December 12: Compassionate Power, Forgiveness, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Beekeeper"

As his hair turned white, his features took on a compassionate power.  On some of those evenings, when people would get up and tearfully describe their tribulations, Mr. Ives would listen, his face reflecting the conviction of a man who may well have seen a Cross-of-light or an image of the Holy Mother in the sky.

Ives is transformed by his tragedy.  In his grief and anger, he turns inward.  He believes in forgiveness, wants to forgive the boy who killed Robert.  Yet, he struggles, and it is through this struggle that he is transformed.  Ives is a good man, and, when given choices, he always chooses love and compassion over hatred and disappointment.

This post is about forgiveness.  I am asking you to forgive me for not posting last night.  My daughter's friend who's a boy came into town last night, and I took them to a movie.  Then I cleaned my house a little when I got home because we're throwing a birthday party for my daughter tonight.  By the time I was done with all that, I just had enough energy to brush my teeth and stumble into bed.

This weekend, I am going to finish up my semester's grading.  Papers and finals and research projects.  So, I'm asking you to forgive me, in advance, for the possibility of missing another post or two in the next few days.

I have not had the opportunity to draw many cartoons recently, so I am relying on Gary Larson, among others, to provide the artwork for the next couple of days, as well.  Forgive me for that.  I will return to normal programming in a few days.

I am also working on forgiving myself, for getting behind in my grading.  For not being done with the semester by now.  For not having my house party-ready this morning.  For barely having any Christmas shopping or baking done . . . I could continue, but you get the idea.

Forgiveness is about love.  Loving the people in your life.  Loving yourself.  Loving God.  It is through this love that transformation takes place.  Love can be like a bee sting.  It hurts at the outset, but it is through this pain that flowers are pollinated and blossom.  Ives takes on the appearance of a mystic through his struggles with forgiveness and love.  I have no idea what love and forgiveness will do for me.

Maybe Saint Marty will be transformed into Saint George Clooney of the Cross.

The Beekeeper

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

In linen, hat, and gauze
she tends the humming hives,
a vigil without pause
around the honeyed lives.

A sting from time to time
reminds her of the bite
of love, which is a mime,
and shimmers in the light,

but shoots a poisoned dart--
and how the sweetest care
--a jewel, a tender heart--
can turn into a snare.

And so she meditates,
mellifluous, refined,
on memories of fetes,
still golden in her mind;

and when the autumn brings
its chills and idle hours,
she sweeps up brittle wings
and lives on garnered flowers.

Rubes Christmas Cartoon

Rudolph struggled with forgiveness, too

December 10: Inexplicable Energy, Son's Christmas Program, Catharine Savage Brown, "The Gardener," A Gary Larson Christmas

Ives standing beside him, with his arm around Robert's shoulder, felt a surge of inexplicable energy rushing through him . . . The goodness of God? he had wondered.

Pope John XXIII blesses Ives' son.  The Ives' family spends Holy Week in Italy, and, on Holy Thursday, after Mass at the church of Saint John Lateran, the Holy Father passes through the gathered crowds.  As he does so, he reaches out and lays his hand on Robert's head.  And Ives feels something.  A wave of contentment that Ives is convinced comes from God.

This morning, I attended my son's elementary school Christmas program.  I had to get there two hours early to get a good seat.  The gym was packed, from the folding chairs on the floor to the very top of the bleachers.  Grandmas and grandpas and mothers and fathers and aunts and uncles.  When that many people gather together, things happen.  People get rude.  They push and shove.  Stand up when they should sit the hell down.  Talk when they should shut the hell up.

And yet, there's a great deal of happiness.  The little kids, dressed in their Christmas best, shout and wave and sing.  When my son came into the gym, he searched for my wife and me.  His face split open with joy when he finally saw us.  Watching my son perform, I felt a wave of contentment, sort of like Ives.  For the first time this holiday season, I experienced some yuletide spirit.  And it was good.

Next Tuesday, we will be having an interment ceremony at the cemetery for my sister.  Her cremation stone is finally in place.  I spent the afternoon making the arrangements with the priest and sexton and funeral home director.  It was sad business, and yet I kept remembering my son's face when he first glimpsed me in the gymnasium this morning.  The pure and utter goodness that radiated from his smile.

Saint Marty will try to cultivate that feeling for the next five or so days, like a gardener waiting for his seeds and bulbs to bloom in a gray afternoon.

The Gardener

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

To wait on sun and rain,
as heaven may propose;
to order his demesne,
or worry for a rose,

a man abandons time--
the trope of days and hours--
like poets for a rhyme--
or measures it in flowers.

He tends each plant and tree,
pursuing each defect
as if assuming he
were summer's architect;

and under autumn's skies
with pruners, rake, and spade
devises their disguise
for winter's masquerade;

then to the gardener's shed
to leave his tools behind,
and cultivate instead
the garden of his mind.

A Gary Larson Christmas

I love The Far Side

December 9: Anything Weird, Daughter's Band Concert, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Camper"

"You ever see anything weird, Pop?  Anything mysterious ever happen to you?"

It's a question Robert asks his dad.  Ives has never spoken about his mystical vision with his son.  Robert confesses that he's had dreams about seeing Jesus.  Later, Ives thinks that Robert already knew his sad fate.  That somehow his son knew he would die young.

I really do not have anything deep to discuss this evening.  I just got back from my daughter's Christmas band concert.  It was wonderful.  The sixth graders played carols that only contained seven notes.  The eighth graders did a Charlie Brown Christmas medley.  The high school band played a complicated piece by the Trans Siberian Orchestra. 

