October 29: "Watercoloring," Notice Beautiful Things, My Mother

As a poet, I sort of train my senses to notice beautiful things that other people might not even give a second glance/smell/taste/feel.  A rainbow slick of oil in a mud puddle.  The breath of autumn yellowing a maple tree.  The sound of waves from a lake I can't see.  The sweet smoke of burning pine branches.  

Most artists (whether poet, sculptor, photographer, dancer, or whatever) are close observers.  

Billy Collins tries his hand at painting . . . 

Watercoloring

by: Billy Collins

The sky began to tilt,

a shift of light toward the higher clouds,

so I seized my brush

and dipped my little cup in the stream,

but once I streaked the paper gray

with a hint of green,

water began to slide down the page,

rivulets looking for a river.

And again, I was too late--

then the sky made another turn,

this time as if to face a mirror

help in the outstretched arm of a god.

These last few days, I have been a little . . . distracted.  It's simply felt like my brain has been about five steps behind me since Saturday or Sunday.  Of course, last weekend was anything but normal, so I thought that may have something to do with it, too.

Then I realized tonight that yesterday was the anniversary of my mother's death.  October 28, 2021.  Three years.  It seems like forever ago, and it seems like just yesterday.  It's strange how I am so observant of a pile of leaves rattling around in the wind or a ginger candy sitting on my tongue, but I completely forget such an important moment in my life.

When I told this story to a friend this evening, she told me to celebrate my mother in a special way.  So here goes . . .

Her name was Betty, and she loved black walnut cake and coconut clusters.

She made the best tapioca pudding in the world, and her spaghetti sauce was the stuff of legend.

Reading was one of her favorite pastimes, and she taught me to love books.

One of her favorite movies was On Golden Pond.

I've never seen anyone pray harder than my mom.  She always had a rosary in her hand, her lips moving silently.

She worked as an advocate for special needs children, giving help and guidance to parents trying to navigate the educational system.

When my sister, Sally, was dying, my mother sat holding her hand, saying over and over, "It's okay.  Don't be afraid.  It's okay.  I love you.  Don't be afraid."

She believed I could do and be anything. 

Join Saint Marty in raising his glass to honor his mother tonight.  There aren't enough words in the universe to describe her.

August 18: "Aimless Love," Ordinary Things, Falling in Love

Today was a quiet day of quiet loves.

Not much going on.  I played a church service this morning,  I played one of my favorite hymns--"I Am the Bread of Life."  It was rainy and misty most of the morning and afternoon.  A good day to stay inside and watch TV or read a book.  I did both.  Netflix and Garrison Keillor, mixed with a little Wendell Berry.  I even squeezed in a little nap.  Then, when my wife got off work, we did some grocery shopping.

Like I said, nothing huge and important happened  Just small, ordinary things.  Easy to overlook.

Billy Collins falls in love over and over . . . 

Aimless Love

by: Billy Collins

This morning as I walked along the lakeshore,
I fell in love with a wren
and later in the day with a mouse
the cat had dropped under the dining room table.

In the shadows of an autumn evening,
I fell for a seamstress
still at her machine in the tailor’s window,
and later for a bowl of broth,
steam rising like smoke from a naval battle.

This is the best kind of love, I thought,
without recompense, without gifts,
or unkind words, without suspicion,
or silence on the telephone.

The love of the chestnut,
the jazz cap and one hand on the wheel.

No lust, no slam of the door –
the love of the miniature orange tree,
the clean white shirt, the hot evening shower,
the highway that cuts across Florida.

No waiting, no huffiness, or rancor –
just a twinge every now and then

for the wren who had built her nest
on a low branch overhanging the water
and for the dead mouse,
still dressed in its light brown suit.

But my heart is always propped up
in a field on its tripod,
ready for the next arrow.

After I carried the mouse by the tail
to a pile of leaves in the woods,
I found myself standing at the bathroom sink
gazing down affectionately at the soap,

so patient and soluble,
so at home in its pale green soap dish.
I could feel myself falling again
as I felt its turning in my wet hands
and caught the scent of lavender and stone.

I know that I'm guilty of going through my days wearing blinders.  Not really noticing the tiny blessings that come my way.  It's easy to do nowadays, especially with the current political situation in the United States.  Instead of saying grace for the cold pizza I had for lunch or the people who showed up for the poetry workshop I led tonight, I get myself wound up over what moronic thing Donald Trump uttered today.

So, for this post, I'm trying to hold dear all my loves (large and small) from this weekend:  my daughter holding a baby lamb at the U. P. State Fair; an all-night rainstorm; playing pipe organ for church; friends writing poetry with me; a long walk with my puppy; my son helping carry in bags of groceries from the car; the poems of Wendell Berry; some really good sandwich cookies from Walmart; a soft pillow and warm blanket; the sound of my wife's sleeping breaths in the dark.

I could go on.  And on.  And on.  Each day provides new opportunities to fall in love, if I keep my eyes open and take note.

Saint Marty is going to fall in love with the movie On Golden Pond now.

June 17: "Lead," Loons, My Dad

Mary Oliver tells a sad story . . . 

Lead

by:  Mary Oliver

Here is a story

to break your heart.

