March 11, 2025: "Bread," Letting Go, "Before and Before"

I spent this afternoon participating in a writing workshop led by one of my best friends.  (I almost typed "best writing friends," but we've known each other for over thirty years, which makes our friendship a little more than acquaintances getting together at a coffee shop once a month to scribble in notebooks.)  He knows me and my struggles pretty intimately.

One of the topics my friend and I always wrestle with is staying fresh in our writing.  Nobel Prize-winning author Kazuo Ishiguro once said, “My subject matter doesn't vary so much from book to book. Just the surface does. The settings, etc. I tend to write the same book over and over, or at least, I take the same subject I took last time out and refine it, or do a slightly different take on it.”  

So, yes, all writers have subjects they obsess over.  It's the nature of the beast.  I've written so many poems about my daughter and son that I can't count them all.  (Sharon Olds writes about her kids a lot, so I'm in good company.)  Even when I set out to write about something else, my offspring will sneak into the poem as if they were playing hide-and-seek with the words.

Sharon Olds writes about her daughter making some . . . 

Bread

by: Sharon Olds

When my daughter makes bread, a cloud of flour
hangs in the air like pollen. She sifts and
sifts again, the salt and sugar
close as the grain of her skin. She heats the
water to body temperature
with the sausage lard, fragrant as her scalp
the day before hair-wash, and works them together on a
floured board. Her broad palms
bend the paste toward her and the heel of her hand
presses it away, until the dough
begins to snap, glossy and elastic as the 

torso bending over it,
this ten-year-old girl, random specks of yeast
in her flesh beginning to heat,
her volume doubling every month now, but still
raw and hard. She slaps the dough and it 

crackles under her palm, sleek and
ferocious and still leashed, like her body, no
breasts rising like bubbles of air toward the 

surface of the loaf. She greases the pan, she is
shaped, glazed, and at any moment goes
into the oven, to turn to that porous
warm substance, and then under the
knife to be sliced for the having, the tasting, and the
giving of life.

Olds wrote this when her daughter was still young, full of bubbles of yeast, rising in the pan.  So many of my poems over the last 24 years have been about this process of watching my kids grow older and away from me.  That's what parenting is all about--nurturing, loving, teaching, holding your breath, and letting go.

As many of my faithful disciples know, over the last ten years, I've lost a lot of loved ones--family and friends.  I carry the weight of those losses every day.  I'm not saying I'm in a constant state of mourning, but that grief floats to the surface a lot, especially in my writing.  Tonight, I wasn't planning on writing about the empty nest of my heart again, but here I am.

I think I'm a person who falls in love a lot.  I fall in love with poems, books, movies, music, friends, food, trees, birds, weather.  I'm not talking the casual "oh, I love Lucky Charms" kind of love.  I'm talking strong, visceral attachments.  Because of this habit of love, I frequently find myself experiencing nostalgia for past, better times.  

At the end of this coming summer, my daughter will be moving downstate for medical school.  In a year, my son will be a high school graduate (he's already talking about getting an apartment with a friend).  And I'm thinking about how much I miss reading to my daughter at bedtime and watching bad Bigfoot movies with my son.

They are becoming strong, independent people.  That means I did something right as a parent.  However, that doesn't make the letting go any easier.  I'm going to have to redefine who I am soon.  That's part of letting go:  figuring who you are again and again and again.  It's déjà vu.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about the déjà vu of writing a poem, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Write a poem about a déjà vu experience.  To strengthen that "I've been here before" feeling and allow your reader to experience it with you, repeat words and images from the first stanza in the stanzas that follow.  If you don't know how to begin, start with I walked into a room I had alread walked into before . . . and see where it takes you.

Before and Before

by: Martin Achatz

after Robert Hayden

I have written this poem before and before,

first on the night her final breath

sat in my eardrum like a trapped

moth, battering its wings against

the corners of my skull and brain.

I have written this poem before and before,

next on the eve of her funeral

when I wandered through strawberry

fields, following God's glowing soles

in the eyelid of dusk.

I have written this poem before and before,

on the night I saw her constellation

in the heavens, bright as Orion

in January, each star freckling

the darkness with her face.

I have written this poem on her birth

and death days, sitting in my car

near her grave, when my son became

a teenager and my daughter graduated

from high school then college, before

and before and before and before,

and now I write this poem before

I go to sleep, because a dog

is barking and barking outside, reminding

me of grief's austere and dogged hunger.

July 26: "Constellations," Paris, Perfection, "Perseids"

Billy Collins stargazes . . . 

Constellations

by: Billy Collins

Yes, that's Orion over there,

the three studs of the belt

clearly lined up just off the horizon.

And if you turn around you can see

Gemini, very visible tonight,

the twins looking off into space as usual.

