January 21, 2026: "Postscript," Cold, "There Are No Flowers in Minneapolis"

I truly appreciate all the people who responded to my last post.  It's easy to feel isolated right now.  You're never sure where people are politically or what subject is "safe."  It's exhausting.  So all the messages I received (both on this blog and privately) have made me feel less alone.

I am going to try to balance the good and the bad in my posts this year.  Believe it or not, there's still a lot of beauty in the world.  (It's just difficult to see it through all the teargas.  Sorry, not sorry.)  For example, I'm currently sitting in my new office at the library, looking out at Lake Superior from my window.  The lake is gray and cold-looking, the shoreline fringed with ice and snow.  It's austere and lovely, like a stern grandfather who always has a butterscotch in his pocket for you.  The world is full of wonder.

Marie Howe reflects on how we've treated the world . . . 

Postscript

by: Marie Howe

What we did to the earth, we did to our daughters

one after the other.

What we did to the trees we did to our elders

stacked in their wheelchairs by the lunchroom door.

What we did to our daughters, we did to our sons

calling out for their mothers.

What we did to the trees, what we did to the earth

we did to our sons, to our daughters.

What we did to the cow, to the pig, to the lamb,

we did to the earth, butchered and milked it.

Few of us knew what the bird calls meant

or what the fires were saying.

We took of earth and took and took, and the earth

seemed not to mind,

until one of our daughters shouted:  It was right

in front of you, right in front of your eyes

and you didn't see.

The air turned red.  The ocean grew teeth.

Yes, humankind has fucked up this planet greatly.  Howe is right about that.  We have taken and taken and taken, without considering the cost of each taken.  Hence, Deepwater Horizon and Exxon Valdez and Chernobyl.  The air is turning red, and the oceans do bite.

At the moment, my little corner of the Upper Peninsula is cold, and it's going to get colder and colder.  By Friday, windchills will hit -30 and -40 degrees Fahrenheit.  Those kinds of temperatures seem vindictive, like the earth is getting even with us for being such terrible stewards of its resources.  

But there was warmth and joy in my life this evening.  I hosted a concert at the library featuring two lovely musicians—the Seth Brown Duo.  The music lifted my spirits and reminded me that there are still good people in the world, despite the violence and outright cruelty occurring in the streets and neighborhoods of Minneapolis and St. Paul.  It’s very easy to lose sight of beauty and joy these days.

Tonight, I am grateful for music and friends.  Yes, the United States is a big ol’ dumpster fire at the moment, but change is coming.  It’s inevitable.  And, for 60 minutes tonight, I forgot to be frightened or pissed off.  Instead, I sang “Don’t Worry Be Happy” and “Imagine.”

Maybe John Lennon got it right—no heaven, no hell, just a world living as one.  We all need to be dreamers.

Saint Marty wrote a poem tonight about happiness.

There Are No Flowers in Minneapolis

by:  Martin Achatz

No fresh daisies push through

cracks in sidewalks, no plumes

of lilac dust the air.  Geraniums

stay hidden behind locked

doors, refuse to open, bloom.

Even florists hide their silken

arrays in basements, secret back

rooms, Anne Frank orchids that dream

of riding on young girls’ wrists

and sparrow chests for junior prom.

Even the morning glory avoids

the rising sun, hides its face

from anyone who wants to pluck

it before smiles start to blossom.

February 28: "Seashore," Best Foot, Driver's Training

Billy Collins watches a bird . . . 

Seashore

by:  Billy Collins

A banded

Piping Plover

puts its best foot forward

then the other.

Piping Plovers are amazing to watch on a beach, running toward the sea, running away from the sea, like kids playing tag on a school playground.  They're feathered puffs of confidence and fear, stepping forward, then retreating.

Like Collins' Piping Plover, I always try to put my best foot forward.  My mantra for most of my life has been "Go big or go home."  If I'm going to succeed, I'm going to succeed spectacularly.  If I'm going to fail, I will do so spectacularly, as well.  Either way, people are going to take notice.

I've had my share of successes, and I've fallen on my face a lot, too.  Of course, that describes most people's lives.  Humans can do amazing things like discover penicillin.  Humans can also fuck things up majorly, as well.  Ask the next polar bear you see swimming from ice floe to ice floe.  Landing on the moon.  Success.  Chernobyl.  Disaster.  You get the idea.

My son started his driver's training class at school a few days ago.  We went to the orientation session for parents and students.  We listened to all of the steps involved in obtaining a Michigan driver's license.  It's not like the good old days when I learned to drive.  For me, I sat in a classroom after school for about a week, took a multiple choice test, drove for a week with an instructor and two other wannabe drivers, and then went to the local Secretary of State office and got my license.  Bada boom bada bing, and I was driving a car.  And all of that was free.

My son's path to driving is much more complicated and much more expensive.  I could tell, watching him at the meeting, that he was really nervous, although he was trying to play it cool.  He didn't know any of the other student drivers, and he was in an unfamiliar school setting.  Plus, he's going to be getting homework.  A lot of it.  Watching him was sort of like watching a banded Piping Plover chasing and fleeing from waves on a seashore.  He was equally confident and terrified.  

I know my son will succeed.  He's smart and funny.  Plus, he knows how much money I paid for him to take this class.  But, he's also very young and unsure of himself.  Basically, a typical teenager, facing a world that's both comfortably familiar and wildly strange.  My job right now is to teach him how to navigate the choppy waters toward adulthood.  

I think most adults forget how difficult being a teenager is.  Sure, young people seem to have more freedom and less responsibility.  Yes, going to school sounds so much easier than punching a time clock and working eight, nine, or ten hours a day.  However, throw into that mix raging hormones and little-to-no impulse control, and you have the recipe for panic attacks and depression.

I love my son.  Like any father, I want him to succeed at everything he does.  However, I know that falling can be just as instructive as running like the wind.  

Win or lose, Saint Marty will always be there for him, whether he's putting his best foot forward or taking three hundred steps back.