings of birds and typing the word "shit" six times.  (Full disclosure, I am ADHD, so I can get distracted pretty easily.)

But the digressions are the fun part of writing for me.  It's where discovery and inspiration happen.  For instance (this one just flew into my head), think of the word "chat" in Oliver's poem.  She's obviously referring to a very specific type of bird.  Yet, "chat" can also refer to casual conversation, too, as in "I had a nice chat with my wife this morning."  Oliver writes that the chat is "singing / of his simple, leafy life."  The chat is chatting with the Lord.  And then Oliver gets to the heart of the poem:  she wants to sing praises all night long, just like the swamp-loving chat. 

That is Oliver's message today, and mine.  I'm whistling, cackling, chuckling, and gurgling praise for birds and singing and poetry.  At the end of a long, long day of work, I sit down, open up a book, and find words that fill me with wonder and make me want to write.  

Saint Marty thinks that shit's pretty amazing.  As Vonnegut's bird says:  Poo-tee-weet?