July 30: "The Roses," Less Complicated Life, Lighthouses

Mary Oliver takes time to smell and listen to the roses . . . 

The Roses

by:  Mary Oliver

All afternoon I have been walking over the dunes, hurrying from one thick raft of the wrinkled, salt roses to another, leaning down close to their dark or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow.  And now I am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly--the way a hunted animal breathes, finally, when it has galloped, and galloped--when it is wrung dry, but, at last, is far away, so the panic begins to drain from the chest, from the wonderful legs, and the exhausted mind.

Oh sweetness pure and simple, may I join you?

I lie down next to them, on the sand.  But to tell about what happens next, truly I need help.

Will somebody or something please start to sing?

Roses have come to symbolize a lot of things, most commonly love and devotion.  Even each color of rose means something a little different.  Red roses, passion or romantic love.  Pink, admiration or friendship.  White, innocence and purity.  Yellow, joy or platonic friendship.  Orange, enthusiasm or desire, and purple, enchantment.  I'm not sure that Oliver is attaching any kind of specific meaning to the sea roses she encounters, aside from wonder and gratitude.

It has been a slow day.  Keep in mind, "slow" is a relative term.  Perhaps I should have used the word "slower" instead, because none of my days are actually slow.  But, today, I only had to play keyboard for two church services this morning and then take care of some computer stuff for school.  Took my puppy for a couple long walks.  About mid-afternoon, I napped.  That's right, I slept with the sun high in the sky, which I never do.  I had to today.  Because I couldn't even keep my eyes open.  My body didn't give me a choice.

I wonder sometimes if I'd be a happier person living a less complicated life.  A Mary Oliver life.  Or at least the life I imagine Mary Oliver had, full of long solitary hikes followed by extended periods of writing followed by a plain, healthy meal.  Now, I'm sure this vision of Oliver's life is far from reality, but it's the one I've created after reading and writing about her poems for going on eight months.  This is my version of Mary Oliver.  Sort of like the version of Thoreau everyone clings to--him carving out a life on Walden Pond by himself with just an ax, pen, ink, and paper.  Never mind that Thoreau was actually living in Emerson's backyard and often had dinners with the Emerson family while living his deliberate life in the woods.  (Hate to burst anyone's Thoreau bubble.)

Maybe people like Oliver and Thoreau are lighthouses, beacons guiding us across frothy waves and winds to an existence of deliberate happiness.  This is how things should be is what they are telling us, even if they didn't always follow their own advice.  I mean, Thoreau was an industrial innovator, inventing new ways to make pencils, and Oliver taught writing at universities.  Translation:  their lives weren't wild blueberries and birdwatching all the time.

But Oliver inspires me to look for blueberries and birds every day.  Reminds me that there are things more important than money and work and success.  There are sea roses, red as blood, white as snow, and they make the world sing.

That is the harbor Saint Marty is anchored in tonight.  Pure and simple.

February 23: Don't Panic, Greta Garbo, Introverted

Ford introduces Arthur to The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy . . .

Ford frowned at the grubby mattresses, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin.

"Well, this is a working ship, you see," said Ford.  "These are the Dentrassis' sleeping quarters."

"I thought you said they were called Vogons or something."

"Yes," said Ford, "the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks; they let us on board."

"I'm confused."

"Here, have a look at this," said Ford.  He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel.  Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself:  in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Sqornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service.  Very few have ever come to life again.

Ford handed the book to Arthur.

"What is it?" asked Arthur.

"The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  It's a sort of electronic book.  It tells you everything you need to know about anything.,  That's its job."

Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.

"I like the cover," he said.  "'Don't Panic.'  It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day."

Don't panic.  It's good advice for anyone, no matter what situation you're in.  Panic doesn't help improve any problem.  It simply makes you feel more out-of-control.  Thus, it's a better practice, when in a difficult situation, to take some deep breaths.  I find that withdrawing a little, indulging in a little alone time to gather thoughts and evaluate emotions, helps, as well.

That's what I need to do this weekend.  I was supposed to meet some of my best friends this morning for breakfast.  I love these ladies dearly, but I woke up this morning and found that I didn't have the energy to do peopling today.  I have to play the pipe organ for church this evening, which requires quite a bit of social interaction.  Aside from that, I believe that I will be what my therapist would term "antisocial."  I prefer the term "introverted."

