If you just answered "no" to that question, you're either lying, have had several concussions, or take stronger medications than I do.
I don't want to go into detail about the series of frustrations and moods I've endured today. Water under the bridge, as my father would say. He was the king of denial and emotional suppression. (Dad voted for the Felon in Chief in 2016 and probably would have again this year. However, Dad drew his last breath in 2018, before the pandemic and January 6th insurrection.)
If I were to write a haiku about today, it would probably go something like this:
Christmas in six days
too much left undone today
antidepressants
Billy Collins studies up on haiku masters . . .
Biographical Notes in an Anthology of Haiku
by: Billy Collis
Walking the dog,
you meet
lots of dogs.
—Sōshi
One was a seventeenth-century doctor
arrested for trading with Dutch merchants.
One loved sake then disappeared
through the doors of a monastery in his final years.
Another was a freight agent
who became a nun after her husband died.
Quite a few lived the samurai life
excelling in the lance, sword, and horseback riding
as well as poetry, painting, and calligraphy.
This one started writing poems at eight,
and that one was a rice merchant of some repute.
One was a farmer, another ran a pharmacy.
But next to the name of my favorite, Sōshi,
there is no information at all,
not even a guess at his years and a question mark,
which left me looking vacantly at the wall
after I had read his perfect little poem.
Whether you poke your nose into Plato
or get serious with St. John of the Cross,
you will not find a more unassailable truth
than walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
or a sweeter one, I would add.
If I were a teacher with a student
who deserved punishment, I would make him write
Walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
on the blackboard a hundred thousand times
or until the boy discovered
that this was no punishment at all, but a treat.
And if I were that student
holding a broken piece of chalk,
ready to begin filling the panels of the board,
I would first stand by one of the tall windows
to watch the other students running in the yard
shouting each other’s names,
the large autumn trees sheltering their play,
everything so obvious now, thanks to the genius of Sōshi .
—Sōshi
One was a seventeenth-century doctor
arrested for trading with Dutch merchants.
One loved sake then disappeared
through the doors of a monastery in his final years.
Another was a freight agent
who became a nun after her husband died.
Quite a few lived the samurai life
excelling in the lance, sword, and horseback riding
as well as poetry, painting, and calligraphy.
This one started writing poems at eight,
and that one was a rice merchant of some repute.
One was a farmer, another ran a pharmacy.
But next to the name of my favorite, Sōshi,
there is no information at all,
not even a guess at his years and a question mark,
which left me looking vacantly at the wall
after I had read his perfect little poem.
Whether you poke your nose into Plato
or get serious with St. John of the Cross,
you will not find a more unassailable truth
than walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
or a sweeter one, I would add.
If I were a teacher with a student
who deserved punishment, I would make him write
Walking the dog, you meet lots of dogs
on the blackboard a hundred thousand times
or until the boy discovered
that this was no punishment at all, but a treat.
And if I were that student
holding a broken piece of chalk,
ready to begin filling the panels of the board,
I would first stand by one of the tall windows
to watch the other students running in the yard
shouting each other’s names,
the large autumn trees sheltering their play,
everything so obvious now, thanks to the genius of Sōshi .
If you live long enough--whether you're a nun, farmer, or Plato--you will have good days and tough days.
Most of today was pretty tough. This evening, however, I hosted Out Loud (a monthly open mic opportunity). I gathered virtually with three other poets via Zoom, and we talked about grief and light and solstice and the color blue. It was really good tonic (minus the gin) for my soul.
Here's the thing: I can be absolutely unfiltered with my poet friends. They know me and my current struggles. (I also had a visit this morning at the library with another old friend who brought me a Christmas gift.) There's huge blessings in having people in your life who accept you as you are, warts, scars, and all.
Went for a walk with my puppy this evening. We passed a dark house with a Christmas tree glowing in its front window. A beautiful, bright miracle in the falling dusk.
It reminded Saint Marty that everyone can be a haiku or candle or miracle in a dark world.
