December 2, 2024: "Central Park," Self Pity, Jody

I apologize if my posts these last few days have been downers.  Some people might even say that I'm wallowing in self pity.  

Believe me, that is not my intent.  I'm simply trying to write my way out of the deep valley in which I'm currently stuck.  It's no fun to feel overwhelmed as soon you open your eyes in the morning.  Or to wake up in the middle of the night and cry for an hour or so.  How about feeling inadequate in just about everything you attempt to do?

I'm not looking for attention.  I'm just just trying to survive.

Billy Collins feels sorry for himself . . . 

Central Park

by: Billy Collins

It’s hard to describe how that day in the park
was altered when I stopped to read
an official sign I came across near the great carousel,
my lips moving silently like the lips of Saint Ambrose.

As the carousel turned in the background,
all pinions and mirrors and the heads of horses
rising to the steam-blown notes of a calliope,
I was learning how the huge thing
was first designed to be powered
by a blind mule, as it turned out,
strapped to the oar of a wheel in an earthen
room directly below the merry turning of the carousel.

The sky did not darken with this news
nor did a general silence fall on the strollers
or the ball players on the green fields.
No one even paused to look my way,
though I must have looked terrible
as I stood there filling with sympathy
not so much for the harnessed beast
tediously making its rounds,

but instead of the blind mule within me
always circling in the dark —
the mule who makes me turn when my name is called
or causes me to nod with a wooden gaze
or sit doing nothing on a bench in the shape of a swan.

Somewhere, there must still be a door
to that underground room,
the lock rusted shut, the iron key misplaced,
last year’s leaves piled up against the sill,
and inside, a trace of straw on the floor,
a whiff of manure, and maybe a forgotten bit
or a bridle hanging from a hook in the dark.

Poor blind beast, I sang softly as I left the park,
poor blind me, poor blind earth turning blindly on its side.

Unlike Collins, I'm not walking around, quietly singing, poor blind me.  In fact, for most of today, I put on my game face.  I taught, answered emails, interacted with coworkers and students.  And nobody noticed anything amiss.

This evening, one of my oldest friends taught a needle felting class at the library.  Jody and I have known each other for over 30 years.  We worked together at a local bookstore.  That's where we first met.  Tonight, before her class, when we were visiting in my office, I told her about my current struggles and started to cry.

Jody came over to me, put her arms around my shoulders, and just held on.  She kept saying, "You're going to be alright.  You're going to be alright.  You'll get through this."  It was a healing mantra and made me feel a little less alone.

I know Jody would do anything for me, and she knows I would do the same for her.  That is the kind of friend everyone should have in their lives:  someone who just loves you, even when you're at your lowest.  

Saint Marty might be lost in a dark wood right now, but he has a friend who has left a candle burning in the window for him.

December 27: Started to Cry, Angels, Piece of Mind

"You can take it all.  You can pay me back.  Bring it to the play."

"How much is it, for God's sake?"

"Eight dollars and eighty-five cents.  Sixty-five cents.  I spent some."

Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry.  I couldn't help it.

Holden's sister, Phoebe, gives Holden her Christmas "dough" because he's out of cash.  It's a simple act of giving.  Something that a kid does without thinking.  She has money.  Holden needs money.  She gives Holden her money.


I'm sorry I didn't post yesterday.  I worked twelve hours, and then my book club came over last night for our Christmas meeting.  They were here really late, and, by the time the house was cleaned up, I couldn't string two words together into a coherent sentence.

Which I'm really sorry about, because I really had a piece of my mind I wanted to share.  You see, on Christmas evening, we went to a get-together at the house of my wife's cousin.  It was lovely, noisy, crowded, and just a little out-of-control.  Basically, it was a family Christmas.  We had turkey and mashed potatoes and sweet potato casserole.  All of my favorites.  And, of course, we opened presents.

My wife's family follows the tradition of choosing names.  So, each adult usually receives one present.  I prefer this tradition.  It cuts down on the commercialism that is rampant this time of year.  It also allows you to purchase something really decent for your person.

