November 26: "Sunday Walk," Saunter by Lake Superior, Thanksgiving Service

I had an easy day planned out.  

I'm on a semi-vacation this week, so I'm working minimal hours at the library.  This morning, I dropped my son off at school and wife at work, and then I went to McDonald's and wrote for a couples hours.  My plan was to record the audible version of my new book in the library's sound booth.  Unfortunately, it was already booked for the day.  So I just hung out in my office, accomplishing other things.  I even went for a three-mile saunter by Lake Superior.

Billy Collins goes for a stroll . . . 

Sunday Walk

by: Billy Collins

Not only colorful beds of flowers

ruffled today by a breeze off the lake

but the ruffled surface of the lake itself,

and later a boathouse and an oak tree

so old its heavy limbs rested on the ground.

And I don't want to leave out

the uniformed campus guard I saw studying

a map of the campus without a student in sight.

Closer to town, shops under awnings

and several churches,

one topped with a burnished cross,

another announcing a sermon:

"What You Can Take with You."

So many odd things to see

but mostly it's the sun at its apex

inscribing little circles,

little haloes at the top of the sky,

and the freshening breeze,

the nowhere it came from

and the nowhere it is headed,

every leaf wavering, each branch bowed,

and what can I do, I heard myself asking,

with all this evidence of something,

me without a candle, wafer, or a rug,

not even a compass to tell me which way to face.

The best part of the day came after work and school.  My wife and I participated in an ecumenical Thanksgiving service.  Seven different churches of various Christian denominations gathered at my home parish, Saint John the Evangelist, for an evening of gratitude, thanks, and praise, followed by a pie social.

Each church's choir did an anthem, and each church's pastor participated in some way--saying prayers, reading scriptures, providing the message.  I found the whole service incredibly moving.  One Lutheran choir sang a piece I've sung more times than I can count at my wife's church.  My poet mentor and friend read a new poem, and I shared a new poem, as well.  

At the pie social afterward, people kept coming up to me, complimenting my reading and sharing memories of my dad.  (The poem was about the first Thanksgiving after he died.)  One person told me how much she missed him.  I left the church with a full heart and belly, visions of loved ones I've lost swimming before my eyes.  I truly felt their presences during the evening.

And Saint Marty got a piece of pecan pie to boot.  Can't get more perfect than that.

December 9-10: A Tremendous Assignment, Control Freak, God's Job

Merton relates the tale of a little monk . . .

So this was the atmosphere into which the letter from Chicago dropped like a heavy stone. The abbot was pleased by the letter. He did not know what the Chicago World’s Fair was. He did not understand that all these things were simply schemes for accumulating money. The “World Congress of Religions” appeared to him as something more than the fatuous scheme of a few restless, though probably sincere, minds. He seemed to see in it the first step towards the realization of the hopes of their beloved messiah, Jagad-Bondhu: world peace, universal brotherhood. Perhaps, now, all religions would unite into one great universal religion, and all men would begin to praise God as brothers, instead of tearing each other to pieces. 

At any rate, the abbot selected one of his monks and told him that he was to go to Chicago, to the World Congress of Religions. 

This was a tremendous assignment. It was something far more terrible than an order given, for instance, to a newly ordained Capuchin to proceed to a mission in India. That would merely be a matter of a trained missionary going off to occupy a place that had been prepared for him. But here was a little man who had been born at the edge of a jungle told to start out from a contemplative monastery and go not only into the world, but into the heart of a civilization the violence and materialism of which he could scarcely evaluate, and which raised goose-flesh on every square inch of his body. What is more, he was told to undertake this journey without money. Not that money was prohibited to him, but they simply did not have any. His abbot managed to raise enough to get him a ticket for a little more than half the distance. After that heaven would have to take care of him. 

By the time I met this poor little monk who had come to America without money, he had been living in the country for about five years, and had acquired, of all things, the degree of Doctor of Philosophy from the University of Chicago. So that people referred to him as Doctor Bramachari, although I believe that Bramachari is simply a generic-Hindu term for monk—and one that might almost be translated: “Little-BrotherWithout-the-Degree-of-Doctor.” 