That cluster a little higher in the sky

is Cassiopeia sitting in her astral chair

if I'm not mistaken.

And directly overhead,

isn't that Virginia Woolf

slipping along the River Ouse

in her inflatable canoe?

See the wide-brimmed hat and there,

the outline of the paddle, raised and dripping stars?

It is late.  I just finished watching the Opening Ceremony of the Paris Olympics and stepped outside to do a little stargazing myself.

It was really dark, and the stars weren't really visible.  I wandered around for 15 or 20 minutes, staring upward, breathing the muddy night air.  Not sure what I was looking for.  Maybe inspiration or peace of mind.  I've been struggling these last few weeks with some insomnia, so going for a walk at 1 a.m. isn't all that strange for me at the moment.

I found the Opening Ceremony in Paris quite inspiring.  Lots of weird performance art,  Great music.  The Parade of Nations happening with boats of athletes sailing down the Seine.  And, to cap it all off, Celine Dion singing "L'Hymne à l'mour" by Edith Piaf from the Eiffel Tower.  If the organizers had simply lit the Olympic cauldron and had Dion sing, it would have been enough for me.

I'm sure there's going to be a lot of criticism tomorrow.  There's always people who want to compare and bitch.  Beijing was better.  Or Rio.  Or Seoul.  For me, that's sort of like saying, "Oh, the moon last month was so much brighter," or, "The Perseids were so much better four years ago," or, "Edith Piaf sang that song so much better."  

Humans love to criticize.  Maybe that's why van Gogh only sold a few paintings before he committed suicide.  Or why Emily Dickinson only published ten poems during her lifetime.  I, myself, haven't really pushed myself to release a lot of my poems.  I'm pretty hard on myself when it comes to my writing.  I revise and revise and revise.  Perhaps that's why I've been working on my Bigfoot manuscript, off and on, for around 20 years.  I have a hard time letting go of a poem that's not as perfect as I can make it.  

Of course, perfection is unrealistic.  I'm sure. over the next 17 or so days, there are going to be a lot of athletes who, under the pressure of Olympic competition, will crumble, for many reasons.  I've seen poets who release fantastic debut collections and then fall flat with their sophomore collections.  Great singers go sharp or forget lyrics.

It's the idea of perfection that fucks you up.  If you think you are capable of perfection, you will constantly be disappointed.  It's really about doing the absolute best you can do at a particular moment.  That's it.  

Tonight, this blog post is the best Saint Marty has to offer.

Perseids

by: Martin Achatz

A poet friend tells me they

have come early this year, streaking

between the stars in cat whisker

flashes so instant that I don't

want to blink as I gaze up

into the black bowl of night.

I wonder if those Greek gods

and heroes and monsters up there

even notice them in their annual

game of hide-and-seek, if those

ancients raise their scaled heads, aim

their arrows, grumble at the spirited

young'uns too full of energy to find

a spot to sit down, read a book, catch

their cosmic breaths, let us humans

with our feeble minds give them

a name and a story that explains

their existences.  Maybe, one day,

a group of them will band together

in the shape of me, and I will join

Hercules in that bright living room,

gazing down on the earth, wondering

where the remote is to change the channel,

find something more interesting to watch 

January 27: "Breaking Up," First Kisses to Final Kisses, Dreaming Up

Billy Collins on heartbreak . . . 

Breaking Up

by:  Billy Collins

Like the nomadic dollar

I pass to the cashier

behind the register

you are off to other hands.

We break up with things and people every day of our lives, from the moment we open our eyes in the morning until we close them again at night.  Some breakups are easy:  dropping your son off at school, knowing that he will be climbing back into your car in the afternoon.  Other breakups are more difficult--watching your daughter drive away from your house with all of her belongings packed up in her car, knowing she will never sleep in her childhood bedroom again.  At the end of every book or poem we read, we break up with its characters or subjects.  When you're done reading this blog post, you'll break up with it, as well.

Of course, breaking up with something or someone doesn't mean you erase them from your mind or heart.  No.  Every individual you encounter or movie you watch or taco you eat remains a part of you.  Forever.  I can still taste the pineapple I ate on a coral bay when I was on my honeymoon.  And I can still conjure up the feelings of standing in line to see the first Star Wars movie way back in 1977.  Nothing is ever lost, from first kisses to final kisses.

A few days ago, I submitted a huge grant to the National Endowment for the Arts (NEA).  It's the third time I've written an NEA grant for the library.  The first time, I requested $20,000 for programming inspired by Joy Harjo's An American Sunrise, and I got it.  The second time, I asked again for $20,000 to fund events focused on Andrew Krivak's The Bear.  I didn't get it.  My latest:  $16,600 for programming based on Roz Chast's graphic memoir Can't We Talk About Something More Pleasant?