Well, I got a little surprise.  All of my wife's sisters, their husbands, our niece, and my wife's grandma pitched in and bought my wife and me a wonderful present.

One of the most expensive expenses in our weekly budget is the purchase of gasoline for our vehicles.  My jobs take me into Marquette, Michigan, about 20 miles away, every day.  My wife usually make at least one trip to the "big city" at least once a day, as well.  That's a lot of gas.

My sister-in-law handed me a card on Christmas night.  Inside the card were gift certificates to a local gas station.  A lot of gift certificates.  Enough so that we won't have to purchase gas for several weeks.  I sat there, completely stunned.  Then, like Holden, I started to cry.

"Don't do that," my wife's cousin said, "or we'll all be messes."

I laughed.

My wife and I are truly blessed.  Some people don't believe in angels.  I can tell you, without a doubt, that they exist.  I may never be able to pay back my wife's family for everything they've done for us over the years.  We've struggled through mental illness and addictions and separations.  We've endured.  Because of love.  Because of family.

Saint Marty believes in Christmas miracles.

Angels are all around me

May 7: Started to Cry, Saint Arsenius, the Gift of Tears

Then, all of a sudden, I started to cry.  I couldn't help it.  I did it so nobody could hear me, but I did it.  It scared hell out of old Phoebe when I started doing it, and she came over and tried to make me stop, but once you get started, you can't just stop on a goddam dime.  I was still sitting on the edge of the bed when I did it, and she put her old arm around my neck, and I put my arm around her, too, but I still couldn't stop for a long time...

I've written about this passage in Catcher before.  It's Holden at his most vulnerable, when all of his sarcastic defenses are down.  Phoebe has just given him her Christmas money ($8.65), and Holden is overwhelmed.  Of course, it's a young child who causes him to finally release some of his pent-up grief.  He's safe with Phoebe.  He knows Phoebe loves him unconditionally.
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When I was reading through the Lives of the Saints this morning, I came across the following passage about Saint Arsenius, whose feast day is May 8:  "He also had the gift of tears to a surprising degree."  The little biography of Arsenius provides no details about these tears, or why they are considered a gift.  The detail intrigued me, so I did a little research on the Internet, and I came across this description from Pope Shenouda III:

Saint Arsenius is one of the saints who became very famous for his weeping.  It is said that his eyelashes fell due to the intensity of his weeping, and that two cavities formed on his cheeks because of his weeping.  During summer, he would wet the palm leaves with his tears, and he placed a piece of cloth on his knees for his tears to fall on.  At the time of his death he wept intensely and his disciples said to him, "Truly, Father, are you also afraid?"  "Indeed," he answered them, "the fear which is mine at this hour has been with me ever since I became a monk."

Arsenius wept out of sadness and fear, Shenouda goes on to say.  He wept because he knew how much he failed in life, and how much those failures grieved God's loving heart.  Arsenius didn't cry for forgiveness.  He knew he was forgiven already.  Arsenius cried because he had failed to live up to God's unconditional love.

I think that's why Holden sits on Phoebe's bed weeping, as well.  He knows Phoebe loves him, no matter what he does.  She loves him so much that she's willing to give him all of her savings.  It's that sacrifice that drives Holden to the gift of tears.  When faced with that kind of love, tears are a natural response, I think.

I'm lucky enough to have a wife and daughter and son who love me unconditionally.  I know that, if I go home tonight and yell at my daughter because she hasn't practiced her flute, or get angry with my wife because she hasn't made the beds or done the dishes in the kitchen sink, or lose patience with my son because he left a pile of toys in the bathtub, they will all still love me in the morning.  When I think about how much love I have in my life, it drives a fist of tears into my throat.

Tears are usually associated with loss and grief and sorrow.  However, it is through tears that loss and grief and sorrow are transformed into something healing.  Memory.  Laughter.  Hope.  Love.

Saint Marty thinks Holden and Saint Arsenius are onto something.

Tears--the gift that keeps on giving