May 25: "Page-Turner," Terrible Things, "Mystery"

Billy Collins on reading . . . 

Page-Turner

by: Billy Collins

Desirable

in fiction.

Not so much 

with a slim book of poems.

Collins makes a good point.  Generally, poems are not consumed quickly, like a bag of Cheetos.  When I read a book of poems, even one that is only 15 or 20 pages long, it takes me more than one sitting.  You can't rush through poetry because it wrestles with big questions, often with no clear, definable answers.

One of the biggest questions I've struggled with for years (ever since my sister died of lymphoma of the brain) is why God allows terrible things happen to good people.  Now, my atheist friends will cite science and philosophy, explain the biological causes of dementia or quote Nietzsche ("To live is to suffer, to survive is to find some meaning in the suffering.").

As a Christian, I rely on faith.  As a poet, I rely on words.  However, this morning I found out that a very good person in my life (I'll call her "A."), who has already survived breast cancer, just discovered she has a large renal tumor and smaller tumors in her lungs.  All of my old angers and resentments against God have reappeared.

Now, God doesn't mind if I get pissed at him.  (I use the masculine pronoun here because most of the people who have caused hurt in my life have been men.)  God has big shoulders and understands my frustration.  It's hard to see any kind of divine plan in suffering of any kind.  Yet, faith tells me to put my trust in God.  

I'm having a hard time doing that.  God seems like a playground bully at the moment.  At church this afternoon, I had a little heart-to-heart with the Big Guy, expressing all of my angers and frustrations.  I may have even called God an asshole.  

I've lost a lot of people in my life in these last eight or nine years--decent, good people who went out of their ways to make the world a better place.  Yet those people suffered and died while others like Donald Trump lie, cheat, steal, commit adultery, and incite violence.  I just don't get it.

But I know there is a reason for everything, even if I don't (and probably never will) understand it.  Prayer is medicine, and it comes in many forms (just read the Book of Psalms if you don't believe me).  Anger.  Joy.  Sorrow.  Love.  Frustration.  Fear.  Courage.  It's all prayer, even if you use the word "asshole."

So, please lift up A. in healing and hope and love.  Say a prayer for her, if you pray.  Wish her well, if you don't.  

Saint Marty will try not to swear at God any more tonight.

Mystery

by: Martin Achatz

Trying to understand why

someone I care about

has been diagnosed with cancer

again, I feel like Columbo

turning to God, saying,

"Excuse me, just one more question."

February 18: Grasshoppers, Divine Plan, Winter Weather

I had stepped into the meadow to feel the heat and catch a glimpse of the sky, but these grasshoppers demanded my attention, and became an event in themselves.  Every step I took detonated the grass.  A blast of bodies like shrapnel exploded around me; the air burst and whirred.  There were grasshoppers of all sizes, grasshoppers yellow, green, and black, short-horned, long-horned, slant-faced, bad-winged, spur-throated, cone-headed, pygmy, spotted, striped and barred.  They sprang in salvos, dropped in the air, and clung unevenly to stems and blades with their legs spread for balance, as redwings ride cattail reeds.  They clattered around my ears, they ricocheted off my calves with an instant clutch and release of tiny legs.

Dillard is constantly surprised by the natural world, whether the reflection of clouds in Tinker Creek, praying mantis cocoons, or hoards of invading grasshoppers.  In Dillard's mind, there is something sacred in the very messiness of these phenomenon.  She does not see the universe as a victim of chaotic happenstance.  There is an order (even if we, in our limited human way,) cannot see it.

Tomorrow morning, I am supposed to teach poetry to my son's second grade class.  Tonight, winter has returned to the Upper Peninsula in the form of freezing rain and snow.  Winter weather advisories are in force until early Friday.  My daughter just danced through our living room, announcing that she could hear rain slapping the kitchen window.  She is hoping that the rain will beget ice will beget snow will beget ice will beget a school cancellation.

I, on the other hand, am not thrilled with the notion of a school cancellation.  For the entire week, I have been preparing my poetry lesson.  I have my visuals done.  I have my handouts copied.  All week long, I have been showing up to work early, working late, in order to have enough time off for this classroom visit.  And now, there may not be school tomorrow.  Messiness.  Chaos.

If I were Dillard, I suppose I would be looking for some kind of divine plan in all this.  Perhaps I am being spared some kind of tragedy.  Or, maybe, I needed the extra sleep.  I am too tired to contemplate God's mind right now.  If there is school tomorrow, I will show up and teach my son and his classmates about poetry.  If there is no school tomorrow, I will go back to bed.

For the record, Saint Marty does believe in a divine plan.  Also for the record, he hates grasshoppers.

A completely unrelated cartoon . . .