Are you willing?

This winter

the loons came to our harbor

and died, one by one,

of nothing we could see.

A friend told me

of one on the shore

that lifted its head and opened

the elegant beak and cried out

in the long, sweet savoring of its life

which, if you have heard it,

you know is a sacred thing,

and for which, if you have not heard it,

you had better hurry to where

they still sing.

And, believe me, tell no one

just where that is.

The next morning

this loon, speckled

and iridescent and with a plan

to fly home

to some hidden lake,

was dead on the shore.

I tell you this

to break your heart,

by which I mean only

that it break open and never close again

to the rest of the world.

Here is a blog post to break your heart.

I live a few blocks from a small, inland lake.  During the summer months, sometimes in the morning but mostly near dusk, I will hear loons singing to the rising or setting sun.  If you've never heard the song of a loon, you've missed one of the most beautiful sounds in nature, I think.  

A loon call can be both celebration and lament.  "Look at the sun!" or "Look at the moon!" or "Winter is coming!" or "Farewell!  Farewell!"  (Loons also figure prominently in one of my dad's favorite Henry Fonda movies--On Golden Pond--a film that Jane Fonda bought solely for her dad.  It won him an Oscar, which would be a pretty cool Father's Day present.)  Loons are thought to mate for life, with the male and female building nests together out of reeds and grasses near lakeshores.  A loon unleashes its signature tremolo in response to perceived threats or territorial disputes, and as a night concert or duet with its mate.

This Father's Day eve, I'm thinking a lot about my dad for obvious reasons.  And I'm thinking about fatherhood, in general.  As I've said in previous posts, my relationship with my father was complicated.  We were very different people with very different beliefs.  Don't misunderstand--I loved my dad, and I know he loved me in his own way.  We were not a hugging family.  Physical demonstrations of love were reserved for special occasions, like births or weddings or funerals.  As a result, I can count on one hand the number of times I remember hearing my father say, "I love you."

After my dad died, I inherited many of his nice hats.  My dad was kind of a hoarder.  He never threw anything out.  Thus, I have some caps and a fedora that are probably 70-years-old.  In my mind's eye, I always picture my father wearing some kind of head covering, mostly out of necessity (he was quite bald, something else I inherited from him).

As I sit typing tonight, I am wearing my dad's fedora.  It's charcoal gray and has seen its better days.  I think it was my dad's fancy hat--the one he wore on special occasions.  When it sits on my head, I sometimes think about all the sacrifices my father made to raise and support our family.  I have eight siblings (or had--two of my sisters and one brother have died in the last few years).  Consequently, my dad worked hard to put food on the table and clothing on our backs.  That was his way of showing love for all of us.

My approach to fatherhood is quite different.  I tell my kids that I love them.  I probably say it way too much, especially to my son who is now 14-years-old and refuses to admit how cool I am.  I cry.  Hug.  Kiss.  Tell them how proud I am of their accomplishments.  If my father got his parenting style from Clint Eastwood/John Wayne, I got mine from Pa Ingalls/Michael Landon.   

My father was the best father he knew how to be.  He wasn't perfect, by any means.  But he loved us all, fiercely, in his own way.

Saint Marty isn't a perfect father, either, but he is willing to step outside to let his heart break open for the world and everything in it--loons, lakes, my wife and kids, my dad. 

June 8: Rowing Steadily, Karen Dionne, Daisy Rey

Santiago row, row, rows his boat . . . 

He was rowing steadily and it was no effort for him since he kept well within his speed and the surface of the ocean was flat except for the occasional swirls of the current. He was letting the current do a third of the work and as it started to be light he saw he was already further out than he had hoped to be at this hour.

I worked the deep wells for a week and did nothing, he thought. Today I'll work out where the schools of bonita and albacore are and maybe there will be a big one with them.

Some days are fantastic.  High school graduations.  Weddings.  Births of children.  Family gettogethers (sometimes).  Days at Disney World or at the beach.  

Other days are just a matter of rowing, rowing, rowing until the boat gets to some safe shore.  

Today wasn't fantastic.  It wasn't all rowing, either.  I worked all day.  Reports and emails and compiling statistics.  Then, a really long meeting.  That was the rowing part.  

In the evening, I hosted a reading by a bestselling author, Karen Dionne.  She wrote The Marsh King's Daughter and The Wicked Sister.  That was the fantastic part.  She talked about her life and her writing life.  The movie adaptation of The Marsh King's Daughter is going to be released soon.  Daisy Ridley, the actress who played Rey in the recent Star Wars sequels, plays the title character in it.  Doing the math, that means I am now one degree of separation away from Mark Hamill and Harrison Ford and Carrie Fisher.  That was the fantastic part.

After the reading, I met up with a good friend for beer and pizza.  It was a lovely way to end the day.  We sat outside, got rained on a little, and solved life's problems.  Too bad nobody was around taking notes.  Got home around 10:30 p.m.  I was beat, but my son and I found a terrible Bigfoot movie to watch for a little while. 

Not all days can be Space Mountain.  And not all days are the Bataan Death March, either.

Saint Marty had an On Golden Pond kind of day--some rowing and some loon calling.  Not too bad.