I truly enjoy dreaming up experiences for people, whether it's an encounter with a U. S. Poet Laureate or an essay on the meaning of joy.  I love the ability of art or music or theater or writing to somehow change a person in a meaningful way.  Of course, the nature of any art is temporal.  It lives for a brief time and then evaporates like frost, leaving behind only memory.

This is true of even seemingly permanent works of art--paintings or sculptures or literature.  For instance, I've read The Catcher in the Rye ten or more times in my life, starting when I was ten or 11 years of age, and, with each reading, I experienced different emotions and reactions.  Because I was a different person each time, and Holden Caulfield meant something different to each one of those different persons.

So, loving any kind of art is about forming a relationship with it, and all relationships are temporary.  Eventually, there will be a breaking up/letting go.  Perhaps you will reencounter and reexperience that work or art again, and you will form a new and different relationship with it.  Or that work of art may just remain a lovely memory, like the taste of fresh pineapple on your tongue as you watch the sun set over the Pacific Ocean.

I've had my fair share of breakups.  Said goodbye to people and things I love.  Perhaps that's why I'm a poet.  I'm keenly aware of the passage of time and the need to preserve experiences in a tangible way through word and image.  That's what all art is about:  trying to capture lightning in a bottle.  Or on a canvas.  Or page.  Or with musical notes.  Or in a blog post.

Saint Marty has a piece of pizza to break up with now.

October 17: "In Blackwater Woods," Letting Go, Celebrations of Life

Mary Oliver shares everything she has ever learned . . . 

In Blackwater Woods

by:  Marty Oliver

Look, the trees

are turning

their own bodies 

into pillars

of light,

are giving off the rich

fragrance of cinnamon

and fulfillment,

the long tapers

of cattails

are bursting and floating away over

the blue shoulders

of the ponds,

and every pond,

no matter what its

name is, is 

nameless now.

Every year

everything 

I have ever learned

in my lifetime

leads back to this:  the fires

and the black river of loss

whose other side

is salvation,

whose meaning

none of us will ever know.

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it

against your bones knowing

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

Oliver lists the three most important things every person on this planet must do:  1) love what is mortal; 2) hold on to that mortal thing as if it's a matter of life and death; and 3) let it go when it's time to let it go.  Of course, one of the he hardest life lessons to learn is the third one.  

Think about it.  I've been a breathing being on this planet for quite some time, and you don't get to be my age without experiencing loss in some form.  Saying "goodbye" is just as important as saying "I love you" or "thank you" or "I'm sorry" or "I accept the Nobel Prize in Literature."  As you get older, you have to say "goodbye" more and more often.  Attrition starts to define your existence.

Of course, goodbyes don't have to be sad affairs.  Goodbyes can be celebrations, as well.  I've been to my fair share of funerals, and I've noticed that the term "funeral" is not in vogue anymore.  Nope.  Most funerals I've attended in the last ten or so years have been called "celebrations of life."  A nice sentiment, but I think that term whitewashes the occasion, caters to the instinct in human beings to avoid or sidestep death.

Death.  Grief.  Loss.  These are all parts of the human experience.  Not particularly pleasant parts, but parts, nonetheless.  If you love something/someone, you will eventually lose that something/someone.  It's inevitable.  And it won't be easy.  It will suck, possibly for a very long time.  Maybe even for the rest of your life.  Grief does not have a finishing line.  You don't just wake up one morning and think, "Okay, I'm over that."  It would be wonderful if it were that simple.

As I said, though, goodbyes can be joyful, as well.  One of my favorite funereal traditions I heard about from a Cajun friend is having a brass band escort the casket to the cemetery while playing "When the Saints Go Marching In."  In that case, the goodbye really does become a celebration of life, full of clapping, singing, and music.  

Letting go.  It's tough.  No getting around it.

If any of Saint Marty's disciples are currently grieving, be consoled by this fact:  even after the darkest of rainstorms, there will always be a rainbow.

May 21: "The Other Kingdoms," Memory, Letting Go

Mary Oliver contemplates the kingdoms of the world . . . 

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.

Somehow, Mary Oliver seems to be a part of all the kingdoms in this poem:  trees and snow and creatures.  In her poems, at least, she has an "infallible sense" of what her life is meant to be.  She is an observer.  Grace seeker.  Nature lover.  In short, she's part of the poetry kingdom, as am I.

I spent most of the day planning for a poetry workshop that I led this evening.  The theme I chose was "memory," since next weekend is Memorial Day.  People will visit the graves of lost loved ones; place flowers by headstones; and attend parades and programs to honor members of the armed services who sacrificed their lives in battle.