How he got through all the red tape that stands between America and the penniless traveller is something that I never quite understood. But it seems that officials, after questioning him, being completely overwhelmed by his simplicity, would either do something dishonest in his favor, or else would give him a tip as to how to beat the various technicalities. Some of them even lent him fairly large sums of money. In any case he landed in America. 

The only trouble was that he got to Chicago after the World Congress of Religions was all over. 

By that time, one look at the Fair buildings, which were already being torn down, told him all he needed to know about the World Congress of Religions. But once he was there, he did not have much trouble. People would see him standing around in the middle of railway stations waiting for Providence to do something about his plight. They would be intrigued by his turban and white garments (which were partly concealed by a brown overcoat in winter). They observed that he was wearing a pair of sneakers, and perhaps that alone was enough to rouse their curiosity. He was frequently invited to give lectures to religious and social clubs, and to schools and colleges, and he more than once spoke from the pulpits of Protestant churches. In this way he managed to make a living for himself Besides, he was always being hospitably entertained by people that he met, and he financed the stages of his journey by artlessly leaving his purse lying open on the living room table, at night, before his departure. 

The open mouth of the purse spoke eloquently to the hearts of his hosts, saying: “As you see, I am empty,” or, perhaps, “As you see, I am down to my last fifteen cents.” It was often enough filled up in the morning. He got around. 

How did he run into Sy Freedgood? Well, Seymour’s wife was studying at Chicago, and she met Bramachari there, and then Seymour met Bramachari, and Bramachari came to Long Beach once or twice, and went out in Seymour’s sailboat, and wrote a poem which he gave to Seymour and Helen. He was very happy with Seymour, because he did not have to answer so many stupid questions and, after all, a lot of the people who befriended him were cranks and semi-maniacs and theosophists who thought they had some kind of a claim on him. They wearied him with their eccentricities, although he was a gentle and patient little man. But at Long Beach he was left in peace, although Seymour’s ancient grandmother was not easily convinced that he was not the hereditary enemy of the Jewish people. She moved around in the other room, lighting small religious lamps against the intruder. 

This is a tale about leaps of faith.  Bramachari is sent on a mission by the abbot of his monastery, without any clear path to accomplishing that mission.  No money.  No extra clothing.  No shelter.  He is simply given a command, and he follows it, with absolute trust that God will show him the way.  

I struggle with trust all the time.  I've faced some pretty difficult decisions and times in my life, when God seemed distant, silent, dark.  A lunar eclipse.  I'd like to say that I was like Bramachari at those times, boarding the ship to America without a cent in his pocket.  I wasn't.  Worry comes more naturally to me than blind faith.

Tonight, I found out that my sister, Rose, is doing much better.  She is currently still an inpatient, but her cardiologist recommends treating with medication versus a pacemaker.  Good news.  Answered prayer.

It's a strange thing.  You see, I'm kind of a control freak.  I don't like surprises, and I structure my life so that I don't have to experience too many of them.  I know what I'm going to have for breakfast tomorrow morning.  Two eggs with a piece of toast.  I know what I'm going to have for dinner.  Thai food from one of my favorite restaurants.  And I know how I'm going to spend my day at work.  Publicity and promotion for some upcoming library programs, and the creation of a document about January's events.  A blog post tomorrow night, and work on this year's Christmas essay.

Two days ago, I had similar plans, and then I received a text message about Rose being at the ER.  Structure went out the window.  Plans went out the window.  I had no way of controlling my sister's fate, whether she got better or worse.  So, I asked people to pray for her.  I suppose, in a way, that was my attempt to control the situation.  I don't like feeling powerless, either.

Here is the truth of the matter:  I'm not in control of anything.  Sure, I can make all the plans in the world, from now until next Christmas.  However, those plans are human, based on human assumptions that I will remain healthy and gainfully employed.  That my financial situation will remain the same.  My marriage, stable.  My children and loved ones, happy and healthy.

Of course, things happen.  Pandemics.  Heart attacks.  Recessions.  Depressions.  Any and many kinds of catastrophes.  No amount of planning can prepare for all the possibilities that the future may hold.

Truth be told, my sense of control is simply an illusion fabricated by me to allow me to sleep at night.  I am more like Bramachari than I care to admit.  A stranger in a strange land, dependent upon heaven to take care of me.  That pretty much describes every single one of us.  We aren't masters of our own destinies.  Nope.  We are corks bobbing in an ocean, subject to winds and waves and rains and sharks.  

