December 13, 14, 15: "The Other Kingdoms," Music Kingdom, Poetry Kingdom, Friend and Heartbreak Kingdome

Mary Oliver grows sweetly wild . . . 

The Other Kingdoms

by:  Mary Oliver

Consider the other kingdoms.  The

trees, for example, with their mellow-sounding

titles:  oak, aspen, willow.

Or the snow, for which the peoples of the north

have dozens of words to describe its

different arrivals.  Or the creatures, with their

thick fur, their shy and wordless gaze.  Their

infallible sense of what their lives

are meant to be.  Thus the world

grows rich, grows wild, and you too,

grow rich, grow sweetly wild, as you too

were born to be.

As a poet, like Mary Oliver, I like to know the names of things.  Trees.  Birds.  Flowers.  Fish.  The kingdoms of the world are full of sweetly wild bounty.  Language is a way of understanding these kingdoms, of becoming a part of them.

I have been sort of overcome these last few days.  Life has a way of getting out of control at this time of the year.  So much going on, both wonderful and crazy.  Kingdoms of music and friends and heartbreak and poetry.

Music Kingdom:  on Wednesday night at the library, there was a concert by Big Lake Band, a group that includes two of my closest friends, Linda and Seamus.  We've been making musical and poetic mischief together for close to 20 years.  They treated us to an hour of Christmas classics.  A little King + Country, Eartha Kitt, Bing Crosby, among others.  It filled me with joy:

Poetry Kingdom:  last night, the library hosted the holiday gathering of the Marquette Poets Circle.  Lots of great food, great people, and great poems.  Most of my closest poet friends were there, and we shared our love for each other and language.  When I first started attending the monthly MPC meetings, I had no clue how important these people would become to me.  Being together with these friends filled me with joy, as well:

Friend and Heartbreak Kingdom:  Today, one of my best poet pals, Gala, lost her 13-year-old fur baby, Oreo.  Gala texted me tonight to let me know.  Having a pet is a bargain with joy and grief.  For however many years that pet is in your life, you are treated to unconditional love.  Yet, in the end, you know you will have to endure loss, as well.  So, tonight, I am sending Gala all my love as she endures this parting:

These are the kingdoms I've been considering these last few days, getting ready for Graduation Kingdom tomorrow morning, when my daughter matriculates from college.  In the middle of all of these kingdom visitations, I also had time to finish my annual Christmas poem today.  So, if you're keeping score--Christmas essay, done; Christmas poem, done; Final Grading, not done.

Saint Marty still has a long way to go before he sleeps.

July 23: Near a Lake, How the Light Gets In, "After Judith Minty"

Went writing near a lake this evening with two of my best friends.  It was something my spirit needed, as I've found myself in a pretty dark place recently.

I wanted to share something that came out of our time together tonight.  It made me smile.  Ernest Hemingway once said, "We're all broken.  That's how the light gets in."

Saint Marty let a little light in tonight.  A tiny, bright miracle.

After Judith Minty

by:  Martin Achatz

for Helen and Gala

Two people.  Two poets.  Two friends.  Surrounded by the long sunlight of coming dusk.  By a lake.  Wind.  Water rucked like a slept-on bed.  Green everywhere.  Clover.  Birch leaves with palms waving.  And green sounds.  Happy kid screams.  The squeal of swing chains.

I watch these two people, two poets, two friends bent over notebooks, pens moving, creating something out of nothing on the winter of their paper.  Great looping somethings.  Smaller, lined somethings.  This July night, in this place, with these two, somethings that haven't drawn breath before will take form--skeleton, muscle, organ, skin, thought, emotion.

And what will that emotion be?  It will be something feathered, like Emily said.  Something purple, like Judith said.  It didn't exist yesterday, might not exist tomorrow.  But tonight, it sits in the branches of my ribs, beats against my lungs with its wings.

I will name it, even though I rarely allow myself that luxury.  I will open my mouth, and let it fly from between my lips.  To my friends, my poets, my people.  I will let it flit between us with its lilac-ness, violet-ness, grape-ness.