As most of you know, I've been struggling with sadness and grief for some time now.  In the last eight years, I've lost three siblings and both of my parents, plus one of my best friends.  Those are my dead.  They are with me all the time, and I try to honor their memories in everything I do.

I just took my puppy out for one last stroll before bed.  As I stood in my backyard, letting her do her business, I listened to the chorus of spring peepers filling the night.  I've been hearing them for a week or so now, a sure sign that the winter of 2023 is slipping into memory.  (As a Yooper, I make this statement hesitantly, because I have seen huge snowstorms blow in at the end of May.)

The world outside my window is growing rich and wild.  Pretty soon, my lilac bushes will be heavy with purple.  Kids will be graduating from area high schools in a couple weeks.  It is a time of transitions.  White to green.  Spring to summer.  Childhood to adulthood.  It's all about letting go.  And being a little haunted.

Saint Marty wrote these haunting little poems tonight.  Think of them as snapshots from the kingdom of poetry.

Five Spring Haiku

by:  Martin Achatz

Trilliums in my backyard

unfold their white bodies

like teenagers on Spring Break.

I tiptoe through backyard grass

until my sneaker discovers 

the scent of my dog.

Beneath my feet and hands

the pipe organ moans,

A lovesick whale in the Pacific.

Orange sun boiled

in a kettle of clouds.

Leftover pizza for dinner,

bite marks on the crust

from the hungry night.

April 6: Silvery and Still, Fish is a Fish, "Letting Go"

Santiago has killed the fish . . . 

The old man felt faint and sick and he could not see well. But he cleared the harpoon line and let it run slowly through his raw hands and, when he could see, he saw the fish was on his back with his silver belly up. The shaft of the harpoon was projecting at an angle from the fish's shoulder and the sea was discolouring with the red of the blood from his heart. First it was dark as a shoal in the blue water that was more than a mile deep. Then it spread like a cloud. The fish was silvery and still and floated with the waves.

Saint Marty's koan for tonight:  Sometimes a fish is a fish, and sometimes it's death.

Attended a poetry workshop tonight led by a good friend.  Here is something I wrote:  

Letting Go

by:  Martin Achatz

You remember that book

by Adrienne Rich you bought

in New York, the one Rich

inscribed, "To Lola, who went

diving with me one day"?

Even Lola couldn't hold

onto that gift, let it be

boxed up, donated

to a Methodist rummage

sale to raise funds

for Liberia.  Nothing

is ever really lost.  It's just

becomes loved by someone else.

January 22: Eat It Well, Letting Go, Years of Therapy

Santiago hooks the fish . . . 

"He's taken it," he said. "Now I'll let him eat it well."

He let the line slip through his fingers while he reached down with his left hand and made fast the free end of the two reserve coils to the loop of the two reserve coils of the next line. Now he was ready. He had three forty-fathom coils of line in reserve now, as well as the coil he was using.

"Eat it a little more," he said. "Eat it well."

Eat it so that the point of the hook goes into your heart and kills you, he thought. Come up easy and let me put the harpoon into you. All right. Are you ready? Have you been long enough at table?

"Now!" he said aloud and struck hard with both hands, gained a yard of line and then struck again and again, swinging with each arm alternately on the cord with all the strength of his arms and the pivoted weight of his body.

Nothing happened. The fish just moved away slowly and the old man could not raise him an inch. His line was strong and made for heavy fish and he held it against his back until it was so taut that beads of water were jumping from it. Then it began to make a slow hissing sound in the water and he still held it, bracing himself against the thwart and leaning back against the pull. The boat began to move slowly off toward the North-West.

So there it is.  Santiago and the fish are one now, and the battle that consumes the rest of the book begins.  The man is old.  So is the fish.  And they become locked in this struggle of endurance, each carrying their crosses of experience and time.

If you are getting tired of me writing about grief and loss, you may want to take a break from reading Saint Marty for a couple weeks.  My sister Rose's funeral is at the beginning of February, so the little boat of my life is going to be pulled by this fish for a while.  And unlike other losses I've experienced in my life, I'm going to try to allow myself time to lean into this process of letting go.  Embrace the whole messy onslaught of emotions.

You see, most of the time, when I am dealing with difficulties, I throw myself into work and teaching and church.  I keep myself so busy that, by the time I sit down on my couch at the end of the day, the only thing I can think about is sleep.  I think it's a family trait.  We tend to suppress rather than express.  Hence, my years of therapy.

About eight years ago, I lost my brother.  The year after that, my sister died of lymphoma of the brain.  Three years ago, it was my father.  This past October, my mother.  Now, my angel of a sister, Rose.  It has been a catalogue of losses.  But that's what life is.  No matter how hard you love, how tightly you hold on, there comes a time when you have to open your fingers and just . . . give that blessing back to the universe.  