But, tonight, heaven has taken care of my sister.  I received another text a little while ago:  "Rosey is almost back to Rosey.  She is talking, and she stood today with help . . ."  I had nothing to do with that, other than offering up my meager request to the universe.  Writer Anne Lamott says this:  "You know, we're often ashamed of asking for so much help because it seems selfish or petty or narcissistic, but I think, if there's a God--and I believe there is--that God is there to help.  That's what God's job is."

I am selfish sometimes.  Petty and narcissistic, too.  I try to control my life.  Play God.  Yet, when push comes to shove, I can only raise up my hands, surrender, and say, "Help."  Or "help, help."  Or, if I'm really desperate, "Helphelphelphelphelphelphelphelp."  I get that prayer from Anne Lamott, too.

Tonight, however, I'm going to say another prayer.  It's just as powerful as "help," but it's not said as much, because the world is selfish and petty and narcissistic.  I gave my sister up to God two days ago, and it appears that God has given her back.  That's what God's job is.

For that miracle, Saint Marty says, "Thanks."

March 19: Thanks for Taking an Interest, Not Planned, Really Not Planned

The Vogon guard is still about to throw Arthur and Ford into outer space . . .

"Resistance is useless," bellowed the guard, and then added, "You see, if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren't usually many vacancies for nonshouting and nonpushing-people-about officers, so I think I'd better stick to what I know."

They had now reached the airlock--a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft.  The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open.

"But thanks for taking an interest," said the Vogon guard.  "Bye now."  He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within.  Arthur lay panting for breath.  Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway.

Things are not turning out the way Ford had planned.  He tried to talk the Vogon into renouncing his Vogon shouting ways and seeking a more meaningful existence.  It didn't work.  The guard has his eyes on a different prize--a promotion and more shouting.  That's what Vogonity is all about.

Like Ford, my afternoon/evening has not turned out the way I expected.  After work, I sat down for an interview at my local public radio station.  I talked for about an hour about poetry and writing and the Upper Peninsula and being Poet Laureate.  I planned on this interview.

Then I drove home and started grading student papers.  I planned on this, as well.  I knew I had an evening of red ink ahead of me when I pulled into the driveway.  It is one of those diabolical deals teachers have to make in order to be able to enter a classroom.

Then, as I was grading, I got tired.  Really tired.  I only got around four hours of sleep last night.  So, I decided to take a short nap.  Half an hour at the most.  That wasn't planned.  As I was crawling under the covers, the telephone rang.  It was my wife, sounding frantic, telling me that her car battery was dead.  She needed me to come with my jumper cables.  Not planned.

Well, we tried to jump her car.  After few sparks, everything on her car went dead.  Not planned.  We called for a tow truck.  Really not planned.  Now, my wife's car is sitting at a garage, waiting to have its battery replaced at some point tomorrow.  (I'm hoping that it's just her battery.  If it's anything more serious, we're in serious trouble.)  Really, really not planned.

As you can tell, a Vogon airlock is sounding pretty good to me at the moment.  Plus, I still have a ton of grading to do.

Saint Marty should have just stayed in bed this morning, with the covers over his head.

January 1: "Slaughterhouse Five," Recovering, Thanks, Classic Saint Marty

A fourth-generation German-American

now living in easy circumstances

on Cape Cod

[and smoking too much],

who, as an American infantry scout

hors de combat,

as a prisoner of war,

witnessed the fire-bombing of Dresden, Germany,

'The Florence of the Elbe,'

a long time ago,

and survived to tell the tale.

This is a novel

somewhat in the telegraphic schizophrenic

manner of tales

of the planet Tralfamadore,

where the flying saucers

come from.

Peace.

If you haven't already guessed, the book I will be examining this year on Saint Marty is Kurt Vonnegut's Slaughterhouse Five.  It won the poll by a couple of votes, and I couldn't be happier.  I think it will be the perfect novel for the first year of a Trump presidency, since it focuses on a world torn apart by the lunacy of war and power.  It's an argument for peace, among other things, including life on other planets.