I can go for many weeks without having this introvert time.  My life doesn't allow it very much.  All day, I answer phones, register patients, teach classes.  Social interaction is a necessary part of my life.  After a good span of being social, however, I find that my well runs dry.  I turn into Greta Garbo:  "I want to be alone."

I don't think that I'm unusual in this need.  Being social and outgoing all the time isn't really healthy, I think.  Think of all the celebrities who have self-destructed because of their constant need for attention and interaction, like Andy Warhol or Truman Capote.  (Disclaimer:  I am NOT claiming that I am any where near as talented or gifted as these two artists.  They are simply examples of excess--individuals who were obsessed with being in the limelight.)  Every person needs to be Greta Garbo occasionally.

This Oscar weekend, with another snow-pocalypse in the forecast, it won't be difficult to withdraw from social interaction.  It will be physically impossible to seek out human interaction.  The weather will prevent it.  Apologies to my best friends who wanted to have breakfast with me this morning.  Please understand that I care about you a great deal, but with the upheaval of the approaching work week, I needed to be Garbo (or John Muir or Thoreau--take your pick).

Saint Marty wishes all his disciples time to recharge this weekend.

November 14: Inner Hermit, Judith Minty, 6 from "Fall"

I spend most of my days talking with people.  That's my job.  I register patients for surgery, answer phones, meet with students, teach classes.  My days are all about words.

In a single 24-hour period, I may have sixty or so minutes where I'm allowed to withdraw and not think about the rest of the world, if I'm lucky.  Usually, I spend a portion of that time writing these blog posts.  So, in a way, I'm still talking.  I just get to choose what I want to say more freely, without fear of alienating anyone. 

Sometimes, I dream of being Thoreau, living in the woods with my notebook and pen.  Or Judith Minty, retreating to her father's cabin on the Yellow Dog River.  The thought of that kind of isolation appeals to me at the moment.

Saint Marty is getting in touch with his inner hermit.

6 from "Fall" of Yellow Dog Journal

by:  Judith Minty

All day, I stay close to the cabin.
My ax rings the morning.  And half the afternoon
I gather kindling, spread the sticks
to dry.  I am menstruating and have heard
that bear are attracted to women when they bleed.

I haven't spoken in three days, have seen nothing
bigger than chipmunks and squirrels
at the woodpile.  It is only beyond the perimeter
that black shapes hide, breath steaming,
low growls circling their throats.
When the branch falls, I swirl to the sound, ax raised.

August 2: Best Break, Good News, Fairy Tale

The best break I had in years, when I got home the regular night elevator boy, Pete, wasn't on the car...

Yes, I realize that isn't a whole lot of Catcher.  I was looking for something from the book that referred to good luck, and that's the best I could do.  Holden goes home, hoping to avoid his parents, and gets the "best break" he's had in the book:  the elevator boy is new and doesn't know who he is, so he's able to sneak up to his parents' apartment.  Good luck.

I got some good luck news this afternoon in the mail.  It was a card from North Country Publishing informing me that I've received First Honorable Mention (second place) in its first annual nature essay writing contest.  Now, perhaps you're thinking, "Second place!  Big deal!"  Well, it is a big deal to me.  I haven't been feeling all that confident about my writing recently.  Rejection after failure has plagued my publication efforts recently.  First Honorable Mention feels like the Pulitzer to me right now.  And the $20 gift card that accompanied the note didn't hurt.

I felt so good that, when I went for my evening run, I went for a couple more miles than I was planning.  (I think my legs are going to regret that decision tomorrow morning.)  I'm still on Cloud 29 at the moment.  That's a few floors above Cloud Nine, in case you didn't know.  I think I'm going to have a very good weekend.

And now, a fairy tale.

Once upon a time, a young writer named Thoreau lived by a pond in the kingdom of Walden.  One morning, a messenger from King Emerson delivered a scroll, telling him that he'd won two new pigs from a sonnet-writing contest he'd entered.

Thoreau replied, "If you have guilt castles in the air, your work need not be lost; that is where they should be.  Now put the foundations under them."

The messenger frowned at him.  "What the hell are you talking about?"

Thoreau smiled.  "I would rather sit on a pumpkin and have it all to myself, than be crowded on a velvet cushion."

The messenger handed him the scroll.  "Shove your pumpkin up your arse," he said.  He got on his horse and galloped off.

Moral of the story:  Pigs is good meat.

And Saint Marty lived happily every after.

Bacon anyone?