So, this is me.  Puffy eyes.  Runny nose.  Laughing one minute. Ugly crying the next.  Angry in the morning.  Peaceful in the afternoon.  Angry again at night.  I'm carrying around so many versions of myself.  If you don't like what you see, stick around.  Another Marty will show up momentarily.

The me that is typing this post right now is peaceful.  Pretty soon, I'm going out to pick up some pizza for my family.  We're going to have a night of games.  I wonder which version of myself will show up for that?  

The drawbridge is down, and all the different Saint Martys are storming the castle.

January 17: His Thoughts Aloud, Talk to Myself, Like a Prayer

Santiago talks to himself . . .

He did not remember when he had first started to talk aloud when he was by himself. He had sung when he was by himself in the old days and he had sung at night sometimes when he was alone steering on his watch in the smacks or in the turtle boats. He had probably started to talk aloud, when alone, when the boy had left. But he did not remember. When he and the boy fished together they usually spoke only when it was necessary. They talked at night or when they were storm-bound by bad weather. It was considered a virtue not to talk unnecessarily at sea and the old man had always considered it so and respected it. But now he said his thoughts aloud many times since there was no one that they could annoy.

Like Santiago, I frequently talk to myself.  It's not because I'm getting older.  Simply, I spend a lot of time on the road every day, driving to and from work.  When you live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, you are in your car a great deal of time, because the area is vast and towns are far apart.  So, I spend a lot of this time thinking, and, when I'm dealing with something difficult, I talk aloud.  

Hearing my voice is sort of like writing my thoughts down.  It somehow makes my thoughts more real.  You can't take words back once they are made concrete, either by voice or pen.  Those words are out there, in time or on paper.  You can try to forget what you say or tear up what you write, but they still exist in a very tangible form.

I have been talking to myself a lot since my sister went into the ICU.  Having difficult conversations.  I won't go into the details, but they involved the nature of suffering, letting go, grief, quality of life versus quantity of life.  I did not come up with any definitive answers that put my mind at peace.  I simply sent my thoughts and ideas and hopes out into the universe, like prayer.

In the end, none of us really have control over what's going to happen in the next day or minute or second.  Sure, at times, we convince ourselves that we somehow outgodded God.  That we took a little power out of those divine hands.  We're lying to ourselves, but it makes us feel better.

My sister is alive at this moment.  In another moment, she may be gone.  Same goes for me.  I'm typing this blog post right now, but I may be pushing up daisies the next.  It's a matter of cherishing what you have at any given instant, knowing that it's as brief as a single snowflake in the Sahara.

Saint Marty is going to go play some gin rummy with himself now.  He's going to try not to cheat.

January 15: Found Fish, Magical Thinking, Amazing Grace

Santiago finds fish . . . 

Now the old man looked up and saw that the bird was circling again.

"He's found fish," he said aloud. No flying fish broke the surface and there was no scattering of bait fish. But as the old man watched, a small tuna rose in the air, turned and dropped head first into the water. The tuna shone silver in the sun and after he had dropped back into the water another and another rose and they were jumping in all directions, churning the water and leaping in long jumps after the bait. They were circling it and driving it.

If they don't travel too fast I will get into them, the old man thought, and he watched the school working the water white and the bird now dropping and dipping into the bait fish that were forced to the surface in their panic.

Santiago's luck is about to change.  He has never lost faith in the idea that, eventually, he will catch a big fish again.  That's the old man's religion.

Recently, I've been revisiting Joan Didion's The Year of Magical Thinking.  It's a book that details Didion's life following the sudden death of her husband.  I read the book when it first came out in 2005, at a time in my life when I was facing some very difficult personal struggles.  Didion spends a year shuttling between external reality and inner reality.  For example, she keeps her husband's shoes and clothing because she believes the he will need them when he returns home.  As long as his things are in the closet, Didion allows herself to believe that he is still alive.

Some people might call what Santiago and Didion experience superstition.  The big fish is out there.  Didion's husband is picking up Chinese for dinner.  I think that everyone engages in magical thinking at some time in their lives.  We buy lottery tickets.  Believe we'll win the Nobel Prize in Literature.  Light votive candles for sick loved ones.

I played the pipe organ at church this afternoon.  It was a Mass dedicated to my mother, but I didn't know that until it was announced from the pulpit.  For some reason, I took it as some kind of message from God.  I know, I know.  That kind of stuff only happens in the Bible.  Maybe in a Hallmark movie.  Didion would say it's magical thinking.  Santiago, a sign from the ocean--flying fish or a school of dolphin.  

As a Christian, I call it faith.  The belief that God is looking over us every second of our lives.  Giving us strength,  Hope.  Amazing grace, how sweet the sound.