That is what's in store for the year 2017.  Vonnegut and the fire-bombing of Dresden and flying saucers.  It should be an interesting ride.  It's my hope that, by December 31st, we will still be living in peace, although I have my doubts at the moment.  Perhaps we will all be living on Tralfamadore by then.

Oh, by the way, I want to thank everyone who voted for me this last month.  I have no idea when the announcement will be made as to who will be the next Poet Laureate of the U. P.  I would have to guess it will occur at the beginning of April, which is National Poetry Month.  Regardless of whether I will hold the post or not, I appreciate all of the support I've received throughout the month of December.

Now, I do have an episode of Classic Saint Marty for you this evening.  It first aired on January 2, 2015.  Almost two years ago . . .

January 2, 2015:  So Many Memories, At the Hospital, Quiet Fairy Tale

Years ago, in the 1950s, as a young man working for a Madison Avenue advertising agency, Ives always looked forward to the holiday season and would head out during his lunch hours, visiting churches, to think and meditate, and, if he was lucky, to hear the choirs as they practiced their hymns and sacred songs.  Often enough, he walked along the burgeoning sidewalks, crowded with shoppers and tourists, and made his way to Saint Patrick's Cathedral, where he'd become lost in a kind of euphoric longing--why he did not know.  And in a moment, he would find himself, as a child, attending Mass with his adoptive family again, so many memories coming back to him:  of standing beside his father during the services and noticing, as he looked up at his father's kindly face, just how moved he seemed to be by the prayers, and the Latin incantations, and the reverential chants; so moved, especially during the raising of the host, that he almost seemed on the verge of tears.

The opening paragraph of Oscar Hijuelos' Mr. Ives' Christmas.  It reads almost like a prose poem.  I remember the first time I read this novel.  I was living in Kalamazoo, Michigan, at the time, attending graduate school.  It was the end of the fall semester, around the second week of December.  I was slaving away on a research paper on F. Scott Fitzgerald's Tender is the Night.  I was surrounded by stacks of library books, sitting at my desktop computer, pounding away at the keyboard.  Late in the evening, I took a break, made myself some dinner, and sat down to read the book reviews in Time Magazine.  One of the books was Hiljuelos' newest effort, a book described as "...a spare, moving meditation of the spiritual life."  I was immediately tempted to drive to my local Barnes & Noble to purchase a copy.  But I didn't.

Instead, I made a deal with myself.  When I finished my Fitzgerald research paper, I would allow myself to buy Mr. Ives' Christmas in celebration.  Well, that was enough motivation for me to sit back down at my desk and finish my work.  A day-and-a-half later, I was standing in line at the cash register with that slim, green hardcover edition of Ives in my hands.  I drove back to my apartment, changed into my pajamas, and spent the rest of the night reading.  At 4 a.m., I read the last paragraph of the book, closed it, and cried myself silly.  I was that moved by it.

Over the years, I have reread it several times.  I've used it in various classes that I have taught.  I've given it to friends as presents.  It's a book that has greatly influenced who I am as an artist.  It was a serious work of literature dealing with themes of religion and faith and hope.  Each sentence is gorgeous, and the cumulative effect of the entire narrative is devastatingly beautiful.

Okay, I'm gushing.  But you get the idea.  I love this book.  When the 911 attacks occurred in New York City, I reread Ives.  I was looking for solace.  Comfort.  Peace.  I found it.  When my wife and I were separated for a year, I reread Ives.  Solace.  Comfort.  Peace.  It has saved me from despair on several occasions.

Tonight, my sister is at the hospital again.  She has been struggling for over half a year with surgeries and infections and more surgeries and more infections.  She's really sick again.  I'm still waiting for a phone call to find out what's wrong with her this time.  She was incredibly weak, dizzy to the point of passing out.  I'm hoping it's a matter of dehydration or an electrolyte imbalance.  Something easy to treat.  Considering my sister's recent difficulties, I'm worried that it might be sepsis.

So, here I sit again, finding comfort in Mr. Ives' Christmas.  I have my Christmas tree on.  The house is silent.  My kids are spending the night at my parents' house, and my wife is working.  I am alone and enjoying the solitude.  I've been praying.  Staring at my Christmas lights.  Closing my eyes every now and then.  Reflecting.  That's what this book does to me.

