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.

February 23: Don't Panic, Greta Garbo, Introverted

Ford introduces Arthur to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy . . .

Ford frowned at the grubby mattresses, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin.

"Well, this is a working ship, you see," said Ford.  "These are the Dentrassis' sleeping quarters."

"I thought you said they were called Vogons or something."

"Yes," said Ford, "the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks; they let us on board."

"I'm confused."

"Here, have a look at this," said Ford.  He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel.  Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself:  in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Sqornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service.  Very few have ever come to life again.

Ford handed the book to Arthur.

"What is it?" asked Arthur.

"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  It's a sort of electronic book.  It tells you everything you need to know about anything.,  That's its job."

Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.

"I like the cover," he said.  "'Don't Panic.'  It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day."

Don't panic.  It's good advice for anyone, no matter what situation you're in.  Panic doesn't help improve any problem.  It simply makes you feel more out-of-control.  Thus, it's a better practice, when in a difficult situation, to take some deep breaths.  I find that withdrawing a little, indulging in a little alone time to gather thoughts and evaluate emotions, helps, as well.

That's what I need to do this weekend.  I was supposed to meet some of my best friends this morning for breakfast.  I love these ladies dearly, but I woke up this morning and found that I didn't have the energy to do peopling today.  I have to play the pipe organ for church this evening, which requires quite a bit of social interaction.  Aside from that, I believe that I will be what my therapist would term "antisocial."  I prefer the term "introverted."

I can go for many weeks without having this introvert time.  My life doesn't allow it very much.  All day, I answer phones, register patients, teach classes.  Social interaction is a necessary part of my life.  After a good span of being social, however, I find that my well runs dry.  I turn into Greta Garbo:  "I want to be alone."

I don't think that I'm unusual in this need.  Being social and outgoing all the time isn't really healthy, I think.  Think of all the celebrities who have self-destructed because of their constant need for attention and interaction, like Andy Warhol or Truman Capote.  (Disclaimer:  I am NOT claiming that I am any where near as talented or gifted as these two artists.  They are simply examples of excess--individuals who were obsessed with being in the limelight.)  Every person needs to be Greta Garbo occasionally.

This Oscar weekend, with another snow-pocalypse in the forecast, it won't be difficult to withdraw from social interaction.  It will be physically impossible to seek out human interaction.  The weather will prevent it.  Apologies to my best friends who wanted to have breakfast with me this morning.  Please understand that I care about you a great deal, but with the upheaval of the approaching work week, I needed to be Garbo (or John Muir or Thoreau--take your pick).

Saint Marty wishes all his disciples time to recharge this weekend.