July 28: "On Not Finding You at Home," Surprises, Control Freak

Billy Collins tries to visit a friend . . . 

On Not Finding You Home

by: Billy Collins

Usually you appear at the front door

when you hear my steps on the gravel,

but today the door was closed,

not a wisp of pale smoke from the chimney.

I peered into a window

but there was nothing but a table with a comb,

some yellow flowers in a glass of water

and dark shadows in the corners of the room.

I stood for a while under the big tree

and listened to the wind and the birds,

your wind and your birds,

your dark green woods beyond the clearing.

This is not what it is like to be you,

I realized as a few of your magnificent clouds

flew over the rooftop.

It is just me thinking about being you.

And before I headed back down the hill,

I walked in a circle around your house,

making an invisible line

which you would have to cross before dark.

I'm not a person who spontaneously drops by someone's house for an impromptu visit.  Perhaps it's my upbringing, but I think surprise appearances like the one Collins describes in today's poem border on rudeness.  (And my loyal disciples know how much I dislike surprises anyway.  They rank right up there with oral surgery and compound fractures.)

I prefer surprises that are planned out, announced in advance.  I know, I know.  That is antithesis of a surprise.  However, if you expect me to invest time in any kind of endeavor, I need to be forewarned.  Then I will be able to prepare for spontaneity.  Do not show up at my library office and expect me to go on a joy ride to Dairy Queen.  (Okay, I might be tempted by that one.)  At the very least, send me a text message a couple hours prior, allowing me to restructure my schedule.

Am I a control freak?  A little bit.  Yes.  When you work three and four jobs, you have to be a little . . . stringent when it comes to your day.  I was watching the Paris Olympics last night on NBC, and there was a story about one of the captains of the United States swim team.  This guy works full time, trains for hours every day, and has a wife and five-month-old son.  His life is a series of alarms followed by workouts followed by Zoom meetings followed by more workouts followed by family time followed by even more workouts.

My days during the school year are very similar in terms of switching gears all the time.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I teach.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm, I pick up my son from school.  Alarm.  I work at the library.  Alarm.  I pick up my wife from work.  Alarm.  I work at the library (probably hosting a program).  Drive home.  Pick out clothes for the next day.  Write a blog post/poem.  Bed.  

Now, I'm not punishing my body with three hour swims or weight training.  Yet, at the end of the day, I often feel like I've run a marathon or played a game of water polo.  (That's different from a game of Marco Polo, by the way.)  I need structure in order to accomplish everything I do in 24 hours.  Thus, surprises and spontaneity are anathema to me.  A wet dog nose in an unwelcome body crevice. 

Now that Saint Marty has finished this blog post, he will brush and floss, set his alarm for tomorrow morning, and try to sleep.  Just like every other night.

Photo courtesy of Abby Berry