Once upon a time, there was a man named Frank who lived on a mountain top.  Frank didn't like the noise and hustle and bustle of everyday life.  All he ever wanted to do was sit on his front porch with his favorite book and read.

Eventually, stories of Frank's wisdom and quiet life spread throughout the kingdom.  Pilgrims began climbing Frank's mountain to sit on the steps of his cabin and ask him questions.  This annoyed the hell out of Frank.

One day, a young man showed up at his front door.  Frank invited his young visitor to sit on his front porch.  "You may ask me one question," Frank told him.  "Only one."

The young man thought long and hard about what he was going to ask Frank.  Finally, he said, "I have my question, Wise One."

Frank closed the book he was reading and said, "Go ahead.  Ask."

The young man cleared his throat.  "What is the greatest book ever written?"

Frank gazed at the young man for many long moments.  The young man gazed at him expectantly.  Finally, Frank said, "I really love the Twilight series."

Moral of the story:  even wise men can have crappy taste in books.

And Saint Marty lived happily ever after.

Even smart people can be dumb

May 26: Wave Breast, Help Thanks Wow, Book Club

There is the wave breast of thanksgiving--a catching God's eye with the easy motions of praise--and a time for it.  In ancient Israel's rites for a voluntary offering of thanksgiving, the priest comes before the altar in clean linen, empty-handed.  Into his hands is placed the breast of the slain unblemished ram of consecration:  and he waves it as a wave offering before the Lord.  The wind's knife has done its work.  Thanks be to God.

It's a powerful image that Dillard offers:  a wave offering.  Giving thanks to God for all of the blessings He has showered down upon ancient Israek.  God doesn't need the Mormon Tabernacle Choir breaking into the "Hallelujah Chorus" in order to be praised.  No.  It's all about something small.  A token.  Like taking a photograph of your child out of your wallet and waving it at the heavens, lifting it up, saying, "Thank you, thank you, thank you."

One of my other favorite Christian writers in the world, Anne Lamott, wrote once about boiling down prayer to a few very short phrases.  Wow.  Help.  Thanks.  "Wow" is for those moments when you are overwhelmed by God's goodness--a beautiful sunset, the birth of a child, the Grand Canyon, a Godiva chocolate.  "Help" is, obviously, for moments of distress, when you are overwhelmed with need.  Depending upon the urgency of the need, this phrase can be repeated as many times as necessary.  It's about surrender:  help help help help help help help help help help help.  Ego steps aside and lets the divine take over.

And then there's "thanks," the prayer that Dillard is talking about in the above passage.  I have to admit that I don't say "thanks" as often as I should.  It's easy to forget.  When needs are met, crises averted, relief is the major emotion.  Not gratitude.  That's a human thing.  Selfish, but human.

Tonight, believe it or not, I am happy again.  I've had a good day.  It ended with my book club meeting at my house.  We had a great salad and fruit and cheese and crackers.  We talked about the month's selection, The Girl on the Train (not uplifting, but a really good story).  My son even contributed a dessert.  He layered a pan with cinnamon sugar pop tarts, Hershey and Nestle Crunch chocolate bars, a can of vanilla frosting, and sprinkles.  Threw it in the over for 15 minutes until it all melted.  Everyone ate it and told him what a good cook he is.

It was a lovely evening with family and friends.  Something to be grateful for.

So, even though Saint Marty isn't wearing clean linen or waving the breast of an unblemished ram, he wants to say thanks.  Thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks thanks.

It's not always about money . . .

July 16: It's Raining, a Kiss, Prayer of Thanksgiving

Then all of a sudden she gave me a kiss.  Then she held her hand out, and said, "It's raining.  It's starting to rain."

"I know."

Then what she did--it damn near killed me--she reached in my coat pocket and took out my red hunting hat and put it on my head.

Holden loves his sister, Phoebe, more than any other character who appears in Catcher, including Jane.  And Phoebe loves Holden, in a childish, motherly fashion.  In the passage above, Phoebe tries to shield her brother from the rainstorm that's starting.  Children like Phoebe have a way of breaking your heart with their tiny acts of love.  A kiss.  A hunting hat.  Yesterday, my four-year-old son did a very Phoebe thing.

I'd just gone swimming with him, and we'd changed clothes.  I drove him to my parents' house for a visit.  As I opened his car door to unbuckle him from his seat, my son looked up at me with a strange expression on his face.