Listen.  Hear it.  It's there. 

Hope.

September 19-21: Nothing Happened, Out Loud, Bigfoot and Spiritual Writing

Something has happened, but the crew of the Heart of Gold isn't sure what . . .

"Hello?" called out Ford.

No answer.

"That's odd."

"Perhaps it's a trap."

"They haven't the wit."

"What were those thuds?"

"Dunno."

They waited for a few more seconds..

"Right," said Ford, "I'm going to have a look."

He glanced round at the others.

"Is no one going to say, No, you can't possibly, let me go instead?"

That all shook their heads.

"Oh well," he said, and stood up.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen.  Ford peered through the thick smoke that was billowing out of the burning computer.

Cautiously he stepped out into the open.

Still nothing happened.

September 19

This passage is all about . . . nothing.  Nothing happens during this exchange.  But everyone is waiting for something to happen.  Anything.  

In my life, I always try to think one or two steps ahead.  That way, I'm prepared for anything that comes my way.  Sometimes it's a very tiring way to live.  This evening, I took a pause from this hectic existence.  I attended an event called Out Loud at the Joy Center is Ishpeming.  Out Loud is basically an open mic.  You can read poetry.  Or essays.  Tell stories.  Pretty much, anything goes.

I always find this event very satisfying.  Whether I'm reading a new poem or essay, or listening to another person's sharing, it fills my empty cup up.  It doesn't matter how many people show up.  Sometimes there's seven or eight attendees.  Other times, there's only two.  Rain or snow or tornado, Out Loud goes on.

This evening's Out Loud was attended by myself and my good friend, Gala.  She and I have bonded over the children we lost this fall to college life.  Her son is at the University of Michigan, while my daughter attends the university where I teach.  It's a painful thing letting go of these creatures that have been a part of our lives for nearly 20 years.  For Gala, it's a physical and emotional separation.  For me, it's simply emotional.  It's the inability to make choices for her now, to protect her from a world that can break your heart.  And, even though my daughter still lives at home, I rarely see her.  Our ships pass in the night sometimes, but I can go for several days without laying eyes on her.

It was raining when Out Loud was over.  Gala drove me home, and we took a selfie,  My friend, Helen, who owns the Joy Center, always says about Out Loud, "The people who are supposed to be there will be there."  Tonight, Gala and I were meant to be in each other's presence.  God put us together for a reason.  She was a blessing to me.  I hope I was to her, as well . . .

September 21

It has been a long couple of days.  Yesterday, after working in the medical office and then cleaning my church, I was exhausted.  I didn't have the energy to string together any syllables.  I tried, but what I wrote seemed . . . mundane.  I bored myself.  So, I gave myself another day's hiatus.  This evening, after leading three writing workshops and spending most of this Saturday behind the wheel of a car, I am again exhausted, but in a different way.

I worked with children at 11 a.m.  I was asked to be a part of the homecoming festivities at the university where I teach.  The theme of the workshop was Bigfoot.  That's right.  I got to talk about Bigfoot to a bunch of little boys, who were totally geeked about the subject.

Then, after Bigfoot, I hopped in my car with one of my best friends, and I drove 80-some miles to teach spiritual writing at a Lutheran women's retreat.  Another good friend, Rose, helped organize the event, and she thought of me immediately.  There was no talk of Bigfoot, but, through some contemplative meditation exercises, we wrote and talked about God and listening for His voice.  We wrote about what was troubling us.  Some participants wrote about their mothers.  Some wrote about being unsure of their calling.  Everyone, I think, encountered Jesus and God.

So, here I sit at my kitchen table now, after spending a couple hours cleaning my house this evening, in a state of exhaustion again.  It's good exhaustion.  I feel as if I made a difference in the world today.  Now, I am ready for bed.  For a good night's sleep, which hasn't been easy to accomplish recently.

This blog post is the last thing to scratch off from my "To Do" list.

Saint Marty give thanks for finished lists..