August 21: "Paris," Helen, "The Path to Joy"

Today is the two-year anniversary of the passing of one of my best friends, Helen.  

It's hard to say all the things I've been feeling today, from sadness to happiness, joy to grief.  Helen was a force for goodness in the world.  I don't say that about a whole lot of people, but it truly does apply to her.  Through her Joy Center, a beautiful artist retreat she owned and ran, Helen fostered creativity, mindfulness, art, music, film, food--anything that incited laughter and friendship.

Helen was in my life for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  She was an amazing writer and poet.  Many an afternoon at the university, we sat in her office or mine and wrote.  We traveled to Stratford, Ontario, one summer to attend the Shakespeare Festival.  Went to a conference together to do presentations on poetics for a discussion panel.  When I was named U.P. Poet Laureate, Helen was one of the first people to ask me to do a poetry reading.  She lifted me up through some very dark times in my life.  

The word that came to my mind this morning when I was thinking about Helen was "hope."  A lot of people think of hope as kind of an empty thing.  I hope to win the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry or the Nobel Prize in Literature.  I hope to live until I'm 115 years old.  I hope I win the lottery.  You see what I mean?  Hope can be used to foster a lot of unrealistic expectations.  

For Helen, though, hope was as real and palpable as wild raspberries or sea-salt caramels.  She believed the best in people.  When Donald Trump was elected in 2016, she and I shared several days of darkness.  Then, she sent me a text message saying that she was going to stop being so . . . doomsday.  Instead, Helen chose to hold onto the idea that everything little thing was going to be alright.  (Cue Bob Marley.)  Yes, she even tried to believe there was goodness in that dumpster fire of a President.  Helen was the living embodiment of hope.

Billy Collins finds hope in Paris . . . 

Paris

by: Billy Collins

In the apartment someone gave me, 

the bathroom looked out on a little garden 

at the bottom of and air shaft 

with a few barely sprouting trees, 

ivy clinging to the white cinder blocks, 

a blue metal table and a rusted chair 

where, it would seem, no one had ever sat. 

Every morning, a noisy bird 

would flutter down between the buildings, 

perch on a thin branch and yell at me 

in French bird-talk 

while I soaked in the tub 

under the light from the pale translucent ceiling. 

And while he carried on, I would lie there 

in the warm soapy water 

wondering what shirt I would put on that day, 

what zinc-covered bar I would stand at 

with my Herald-Tribune and a cup of strong coffee. 

After a lot of squawking, he would fly 

back into the sky leaving only the sound 

of a metal store-front being raised 

or a scooter zipping by outside, 

which was my signal 

to stand up in the cloudy water 

and reach for a towel, 

time to start concentrating on which way 

I would turn after I had locked the front door, 

what shop signs I would see, 

what bridges I would lean on 

to watch the broad river undulating 

like a long-playing record under the needle of my eye. 

Time to stand dripping wet and wonder 

about the hordes of people 

I would pass in the street, mostly people 

whose existence I did not believe in, 

but a few whom I would glance at 

and see my whole life 

the way you see the ocean from the shore. 

One morning after another, 

I would fan myself dry with a towel 

and wonder about what paintings 

I would stand before that day, 

looking forward to the usual — 

the sumptuous reclining nudes, 

the knife next to a wedge of cheese, 

a landscape with pale blue mountains, 

the heads and shoulders of gods 

struggling with one another, 

a foot crushing a snake — 

but always hopeful for something new 

like yesterday’s white turkeys in a field 

or a single stalk of asparagus on a plate 

in a small gilded frame, 

always ready, now that I am dressed, 

to cheer the boats of the beautiful, 

the boats of the strange, 

as they float down the river of this momentous day.

Helen faced life like Collins does in this poem.  She got up, got dressed, and headed out into the world to cheer the boats of the beautiful and strange.  Every day was momentous for her, and she taught me how to chase momentousness every time I was in her company.

Occasionally now, I hear a beautiful bird singing or see a beautiful wildflower, and I know Helen is with me.  If there are guardian angels in the universe, she is one of them, looking out for us all, making everything so much brighter.

Saint Marty lifts up his friend, Helen, today.  She was a true force of joyful chaos and love.

A poem I wrote for Helen's celebration of life . . . 

The Path to Joy

by: Martin Achatz

for Helen

“The path to joy, like with sadness, did not lead away from suffering and adversity, but through it.”
          --the Dalai Lama

I have tried, Helen, tried
in these days since you called
me to say “I’m ready” and “I’ll be
with you always,” yes, I have
tried to find that path you walked
every day, the one that took you
by Penis Pond in frozen January
where two middle school girls
on snowshoes stamped out
the shape of an erect penis
in fresh snow on lake ice
for a month straight, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Then there was the Heritage Trail
path where you found
handfuls of ripe raspberries,
crammed them in your mouth,
let their juice spill down
your chin, stain your lips
the color of cardinal wings, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Or that path to a cove in Maine
where oyster shells flashed, seaweed
and salt filled your lungs
with the breath of whales, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
How about that path up Croagh Patrick
in County Mayo, where you found
a sacred stone emblazoned with
the image of Bigfoot, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
So many paths, through mountains
in Spain, along beaches in Greece.
India. Scotland. Idaho. Superior. Atlantic.
Pacific. Aegean. Rushmore and Eiffel.
Joy and joy and joy and joy and joy.
Longitudes of it. Latitudes of it.
Your compass always pointed Due
Joy. So this is where you have led
me tonight, Helen—to a poem
where I have used the word joy
ten times already—because tears
are full of oceans, and grief tastes
like kumquats, a nova of sour
on the tongue, then sweetness
returning, the way you always
did, clicking your heels together
three times, saying over and over,
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.