I realize my last couple posts may have been a little bleak and depressing.  My sister Rose's situation has kind of thrown me into a tailspin.  Coming three months after the death of my mother, right at the beginning of a new year, following 2020 and its sequel, I am struggling to find a whole lot of light.

Don't worry.  This post is not going to be another black hole of existential angst.  Even I, the reincarnation of Sartre, get a little tired of darkness and nihilism.  I received a message from a good friend this morning.  She reached out to me, shared some words of wisdom and encouragement.  Reminded me that, as the old saying goes, the price of love is grief.

I don't know what's going to happen with my sister Rose.  I visited her again this evening in the ICU.  She's still breathing hard.  They had to increase her oxygen to 65%.  And she currently has a high fever.  Rose may get better.  Or she may not.  She's been through quite a lot, health-wise, these last couple years.  I'm not sure how much more her little body can take.

My faith tells me that God is looking over her.   Perhaps He will give her back to us for a little while longer.  Or perhaps God will give her the wings He's been saving for her.  And my mother and sister, Sally, will take her hands and lead her to a place where she can dance and sing and do latch hook rugs all the time.  Call that superstition or magical thinking, if you want.

But Saint Marty knows that loving someone sometimes means letting go when the time comes.    

            

June 20: Whalemeat, Dukkha, Chicken Pot Pie

The planet of Magrathea is not what the crew of the Heart of Gold expected . . .

Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned.  She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them.

She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving for them to come and join him.

He seemed to be excited, but they couldn't clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind.

As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular--a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide.  Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps.  They stopped and looked at a piece.  It was wet.  It was rubbery.

With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whalemeat.

At the top of the crater's lip they met Zaphod.

"Look," he said, pointing into the crater.

In the center lay the exposed carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot.  The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian's throat.  

"I suppose there's no point in trying to bury it?" murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn't.

The results of an innocent sperm whale suddenly appearing miles above the planet and then plummeting to its inevitable death.  The Heart of Gold crew are confronting the results of engaging the Improbability Drive and causing a death.  It's a painful moment for some of them.

Of course, in life, pain is inevitable.  If you are a human being, you will experience heartbreak, loss, and grief.  Think about it.  With the first breath you take, you begin the process of dying.  It may be 80 or 90 years away.  It may be hours away.  The march of time in unavoidable.

Not surprisingly, Archbishop Tutu and the Dalai Lama have some words to share about dealing with pain in life.  The first Noble Truth of Buddhism is that life is filled with dukkha (the stress and anxiety that arise from the attempt to control what is fundamentally impermanent and unable to be controlled).  Thus, dukkha can consist of dealing with your mother who has Alzheimer's or watching your sister die of lymphoma of the brain.  You want to control these circumstances, make your loved one whole and well again.  But you can't.  So, you experience dukkha. 

The Dalai Lama says, "People would like to be able to take a pill that makes their fear and anxiety go away and makes them immediately feel peaceful.  This is impossible."

The Dalai Lama is not (and I'm not) discrediting the use of psychiatric drugs to deal with conditions like depression or bipolar or schizophrenia.  Those are medical conditions that require (for most people) the use of medications to alleviate the pain caused by them.  My wife benefits daily from such prescriptions.  What the Dalai Lama is talking about is something deeper--a discontent or void that seems bottomless, filled with fear and anxiety. 

This void could exist in your job or in your home.  The natural reaction to these feelings of emptiness is to try to find something to fill that hole.  Some people turn to drugs.  Some to food.  Some to pornography.  Some to indiscriminate sex with strangers.  There's a reaching for an immediate fix, and these pleasures that I've just listed provide (for a very brief moment) pleasure.  However, after that very brief moment, those anxieties and fears return, and the void seems even deeper and darker.

Of course, the answer to dukkha doesn't exist anywhere outside of yourself.  It is a matter of acceptance and letting go.  I can't control anything but my own reaction to bad things.  My attitude makes the difference.

So, the lesson of joy for today is that pain is inevitable.  I will stub my toe.  I will lose people whom I love.  I will worry about my children.  However, if I recognize my powerlessness in these situations and give them up to my Higher Power, I will be able to reestablish the joy in my day-to-day existence.

Saint Marty is letting go tonight, and celebrating the grace of a chicken pot pie for dinner.

And a poem that touches upon letting go/emptying yourself from the newly named Poet Laureate of the United States, Joy Harjo . . .

Ah, Ah

by:  Joy Harjo

Ah, ah cries the crow arching toward the heavy sky over the marina.
Lands on the crown of the palm tree.

Ah, ah slaps the urgent cove of ocean swimming through the slips.
We carry canoes to the edge of the salt.

