March 7: "Simplicity," Blocked Sewer, Simple Things

Billy Collins keeps things simple . . .

Simplicity

by:  Billy Collins

Dalmatian

is hard

to pronounce,

so the children,

pointing, say

fire truck dog.

I like the simple things in life.  Sunrises.  Sunsets.  Good books.  Good poems.  The smell of my wife's hair when I crawl into bed and put my arm around her.  The sound of my son's laughter when he doesn't know I'm listening to him.  A text message from my daughter, even if she's asking for money.  Thanksgiving dinner.  Petting my dog's belly.  (By the way, she's an Australian Shepherd, not a Dalmatian.)  When life is simple, everything is better.

My life was not simple today.

My wife woke me up at 5:30 a.m. to tell me that something was seriously wrong with the drains in the bathroom.  She was right.  The sewer was blocked.  I tried a few tricks my dad, brother, and sister (all Master Plumbers) have shown me over the years.  None of the tricks worked.  So, we called a plumber, and I left for work, leaving my wife to deal with the shit (literally).  

Needless to say, I was pretty stressed all day long, imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, including, but not limited to:  a collapsed sewer pipe, bulldozers tearing up my property, and thousands of dollars of debt.  I could barely concentrate on anything all morning long.

The plumber showed up at 9:30 this morning, and, about an hour-and-a-half later, he left with a $250 check, saying, "It's unblocked for now."

I have no idea what he meant with the "for now."  Does that mean that he expects it to be blocked again by tomorrow morning?  Or that he just doesn't know what caused the blockage?  Or that he wanted to cover his ass by adding "for now" as a "No Guarantees" clause for his services?

Well, I can go the bathroom in my house.  For now.  That's what I'm holding onto tonight.  We often take simple things like that for granted.  I'm not.  If you think about it, every time we flip a switch and a light comes on, we should say thanks.  Every time we turn a handle and cold, clean water pours out of a tap, we should say thanks.  And every time we flush a toilet and the shit and piss disappears, we should shout "Hallelujah!"

Saint Marty is now--simply-- going to say goodnight.

May 15: "Almost a Conversation," Sister's Birthday, Simplicity

Mary Oliver learns something from an otter . . . 

Almost a Conversation 

by:  Mary Oliver 

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter

      about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble

     with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding

     is all body expression--

he swims like the sleekest fish,

he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.

Little by little he trusts my eyes

and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.

I admire his whiskers

and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life 

     is clear.

He does not own a computer.

He imagines the river will last forever.

He does not envy the dry house I live in.

He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.

He wonders, morning after morning, that the river

is so cold and fresh and alive, and still

I don't jump in.

Really, what Mary Oliver is getting at here is simplicity.  

The otter's life is simple.  He doesn't have a car that needs new brakes.  Or a house with a leaky roof.  (And if the otter's roof leaks, that's okay.  Nothing to worry about.)  When the otter wakes in the morning, he lets his body's needs tell him what to do.  If he's hungry, he finds a fat frog to eat.  If he's still tired, he probably goes back to sleep.  And if he hears the river slapping and singing, the otter goes for a swim and feels cold, fresh, and alive.

Human beings embrace complexity.  Thrive on it, actually.  After her otter conversation, Oliver doesn't jump into the river.  Nope.  She stays on the shore and eventually returns to her nice dry house.  Her computer.  And she writes a poem.

Today would have been my sister Rose's 58th birthday.  I barely remember my own kids' birthdates, but I will never forget Rose's.  Because she reminded everyone constantly about it for months.  It was a magic day for her, when she got cake and ice cream and her favorite dinner.  Usually, Kentucky Fried Chicken, if she was given a choice.  And people sang to her and gave presents.

Rose knew about simplicity and happiness.  A can of Diet Coke could make her smile for hours, or at least until it was empty.  She could watch the same movie, over and over, and experience the same intense pleasure each time.  Everything was always cold and fresh and alive for her.

She's been gone a little over a year now.  Long enough that her voice has started to fade from my memory a little bit.  I wish I had learned to enjoy each day the way Rose did--as if it was the first and best day ever.

Saint Marty's sister was grace and blessing.  He misses her a great deal.

Two Evenings after the Day You Died

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in my backyard, my dog
on the end of her leash, pulling,
digging in the snow. The wind
in the lilac branches, limbs of maple
scratches and moans. It’s a sound
that makes the cold seem colder,
the stars, fragile as frost. I don't
move. My dog stops, as well.
The moment lasts only 20 or 30
seconds, but it stretches out
like piano keys of darkness
on the winter solstice. I listen
to the world sing, sigh, and sob
like cantors at vespers, and I think
of you. How your last breath came
and went so softly that morning that I am
still waiting, two days later, for you
to wake.

December 6: Piebald Landscape, Complicated Life, Simplicity

Intricacy is that which is given from the beginning, the birthright, and in intricacy is the hardiness of complexity that ensures against the failure of all life.  This is our heritage, the piebald landscape of time.  We walk around; we see a shred of the infinite possible combinations of an infinite variety of forms.

Annie Dillard loves complexity, revels in the unpredictability of life.  For her, the "piebald landscape of time" is where it's at.  It's what makes the world interesting to her.  She enjoys the fact that, just because a bridge spans Tinker Creek one day, it doesn't mean the bridge will be there tomorrow.  Complexity is our insurance that life will go on, despite any disaster.

While I get what Dillard is saying, I am not a fan of the complicated life.  My life has had too many complications for too long.  I prefer simplicity.  I don't need a a dinner of molecular gastronomy.  Just boil a pot of macaroni and add some cheese and butter to it.  Maybe some Spam and peas.  I will be happy with that.

Right now, at the end of the semester, my life is a little complicated.  I have finished the grading for one class, and now I have moved on to the second.  I have a stack of final exams to get through before tomorrow night.  And there's a snowstorm blowing in from Canada.  Lake effect snow watches all over the Upper Peninsula of Michigan for the next three days.  That, for me, is life right now.

On Thursday, I will be much calmer and happier.  My schoolwork for the semester will be over.  I will be able to go home at the end of the day and not have to work some more.  My evenings will be almost boring, and that sounds like paradise to me.

Don't get me wrong.  There will still be problems to handle.  It is the holiday season, after all.  Problems and the holidays seem to go hand-in-hand.  However, it's a different brand of problem.  Simpler.  Easier to fix.

So, my disciples, the word for today is "simplicity."

Say it with Saint Marty--"Simplicity."

Don't you feel better?

Do you really want to eat a plate of food that looks like this?