July 24: In Comfort, Big Hurts and Little Hurts, Nobel Prize

Santiago tends to his wound . . . 

The old man would have liked to keep his hand in the salt water longer but he was afraid of another sudden lurch by the fish and he stood up and braced himself and held his hand up against the sun. It was only a line burn that had cut his flesh. But it was in the working part of his hand. He knew he would need his hands before this was over and he did not like to be cut before it started.

"Now," he said, when his hand had dried, "I must eat the small tuna. I can reach him with the gaff and eat him here in comfort."

There are big hurts and little hurts.  Hurts that stay with you forever, and hurts that disappear in a fly's heartbeat.  (Okay, I don't know if flies have hearts, but, if they do, I'm sure those hearts beat pretty damn fast.)  My point is that everyone experiences pain in their lives.  It's inevitable.

I spent the day in Calumet.  I went for a long walk with my wife this morning.  Then I went back to my hotel room and worked on scripts and sketches for the radio variety show I performed in tonight.  While I was working on those scripts, a musician friend messaged me, asking if she could read one of my poems during her set at Hiawatha Music Festival in Marquette, Michigan.  (Of course, I said "yes."  It was an honor to be asked.)  I spent the afternoon in rehearsals (and got a whole bunch of texts from friends attending Hiawatha who heard my poem), and then we had two shows this evening.

When I got back to my hotel room after the performances, I finished binging The Big Bang Theory.  Saw Sheldon and Amy win the Nobel Prize.  Listened to Sheldon honor his friends in his acceptance speech.  Cried like a baby.  Now, I'm sitting in the dark, typing this blog post and feeling slightly . . . bereft.  Because there are no more episodes to watch, and I'm going to miss this group of sitcom friends.  This is one of those little hurts that I was talking about in the first paragraph.

I know that I'm not the easiest person to be around sometimes.  I'm certainly not the easiest blogger to read, either.  For the past couple weeks, all I've been writing about is my current blue funk.  My therapist called it a situational depression.  When I'm like this, I know that I obsess and don't sleep well and bring people down.  I apologize for that.  This is one of those big hurts that I was talking about.  It has been hanging on for quite some time, and it's not showing any signs of moving on.

But I'm am blessed with a huge tribe of friends and loved ones who put up with all of my big and little hurts.  I do this radio variety show with a group of people who have become family to me.  They have seen me through the deaths of my mother, father, and sister.  In fact, I performed in a show two days after my dad died.  I planned my dad's funeral in the morning and headed to Calumet in the afternoon for rehearsals.  When I walked into the theater that day, I was greeted with hugs and support.  They dedicated the two shows that weekend to my father.

Being around these radio show friends this weekend was kind of tonic for me.  It made me forget to be sad for a little while.  Reminded me that I am loved.  

That is Saint Marty's blessing for tonight.

August 26: Thank You Very Much, Gratitude, I Am Loved

Arthur meets some mice . . .

"Let me introduce you," said Trillian.  "Arthur, this is Benjy mouse."

"Hi," said one of the mice.  His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky glasslike affair, and it moved forward slightly.

"And this is Frankie mouse."

 The other mouse said, "Pleased to meet you," and did likewise.  

Arthur gaped.

"But aren't they . . ."

"Yes," said Trillian, "they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth."

She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug.

"Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Mega-Donkey?" she said.

Slartibartfast coughed politely

"Er, excuse me," he said.

"Yes, thank you, Slartibartfast," said Benjy mouse sharply, "you may go."

"What?  Oh . . . er, very well," said the old man, slightly taken aback, "I'll just go and get on with some of my fjords then."

"Ah, well, in fact that won't be necessary," said Frankie mouse.  "It looks very much as if we won't be needing the new Earth any longer."  He swiveled his pink little eyes.  "Not now that we have found a native of the planet who was there seconds before it was destroyed."

"What?" cried Slartibartfast, aghast.  "You can't mean that!  I've got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!"

"Well, perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them," said Frankie acidly.

"Skiing holiday!" cried the old man.  "Those glaciers are works of art!  Elegantly sculpted contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines!  It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!"

"Thank you, Slartibartfast," said Benjy firmly.  "That will be all."

"Yes, sir," said the old man coldly, "thank you very much.  Well, goodbye, Earthman," he said to Arthur, "hope the life-style comes together."

There is false gratitude at the end of this passage.  The mice are trying to dismiss Slartibartfast with their "thank you," and Slartibartfast barely withholds his anger in his return "thank you."  There is no real sense of thankfulness in the exchange.  All three are friendly hostiles.  Or hostile friendlies.  Either way, the true intent of those two words in the above paragraphs is not meant to convey any sort of thanksgiving.

I have been quite remiss this month in blogging, having disappeared for days at a stretch.  August has been a particularly difficult month for me.  Please accept my apologies.  It's never my intent to be neglectful of the disciples of this blog, most of whom I know personally and count as friends.  This particular absence was filled with work and a new job (my fourth, if you count playing the pipe organ) and a funeral.

None of that, however, is my subject this evening.  My subject is gratitude.

Last night, at the Joy Center in Ishpeming, I was honored by a group of people (poets and friends) who have been aware of my struggles these past months.  They wanted to do something to help me and my family out.  So, they did what poets do.  They got together, read poems, held a raffle, collected love offerings, and showered me with grace.

Those of you who know me will be surprised to know that I don't really feel comfortable being the center of attention.  Yes, I love sharing my poems and writings.  Yes, if there's an open mic, I will show up, pages in my hands, and wait my turn.  And yes, almost every night I send these blog posts out into the world for people to read and (hopefully) appreciate.  That is all part of being a writer.

Yet, I am much more comfortable helping other people out, using my gifts and energies to make the universe better in some way.  My specific problems pale in comparison to a homeless, legless veteran wheeling himself to a warming center in the middle of winter.  I have not lost my home to a flood or hurricane or fire.  My children are healthy.  I have jobs that (most of the time) fill my cupboards and refrigerator with food.  By all accounts, I am one of the lucky ones.

Yet, even saints experience doubt and darkness.  Mother Teresa, for the last half century of her life, felt God's absence.  She wrote, "The place of God in my soul is blank--There is no God in me."  John of the Cross called this state the "dark night of the soul."  Feeling abandoned and lost.  Unloved.  In a small way, this is where I've been living for a while.

But my friends brought me light last night.  For those of you who were present, I was so humbled by all the hugs and laughter and words of love.  (I am going to be using the word "love" a lot in this post, so get used to it.)  Before the event began, I imagined just one or two people showing up.  It was one of those late August days filled with warmth, sunshine.  A last gasp of summer.  Who will come to a poetry reading tonight?, I thought to myself.

Then, car after car began pulling into the drive.  People kept coming through the door.  Good people.  Loving people.  People who inspire me all the time to be better than I am.  They hugged me over and over.  They read poems.  Told stories.  Ate cheese.  Laughed and cried.  

Above all, they reminded me that I am loved, something that I haven't felt for quite a while.  There is something sacred, I think, in being told that who you are, what you do, has made a difference in the world.  It felt like . . . prayer to me.  Like God had reached down and touched me through my friends (those who were there in body, and those who were there in spirit).  When I rose at the end of the evening to read my poems, my words seemed inadequate.  "Thank you" was not enough, will never be enough.

My struggles aren't over, but I have been gifted and graced with gratitude tonight.  

For those of you who don't believe in angels, let the scrutable Saint Marty assure you, they exist.