Ah, ah groans the crew with the weight, the winds cutting skin.
We claim our seats.  Pelicans perch in the draft for fish.

Ah, ah beats our lungs and we are racing into the waves.
Though there are worlds below us and above us, we are straight ahead.

Ah, ah tattoos the engines of your plane against the sky--away from these waters.
Each paddle stroke follows the curve from reach to loss.

Ah, ah calls the sun from a fishing boat with a pale, yellow sail.  We fly by
on our return, over the net of eternity thrown out for stars.

Ah, ah scrapes the hull of my soul.  Ah, ah.

May 13: Reflective Tonight, Letting Go, "Things My Daughter Knows"

Feeling quite reflective tonight over the events of this weekend.  Prom for my daughter.  Mother's Day.  All the changes coming this month.  I know that it's my job to raise my children to the best of my ability.  Try to teach them good morals, common sense, independence.  Then, I have to let them go.

I hope I've been a good father for my daughter.  She is the best poem I've ever written.

If you can't tell, Saint Marty is having a little trouble with the letting go part. 

Things My Daughter Knows

by:  Martin Achatz

How to lace ribbons up her shins,
count music beats, lift herself
to her toes, hold her body
on that axis, those ten digits,
defy laws of gravity, motion,
float like some undiscovered planet.

How to brush her red hair
upside down, rake teeth
from scalp downward,
over and over, until her mane
glows like organized flame
when she tosses her head back,
when she looks at me
from the forest fire of her face.

How to ignore the gaze of boys
as she splits water with the curves
of her hips and chest, dives
into the deep green end, reaches
for something on the bottom,
maybe an angel she painted
in kindergarten, all orange, black,
a ladybug singing in excelsis Deo.

How to feed me Life Savers
when my blood sugar dips so low
I can't remember anything
but my need for juice, cookie,
the steps of bite, chew, swallow,
bite again, as my mind untangles
the shoelaces of memory, finds
at its center knot this girl,
all leg, arm, body, DNA
of an encounter almost 13 years old,
when I reached out in the dark one night
and found the spark of love.

March 23: Anger and Worry, a Little Zen, "Anger Management"

I have found myself bouncing between anger and worry this past month.  Anger over the huge changes happening in my life.  Worry about the huge changes happening in my life.  Neither emotion is very helpful.  In fact, they both can make you fairly sick if allowed to persist.  

Saint Marty is trying to let go, get a little zen about everything.  Anger and worry management ain't easy.

Anger Management

by:  Martin Achatz 

What does that term mean

In its CPA tone and style?

As if all you have to do

At the end of the month

Is tally a column of fuck yous,

Balance it against I’m sorrys,

Depreciate the number of days

Between offense and repentance,

Multiply by 2.75 for inflation,

Add a cost of forgiving adjustment.

I’m sure Microsoft offers

Software to help with calculations.

You can even file your Happiness

Return online nowadays to expedite

Things.  No sense spending hours

With a therapist rehashing old miseries,

Distant mothers, abusive spouses,

Alcoholic grandfathers who fondled

You under midnight sheets.

No reason to go to the U. N.,

Negotiate for troops to patrol

The rubble of Baghdad, Kabul

To keep machine gun peace.

Anger, whether a fresh gout of blood

Or a ribbon of pink keloid,

Should be simple.  A matter of knowing

The proper form to submit,

As easy as sending an invitation

To your son’s first birthday.

Just bring a gift, maybe

A quart of vanilla ice cream.

There will be balloons, cake, a game

Of pin the tail on the donkey.

Prizes for everyone.

December 28: Letting Go, Naomi Shihab Nye, "Burning the Old Year"

We come to a time of letting go.  In a few days, we will be writing "2018" on all our letters and e-mails and checks and poems.  It is time to think about endings and beginnings.

I am ready to let go of 2017, which has been full of wonderful things for me.  But, of course, it hasn't been all poetry and joy.  There have been challenges, as well.

Saint Marty is ready to start the fire . . .

Burning the Old Year

by:  Naomi Shihab Nye

Letters swallow themselves in seconds.   

Notes friends tied to the doorknob,   

transparent scarlet paper,

sizzle like moth wings,

marry the air.

So much of any year is flammable,   

lists of vegetables, partial poems.   

Orange swirling flame of days,   

so little is a stone.

Where there was something and suddenly isn’t,   

an absence shouts, celebrates, leaves a space.   

I begin again with the smallest numbers.

Quick dance, shuffle of losses and leaves,   

only the things I didn’t do   

crackle after the blazing dies.

July 23: Work Tomorrow, Classic Saint Marty, "Rules of Fatherhood"

A year ago on this day, I was on vacation, in a condo downstate.  Swimming.  Eating.  Hiking.  Taking too many pictures of my kids.  It was a really good time.  Hot every day.

