Students graduate from high school every year. In my time on this planet, I have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of young people in caps and gowns, fairly glowing like newly formed stars. I, myself, have graduated four times (high school once, college thrice). Graduation is as normal (and predictable) as dandelions or sunrises. It’s easy to become immune to the excitement and beauty of graduations.
Marie Howe writes about the uncommon ordinary . . .
Mary’s Argument
“Let what you said be done to me” (Luke 1:38)
by: Marie Howe
To lead the uncommon life is not so bad.
There is an edge we come to count on
when all the normal signs don’t speak,
a startled vigilance that keeps us waking
to watch the moon, the peculiar stars;
the usual, underfoot, no more a solid comfort
than a rock that might move as a turtle moves,
so slowly only the nervous feel the sudden bump
of the familiar giving way to unrequested astonishment.
As for a small time, the sheer cliff of everything
we never knew can rise in front of us
like the warm dark, where starlight
has its constant conception, where the idea of turtle
blinked and was: a wry joke, an intricate affection.
Yes, as Howe writes, we all become a little too used to the normal signs of life. I can’t remember the last time I actually stopped to admire a lawn filled with golden dandelions or gotten drunk on the perfume of lilacs. These things are so ordinary that we don’t really stop to think about them for what they really are: miracles.
This weekend, we had our son’s open house for graduation. Again, I know it’s just one open house in a sea of open houses happening in the next few weeks. We all get the announcements from our friends’ kids as June approaches, and we all show up with money-stuffed cards and eat the ham and rolls. When spring arrives, open house season isn’t far off.
When you think about it, though, it really is amazing: all these young people flooding the world with hope and excitement. They’re like rare orchids that only blossom once every 17 or 18 years. And we get to be there to witness it.
I could never have pulled off our son’s open house without the help of my wife’s family. They’re the ones who volunteered to bring food, help decorate, and honor our son’s achievements. My wife’s little sister (I’ve known her for so long, she’s my little sister, too) arranged the rental of the church hall and spent several hours Friday night and all day Saturday helping us. My wife’s older sister made a quilt for our son out of a bunch of his old shirts and pajamas. And my wife’s cousin made food for the potluck. It was a huge team effort.
Me? Well, I spent Thursday and Friday putting together decorations, mowing the lawn, cleaning our house, and grocery shopping. Of course, I sort of over-planned everything, as I am wont to do. We have lots of food left over. My son was thrilled with the whole event, even though our friend Kerry beat him at cards. (He was sure he was going to win)
I guess what I’m trying to say with this post is that I’m supremely grateful for all of the people who helped make this weekend (and my son’s graduation festivities) so meaningful. They’re all miracles, and I’m blessed to have them in my life.
Saint Marty finished a poem this afternoon at the laundromat (because, even in the midst of miracles, there are still dirty clothes to wash) . . .
Pool Table at a Poetry Reading
by: Martin Achatz
covered in books, each poet
hawking wares like an old town
square where farmers gathered
on Saturday mornings to sell
milk, eggs, tomatoes red as infection,
maybe potatoes and bell peppers, too.
The poets chalk their cues, eye
the green felt. Sonnet corner pocket
one says, makes the shot easy
as a sneeze. Villanelle middle pocket
the same poet says, but misses,
scratches another poet’s haiku. One
by one, the table empties until
all that’s left is an elegy for River
Phoenix, who overdosed on Halloween,
died on a sidewalk outside the Viper Room.
The elegy convulses, goes into respiratory
distress before the ambulance arrives.
The poets try to revive it, press their lips
to its stanzas, blow breath into each
line, massage the nouns like stillborn chicks
in a nest of shell fragments, desperate
as Victor Frankenstein for signs
of life. The rest of the poems start singing
“Stand By Me” a cappella in the pockets
as the elegy is lifted from the table,
slid into a folder of rough drafts
that all died way too young, before
they had a chance to ripen.
