March 24: Our True Work, Talk Myself into Courage, Introverted

Santiago gives himself a pep talk . . .

"You better be fearless and confident yourself, old man," he said. "You're holding him again but you cannot get line. But soon he has to circle."

The old man held him with his left hand and his shoulders now and stooped down and scooped up water in his right hand to get the crushed dolphin flesh off of his face. He was afraid that it might nauseate him and he would vomit and lose his strength. When his face was cleaned he washed his right hand in the water over the side and then let it stay in the salt water while he watched the first light come before the sunrise. He's headed almost east, he thought. That means he is tired and going with the current. Soon he will have to circle. Then our true work begins.

After he judged that his right hand had been in the water long enough he took it out and looked at it. "It is not bad," he said. "And pain does not matter to a man."

I often do what Santiago does here when I'm facing a particularly challenging day.  I talk myself into courage.  People often don't believe that my nature, for the most part, is introverted.  Getting up in front of people takes a lot of my energy.  And often, after many days of social hubbub and connection, I need to withdraw, recharge my batteries.

Tonight, to recharge my batteries and reinvigorate myself, I attended a poetry workshop led by a good friend of mine.  Leading poetry workshops in one of my great joys.  However, there's something very freeing about not being in charge.  To be able to sit back and simply have fun without any pressure to perform in any way.  To be in the background.

In the space of a couple hours, my friend took us through some writing prompts, and, at the end of the night, I had the draft of a new poem that I think is almost complete.  That's pretty amazing, and it truly restored my spirit, which has been feeling particularly depleted recently.  Several times this past week, I needed to have some serious personal pep rallies to keep myself going.  

Saint Marty was reminded tonight of why he loves poetry.

And a Lenten poem for this evening . . . 

In Praise of Silence

by:  Martin Achatz

Praise the Lord for the silence of dusk
As it shifts the air from winter sun
To winter moon, the melt of snow
To something hard as onyx or bone.
Praise the ring of eardrum in quiet,
How it vibrates, hums with the memory
Of the day, news of tsunami in Japan,
The lives of thousands swept away
Like crumbs from Friday dinner
Of lentils, crackers, apple juice,
The tablecloth taken outside, shaken,
The way my grandmother taught me,
For lost souls who roam the night,
Tap on black window glass, hungry
For light, warmth, or prayer.
Praise the tide of heart in my chest,
Calm waves of blood, in, out, in, out,
Reminding me this night that I am safe. Alive.
That my tongue doesn’t taste ocean mud.

March 19: Head Cut Off, Expectations, Gin and Tonic

Santiago kicks himself for not thinking ahead . . . 

Under the stars and with the night colder all the time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying fish, gutted and with its head cut off.

"What an excellent fish dolphin is to eat cooked," he said. "And what a miserable fish raw. I will never go in a boat again without salt or limes."

If I had brains I would have splashed water on the bow all day and drying, it would have made salt, he thought. But then I did not hook the dolphin until almost sunset. Still it was a lack of preparation. But I have chewed it all well and I am not nauseated.

Salt or limes.  Cooked or raw dolphin.  Santiago chastises himself for not being more prepared for his current situation.  Of course, he had no idea that he was going to hook the big fish.  Nor did he know that he would be out in his boat on the sea for days.

That's the way life works, though.  Every day is a matter of expectations.  Waking up in the morning, I always go through a mental inventory of the day's activities.  Then, I plan my wardrobe, meals, and time accordingly.  Usually, my plan works perfectly.  

But there are days when curve balls are lobbed at me, and I do what Santiago does in this passage--I make do with what I have.  No other choice.  And I try not to take it personally.  There's always the impulse to get angry with God or the universe.  It doesn't help anything.  Instead, it sort of drives the anger into your skin like a tattoo.  

Today, not everything went according to the grand design I created in my head when I woke up.  However, nothing catastrophic occurred, either.  I count that as a win.  In a little while, after I have imbibed in two very strong gin and tonics, I will sit down to record an episode of my podcast Lit for Christmas.  I'm not sure how it's going to go.  My cohost for the episode is brand new, although she's smart as a whip and funny as hell.

No curve balls tonight.  Drunk Saint Marty can't handle it.

And another Lenten poem . . . 

In Praise of Silence

by:  Martin Achatz

Praise the Lord for the silence of dusk
As it shifts the air from winter sun
To winter moon, the melt of snow
To something hard as onyx or bone.
Praise the ring of eardrum in quiet,
How it vibrates, hums with the memory
Of the day, news of tsunami in Japan,
The lives of thousands swept away
Like crumbs from Friday dinner
Of lentils, crackers, apple juice,
The tablecloth taken outside, shaken,
The way my grandmother taught me,
For lost souls who roam the night,
Tap on black window glass, hungry
For light, warmth, or prayer.
Praise the tide of heart in my chest,
Calm waves of blood, in, out, in, out,
Reminding me this night that I am safe. Alive.
That my tongue doesn’t taste ocean mud.

January 20: Frozen Sunday, Hot Chocolate, "In Praise of Silence"

A poem about silence for this frozen Sunday evening.

Saint Marty is ready for some hot chocolate and Bailey's.

In Praise of Silence

by:  Martin Achatz


Praise the Lord for the silence of dusk
As it shifts the air from winter sun
To winter moon, the melt of snow
To something hard as onyx or bone.
Praise the ring of eardrum in quiet,
How it vibrates, hums with the memory
Of the day, news of tsunami in Japan,
The lives of thousands swept away
Like crumbs from Friday dinner
Of lentils, crackers, apple juice,
The tablecloth taken outside, shaken,
The way my grandmother taught me,
For lost souls who roam the night,
Tap on black window glass, hungry
For light, warmth, or prayer.
Praise the tide of heart in my chest,
Calm waves of blood, in, out, in, out,
Reminding me this night that I am safe.  Alive.
That my tongue doesn’t taste ocean mud.