This afternoon, I'm thinking about going to work tomorrow, all the stuff I have to accomplish in the coming week.  Feeling a little overwhelmed, as I always do on Sundays.  The piles of work never end.  And, to make things worse, I have to prepare everything for next week, as well, because I will be on vacation for four days.  So, my workload is doubled.  It's the price I have to pay for wanting a few days off.

My daughter has been gone since Thursday evening, camping with her boyfriend's family.  Now she's texting to ask if she can stay another day, come back tomorrow.  I can say that having a teenage child is a joy and a struggle for me.  I love the young woman that my daughter is becoming, but I have a really hard time opening my hand and letting go.  Change has never been my forte.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired a year ago, when I was on vacation, practicing living in the moment.  Don't do that too much nowadays.

July 23, 2016:  Ethos of the Moment, Kids in the Universe, "Zootopia"

Last summer some muskrats had a den under this tree's roots on the bank; I think they are still there now.  Muskrats' wet fur rounds the domed clay walls of the den and slicks them smooth as any igloo.  They strew the floor with plant husks and seeds, rut in repeated bursts, and sleep humped and soaking, huddled in balls.  These, too, are part of what Buber calls "the infinite ethos of the moment."

I'm not quite sure of the context of the quote from Martin Buber (although I admire anyone named Martin).  I think it has something to do with finding something eternal in every lived moment.  There's something both very present in the muskrats for Dillard, and there's also something very timeless.  Muskrats doing what they've done for hundreds (if not thousands) of years, following some kind of divine plan that was put into motion way back in the Garden of Eden, when Adam looked at the first muskrat (or the first muskrat's ancestor) and named it.

Today, I tried to live in the ethos of the moment.  I didn't have any particular plan for my time.  I didn't set an alarm.  Woke up around 9 a.m., which is a good five hours later than I normally do.  I took a shower, made breakfast for myself, and then sat outside and dined al fresco.  It was a lovely beginning to the day.  In the moment.  Listening to cicadas sawing the morning in two.

Eventually, I ended up at the water park with my son and wife for about four hours.  My daughter went on a zip line tour, soaring through the forest canopies for three hours (talk about living in the moment).  She had a great time.  My son had a great time.  I always try to imagine what kind of kid Jesus was.  Did he beg Mary to go swimming in the River Jordan on really hot days?  Or climb olive trees and scare birds out of their nests?  That's what kids do.  They carve places for themselves in the universe.

Tonight, at dusk, I went to an outdoor screening of the movie Zootopia with my family.  My fifteen-year-old daughter loved it.  My seven-year-old son, who suffers from a severe aversion to sitting still, got incredibly uninterested after about twenty minutes.  He and my wife and my sister left early while I stayed to watch the end of the film with my daughter.  It reminded me of the drive-in movies I saw as a kid.  King Kong with Jessica Lange.  Freaky Friday with Jodie Foster.  Orca with Richard Harris.  Everything huge and wondrous under the moon and stars.

I guess what I'm trying to say is that everything today felt really new and really familiar, as well.

Saint Marty is going to sleep in again tomorrow morning.  Maybe have some oatmeal al fresco for breakfast.


And a poem for this rainy afternoon about the struggles of being a father . . .

Rules of Fatherhood

by:  Martin Achatz



When I first heard my daughter's heart
Ten years ago in the doctor's office,
I had no clue how to care for a girl,
Those unwritten rules new fathers
Must learn over time.  Make your girl
Sit frog-legged in the bathtub
To allow warm water to flow
Into areas of her body where skin
Turns raw, pink or red as grapefruit,
In the privacy of diaper or panty.
When she turns three or four,
Teach her to wipe front-to-back,
Not back-to-front, to avoid kidney,
Bladder infections.  Comb her hair
As soon as she's done bathing.
Slide the teeth through and through,
To remove all tangles, then braid.
Start simple, one ponytail at the back
Of her head.  Work to French braids,
Beautiful as sweet, curled loaves
In bakeries at Christmas.  Never
Utter the name of the boy she likes
When she's five or seven or ten.
Just watch them play together.
Notice how he always insists
She climb the steps of the slide
Before him, his neck craned upward,
Cheeks flushed, as she goes higher and higher.
Invite said boy to her tenth birthday
Party, watch him squirm when you sit
Beside him and say, "What are your
Plans for the future, son?"
Even though you don't believe
In guns, buy one to hold
In your lap when she goes
On her first date.  When the boy arrives,
Stare at him, the way a lion stares
At a wounded water buffalo.

All these rules I've learned
Since that day the doctor waved
Her wand over my wife, pulled
From the top hat of my wife's belly
That sound:  crickets singing
On a summer night, Love me, love me, love me.