The gym was packed.  Standing room only.  There were plenty of weird things to see.  Lots of ugly Christmas sweaters.  A kid who filmed the entire concert on his iPhone, panning the crowd in sweeping circles every once in a while.  And then there were the football fathers who were simply too cool for yule.  Weirdness abounded.

Now, Saint Marty has papers to grade, and miles to go before he sleeps. 

Another poem from the Poet of the Week:

The Camper

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

The choice is his alone
to rough it in the woods,
without a telephone
and less of worldly goods.

He has his little tent,
his pack and cooking gear,
and thinks his time well spent
if no one else is near.

He cooks the fish he's caught,
he studies plants and birds,
and cultivates his thought,
economizing words,

and even by the fire,
which warms his pensive mood,
forswearing all desire,
believes in solitude.

Yet winds will sing, and trees
will dance, their leaves unfurled,
when in his dreams he sees
connections with the world.

Yes, I was too lazy to draw my own cartoon

December 8: A Kind Heart, Charlie Brown, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Skater," Off the Top of My Head

"He had a kind heart," she [Annie] said to one class in East Harlem.  "He believed that only a heartless society would leave its unfortunate poor to its sad fortune."

Annie is a substitute teacher.  At Christmas time, she regales her students with stories about Charles Dickens and A Christmas Carol.  She talks about Dickens' dedication to the poor, how he wrote the tale of Ebenezer Scrooge to make British citizens aware of the desperation and poverty that existed in their midst.  Dickens believed that society had an obligation to take care of the sick, poor, destitute, and abandoned.  Everyone deserved to be taken care of.

This time of year, everybody is more aware of poverty and hunger.  I'm sure it has a lot to do with Christmas and its attendant goodwill.  Generosity is abundant around the holidays.  Food pantries are stocked full.  Salvation Army buckets sing with coins.  Even the biggest Scrooges begrudgingly open their wallets to help out the Tiny Tims of the world.

I am in a much better place, mentally, than I was last night.  Last night, my world seemed a little suffocating.  Too many bills.  Too many obligations.  Too many papers to grade.  And too little money or time to make any difference.  Tonight, I have gained a little perspective, and I have been blessed with the love and help of some of my loved ones.  I feel humbled and hopeful right now.

I think of Charlie Brown and Snoopy and Linus, skating on that pond while a children's choir sings "Christmas Time is Here."  I have been reminded that Christmas time is here, and it is a time of miracles.

Saint Marty wants to thank the miracle workers in his life this evening.

The Skater

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

The lake is frozen white;
the trees stand cold and stark.
He skates alone tonight,
a shiver in the dark,

and traces on the ice
the figures of his thought,
composing his device,
infinity and naught--

the zero and the eight
both eloquent and mute,
their immaterial weight
from some celestial chute;

then, gazing at the place
where gods and heroes shine,
correlatives of space,
he cuts a cryptic sign,

the heaven may regard
his momentary flame,
the shadows shaped and starred
for crystalline acclaim.

Off the Top of My Head

December 7: Poet of the Week, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Pianist," "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

I have been struggling recently with the idea of disappointment.

I don't like disappointing people.  As a teacher, I get near-migraines when I can't get my grading done in a timely fashion for my students.  As a husband, I constantly feel like a failure when I don't earn enough money to provide for my family properly.  As a father, I experience incredible sadness when I can't afford to pay for my kids' dental appointments or dance costumes.  Every day, I fight a losing battle and go to bed plagued by disappointments.

This morning, driving to work, I had a long talk with God.  I talked about a lot of stuff.  Work.  Kids.  Teaching.  Money.  Loss.  Grief.  I simply had to unload all the things that have been floating around in my head for the past weeks.  By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I wasn't feeling unburdened and peaceful.  More like angry and resentful at a Supreme Being that seems to be constantly testing my trust and love.

God can take my anger and disappointment.  He understands.  But, at the moment, I take no comfort in that.  I would prefer a God that drops a tenure-track job in my lap.  Or a God that fixes the brakes on my car or makes my mortgage payment.  It would be really easy to love a God like that.

Unfortunately, God doesn't work like that.  God sometimes forces you to make hard decisions, like asking the Salvation Army to help you get Christmas presents for your kids.  Or bringing your sister home from the hospital under hospice care and watching her die.  God wants us to love Him in times of great happiness and great sorrow.

Sorry for the long ramble.  I've had these thoughts kicking around my head for several days, and my conversation with God this morning just made them a little harder to ignore.

I do have a new Poet of the Week.  Catharine Savage Brosman and the poems from her collection The Muscled Truce:

The Pianist

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

The notes convulse the air
before the final pause.
He rises, shakes his hair,
and bows to the applause.

The power of desire
preserved in every chord,
his purpose is entire,
and passion its reward,

for, with his practiced hands
and genius in his ears,
his body understands
all beauty that he hears;

but in another space,
where music is unknown
and evening has no face,
he finds himself alone,

and on the heart's clavier
a silent sound is heard,
the forming of a tear,
the falling of a bird.

I guess that poem appealed to me because of the ending.  The tear.  The dying bird.  The silent sound of isolation.  I may be surrounded by people all day, but very few of them will take the time to ask me "How are you?" and expect an honest answer.  That's the silence of the human condition a lot of the time.

So, today is Ives Dip Monday.  I have so many unanswered questions today that I don't know where to start.  So, maybe I'll just ask this:

Am I a disappointment to the people in my life?

And the answer:

...Those were changes that [Ives] liked, but, just the same, Ives had moments in the office when the sense that he had wasted himself creatively would come over him, and he would feel nostalgia for his younger days, when he had fantasies about the creative life...

Well, there you go.  Ives dealing with disappointment, as well.  I guess it's just part of being human to always want something better, something that's just out of reach.

Off the Top of My Head