When I got back from church this morning, it looked like it was going to rain. The clouds were muddy, and there was a cold breeze. It had rained earlier, a short burst of precipitation about seven this morning. When I woke up, I could hear it pelting the windows.
I needed to mow the lawn today. That was my plan--go to church, come home, cut the grass. I almost changed my mind, but I decided to take a chance. It was a jungle in my backyard. My front yard was a little more subdued. So, I dragged out the mower and started. Over the hour-and-a-half that I was working, the sky kept getting darker and darker. Any minute, I expected the clouds to split open on my head.
It didn't happen.
I finished the job, put away the mower. Went for ice cream, even though it was only about fifty degrees. Then I came home and took a shower. Now, at 5 p.m., the rain has finally started. Can hear it hitting the dining room window. It's a lazy sound. Makes me want to just put on my pajamas, turn off all the lights, close my eyes, and listen.
You know, I have said this before--I have a very blessed life. I have a home, beautiful wife, great kids, two jobs that almost pay all the bills. I'm not rich. Barely have a bank account. Some weeks, I'm not sure how I'm going to put gas in my car. But these are all first world problems. My daughter and son aren't begging on the streets for food or scavenging through garbage cans for returnable cans. I don't have to sell my blood or internal organs for money. My wife isn't cooking up stray dogs for dinner.
In the midst of my day-to-day struggles, I sometimes lose sight of how lucky I really am. I think everybody does. Sure, I'm not teaching this summer, and, because of this, we're going to be living paycheck-to-paycheck for the next three-plus months. But, this drought will end. It always does. Just when I'm shopping one of my kidneys around at the end of August, the first paycheck from the university shows up.
It's easy to get discouraged. I'm going to try to avoid that in this coming week. Last week of school for the kids. End -of-year dance recital next weekend. Doors are closing and opening. I'm leading a Bigfoot poetry workshop this Thursday. Really looking forward to that. Poetry workshop and open mic tomorrow night. As the song goes, June is bustin' out all over. Blessings in the air like lilacs.
Four years ago, I was feeling a little sorry for myself, too. Lots of things were changing. My brother had just died. I started a new job that I really didn't want. I was floundering around for some kind of hope . . .
June 3, 2014: A Childish Way, Discouraged, Prayer for Hope
"That remains to be seen. But I am going to save you, and I want you to quiet down immediately. You're carrying on in a childish way. Stop your crying! I can't stand hysterics."
Charlotte loves Wilbur tremendously, but she can't stand it when he turns into a blubbering mess. Charlotte never doubts that she will eventually save her friend from the smokehouse. Wilbur, on the other hand, has several crises of faith. He believes in Charlotte, but he sometimes descends into bouts of hopelessness and despair, punctuated with sobbing and wallowing in manure.
Hope is a great motivator, but, like a pumpkin sprout, it takes a lot of work to keep it alive. Water. Fertilizer. Sun. More water. The one summer I tried to grow pumpkins, I ended up spending $50 on dirt and probably four times that on irrigation. The results of my efforts: two pumpkins the size of large blueberries. Hope is even harder than a pumpkin to nurture.
Like Wilbur, I tend to wallow in manure quite a bit. I have hope. I know I do. I can feel its seed deep inside me. However, I have a hard time keeping it alive. As I just said, I'm a wallower. I have never had a green thumb. My tendency is toward darkness. I'm a mushroom, not a pumpkin.
Tonight, I find myself a little down. Nothing has really happened to cause me to feel this way. My new job is going well. I have Intro to Film to teach at the university for the fall semester. I'm the new Poetry Editor of the university's literary magazine. I should feel pretty good about my life. But I don't. Not tonight, anyway. I feel stuck. I'm tired of struggling. Money. Work. Teaching. Everything.
Hope. That's what I need. That's what the world needs. A vision or chance of something better. World peace. A pay raise. An end to global warming. A full-time job at the university. Universal healthcare in the United States. A publisher for my newest poetry collection. An end to world hunger. Something better.
That's my prayer intention for this week. I'm going to pray for hope, for myself, for you, for this entire messed-up world.
Saint Marty wants to be a pumpkin, not a pile of manure.
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| Sometimes, out of manure, comes something beautiful |
And a poem for tonight .. . .
Attic Stairs
by: Martin Achatz
after Theodore Roethke's "Root Cellar"
Nothing could climb those stairs, crowded as corn
Fields at harvest, clothes piled like old photos--
Son at three months, daughter in kindergarten--
Leaning, spilling from diaper boxes,
Sleeves and legs akimbo, like monkey bars and slides.
And what a crib of smells!
Dresses fresh as dandelion soup,
Pajamas, lotion-seeped, urine-rich,
Shoes, bottles, burp cloths, leather, rubber, and spit.
All held on to child:
Even the wood steps cried a small milk cry.
