First, I must apologize for being so sporadic with my blogging recently. There are many reasons I could cite. Busyness at the library with two huge programming series I've been working on for over a year. A poetic dry spell--everything I wrote sounding like I was heavily medicated and illiterate. And, of course, the shit show that is American politics at the moment (Agent Orange doing everything he can to cozy up to a war criminal while destroying the economy and credibility of the United States). In short, I have a lot of excuses, none of them very legitimate.
In the last few weeks, I've simply forgotten to focus on the blessings of my life.
Sharon Olds writes about the blessing of her daughter . . .
Pajamas
by: Sharon Olds
My daughter's pajamas lie on the floor
inside-out, thin and wrinkled as
peeled skins of peaches when you ease the
whole skin off at once.
You can see where her waist emerged, and her legs,
her arms, and head, the fine material
gathered in rumples like skin the caterpillar
ramped out of and left to shrivel.
You can see, there at the center of the bottoms,
the raised cotton seam like the line
down the center of fruit, where the skin first splits
and curls back. You can almost see the hard
halves of her young buttocks, the precise
stem-mark of her sex. Her shed
skin shines at my feet, and in the air there is a
sharp fragrance like peach brandy--
the birth-room pungence of her released life.
Olds has the ability to really cut to the heart of intimacy and love. There's something incredibly brave about this poem. She doesn't shy away from the physicality of relationships, whether she's writing about her husband, lover, children, parents, or siblings. That physicality is sacred to her. A blessing.
It is Ash Wednesday, but I didn't attend any church service or get my forehead smudged with an ashy cross. The reason for that: a blizzard. Since about 1 a.m., it has been snowing and blowing and drifting and snowing some more. I would estimate that we have accumulated almost two feet of new snow.
My son didn't have school. My wife worked from home. The library closed for the day, so I spent eight hours at home, sending out and answering emails, writing program descriptions, and shoveling. It was a productive day, but, of course, I didn't get half of the items on my to-do list to-done. So, I'm feeling a little like a failure.
As of this writing, it is still snowing and blowing outside. Just got a phone message that my son isn't going to have school again tomorrow. Here I sit, no ashy cross on my forehead (all church services got canceled today, as well), trying to avoid the impulse to doom scroll through Facebook.
I'm incredibly grateful and blessed. I have a job that I love and doesn't require me to risk my life. (When I worked in the healthcare industry, blizzards just slowed things down. It never stopped them completely.) I can sit on my couch, my puppy sleeping next to me, and get shit done. I have a wonderful, loving spouse, and a son that's pretty cool. Blessings upon blessing upon blessing, just like Olds.
Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about blizzard blessings based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:
In the poem "Nocturne," Susan Rich writes: I take my place in the insomniac's village. Write a poem about a time you were awake in the middle of the night--what you discovered about the world when everyone was sleeping, or what you learned about yourself. If you can't remember a specific incident, make one up. You might imagine being awake at midnight and hearing a raccoon on your porch, or pretending you are looking off your balcony in the city and you see two people kissing. What happens in the world when most people are asleep? Write a poem that surprises the reader with what s/he is missing.
Waiting for a Blizzard on Ash Wednesday
by: Martin Achatz
I listen at 2 a.m. this Ash Wednesday
for the promised blizzard to begin,
as if I'm in Gemelli Hospital listening
for the final gasps of a dying pope.
Everyone went to sleep hours ago--
wife snoring, puppy in her cage
huffing as if she's chasing a rabbit,
son's nose rattling with the start
of a cold. The furnace inhales
deeply, begins coughing out heat.
I know if I step outside, look
up, I'll see the dark lungs
of the sky bulging with snowy
breaths, ready to anoint
the forehead of the world
with a chrism of white.