I stopped what I was doing.  "What?" I said.

He stuck out his lower jaw and smiled.  "I want to give you a kiss," he said.

I unbuckled him, and he crawled out of his seat.  When he was standing on the pavement in front of me, I leaned over.  He wrapped his arms around my neck and pressed his lips to mine.  He held on for about twenty or thirty seconds.  Finally, he let go, and I stood up.

"Thanks, buddy," I said.

"You know," he said, "I love you more than a hour and a half."

In my son's universe, that's a really long time.  His little profession of love left me speechless for a few moments.  Eventually, I managed to say, "I love you too, bud."  My son doesn't express these kids of emotions too much to me, so his words were an unexpected moment of grace.

Most of the time, when I pray, I'm asking God to do something for me, to help me in some way.  Today, I'm going to do something a little different.

Dear God,

I don't think I thank You enough for the gifts You give me every day.  I don't say thanks for the sun and day's warmth, or the moon and night's coolness.  I don't say thanks for the lasagna I had for dinner or the strawberries I had for dessert.

So today, I want to say thanks for my son.  Thanks for the love he expressed to me yesterday, the kiss and hug.  I'm so lucky to have him in my life.  Thanks for his tantrums and stubborn streak.  Thanks for the cars he leaves scattered on the floor at night.  Thanks for his sense of humor ("Why did the chicken cross the road?...To poop on your head!").  Thanks for entrusting this amazing little child to me.

I'm a lucky man.  My son reminded me of this fact yesterday.  And for that, I give You thanks.

Your loving child,

Saint Marty

Amen and thank You

March 23: Pneumonia, Anne Lamott, "Help, Thanks, Wow," New Cartoon

Finally, I sat down on this bench, where it wasn't so goddam dark.  Boy, I was still shivering like a bastard, and the back of my hair, even though I had my hunting hat on, was sort of full of little hunks of ice.  That worried me.  I thought probably I'd get pneumonia and die...

Near the end of The Catcher in the Rye, Holden gets pretty sick.  He's been wandering around New York City in December, drinking quite a bit.  By the time he gets to the carrousel with Phoebe, he's pretty much at rock bottom, physically and mentally.


My daughter has been ill since Wednesday.  Low fever.  Tired all the time.  She missed school Thursday and Friday, including the school dance.  I know she's not feeling well.  It's Saturday, and she's too sick to go to her dance lesson.  In about twenty minutes, I have to take her to a doctor's appointment.  My sisters, the daughters of doom, think she has mono.  I do know there is a kid in my four-year-old son's class who has chicken pox.  Two of the symptoms of chicken pox--low grade fever, lethargy.  My daughter isn't covered in red spots.  Yet.

Writer Anne Lamott recently released a book titled Help, Thanks, Wow:  the Three Essential Prayers.  In the Prelude to the book, she says,

I do not know much about God and prayer, but I have come to believe, over the past twenty-five years, that there's something to be said about keeping prayer simple.

Help.  Thanks.  Wow.

Basically, she says that all prayer boils down to these three principles.  First, help.  That's when you reach the end of your rope and don't have any where to turn.  You raise your eyes to God and say, "Help me, God.  Help me, help me, help me."  Second, thanks.  That's when something good happens to you, whether it's expected or unexpected.  Then, you breathe a sigh of relief and say, "Thanks, God, for the toast I had for breakfast" or "Thanks, God, my kid doesn't have chicken pox."  Last, there's wow.  That's when you're totally in awe of something God has done.  You kind of sit back, shake your head with a little smile, and say, "Wow, God, that snowstorm was incredible" or "Wow, that pizza was really good."  Prayer is that simple, Lamott says.  That easy.


At the end of her book, Lamott writes,

More than anything, prayer helps me get my sense of humor back.  It brings me back to my heart, from the treacherous swamp of my mind.  It brings me back to the now, to the holy moment, whether that means watching candles float on the Ganges or bending down in my front yard to study a lavish dandelion, delicate as a Spirograph drawing, that looks like its very own galaxy.  Amen, amen, amen!

Saint Marty is going to the doctor this morning with "help" in his heart.  He hopes he can quickly progress to "thanks" and "wow."  And then amen.

Confessions of Saint Marty