April 11: Just Part of Life, Blue Funks, a Balm

Marvin the depressed robot experiences some guilt over bringing his companions down . . .

"No, don't worry about that," the lilt continued, "you just act as comes naturally and everything will  be just fine."

"You're sure you don't mind?" probed Marvin.

"No, no, Marvin," lilted Trillian, "that's just fine, really . . . just part of life."

He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin.  With a satisfied hum and a click the door closed behind him.

"I don't think I can stand that robot much longer, Zaphod," growled Trillian.

Dealing with mental illness is not easy for anyone.  Not for the person with the mental illness.  Not for the person's family or friends.  It's draining for everyone.  I speak as a person who has experienced this from both sides.  It can be all-consuming.

One of the common misconceptions about mental illness (like depression) is that it is easily remedied.  Old school advice:  "just snap out of it" and "pull yourself up by your own bootstraps" and "go exercise."  If those words have come out of your mouth when speaking to somebody suffering from depression, you clearly don't understand mental illness.  A person doesn't choose to be depressed.  Think about it.  That would be like choosing to be diabetic because of all the cool injections you get to take.

I say this tonight as an individual who is in the throes of depression right now.  For the last month or so, the weather in the Upper Peninsula has been spring-like.  The snowbanks have been dwindling, and sun has been in abundant supply.  That kind of weather helps combat some of the effects of my "blue funks"--a term I coined as a teenager for these periods in my life.  Tonight, however, winter has returned (sort of like Game of Thrones).  Big fat flakes outside my window, with the promise of strong winds later.  Just like that, I'm in deep again.

Last night, I did something that truly lifted my spirits.  I gave a poetry reading for National Poetry Month.  It was at one of my favorite places in my home town--the Joy Center, a yoga/art/writing retreat located in the woods.  In the audience were some of my favorite people in the whole world, as well.  Friends whom I dearly love.  They showed up.  We ate kumquats and guacamole and chocolate, and they listened to me tell stories and read poems.  It was a balm.

For the reading, I sort of went on a journey of how I became a poet, which was circuitous at best.  Started out as a computer science major as a undergraduate.  Then, through a series of fortunate events, ended up in a Master's program, studying fiction writing.  That immediately catapulted me into a PhD program in literature, which I found thrilling.  I left that program after three years (I was practically ABD), and returned to my home by Lake Superior, where I worked part time in a bookstore until school came calling again.  This time it was an MFA program in poetry.  Two years later, I had a terminal degree in an eminently competitive job market.  And I just kept writing, husbanding, fathering, teaching, and working.  Along the way, I was elected Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula.  Twice.  Like I said, it was a long and winding road, made easier by good friends and family.

So, I told this tale through a series of poems, a short story, and an essay.  It was a reading that I'd been shaping in my head for quite some time.  And the audience last night (as I said before, some of my best friends) seemed to really like it.

This morning, as I left for work, I was greeted by a brilliant sky of pink and orange and yellow.  As I stood on my front steps, I felt like everything was going to be okay.  Like my life, which has always been filled with detours and side roads, is simply finding another path to something wonderful.  I felt hope, which has been a term that I've been thinking about quite a bit recently.  Weighing its benefits and dangers.  I think that hope, for me, really rests in my ability to accept the present as a gift.  After all, in the Lord's Prayer, the line is NOT "my will be done" but "Thy will be done."  I get in trouble when I forget that little distinction.

My life is not turning out the way I anticipated right now.  I've gone through years of loss recently.  I'm not where I want to be professionally.  Yet, I have joy.  Moments of poetry each day.  Friends who will listen to me and applaud my accomplishments, hug me closely, and say, "You really are wonderful."

Saint Marty couldn't ask for much more.  Thy will be done.  Amen.

May 14: Prayer of the Week, Allie, Dave

...[Allie's] dead now.  He got leukemia and died when we were up in Maine, on July 18, 1946.  You'd have liked him.  He was two years younger than I was, but he was about fifty times as intelligent.  He was terrifically intelligent.  His teachers were always writing letters to my mother telling her what a pleasure it was having a boy like Aliie in their class.  And they weren't just shooting the crap.  They really meant it.  But it wasn't just that he was the most intelligent member in the family.  He was also the nicest, in lots of ways...

Holden doesn't know what to do with the pain of Allie's death.  The only way Holden ever expressed his grief was by breaking some windows and injuring his hand.  Holden doesn't have a mother or father he can talk to.  He doesn't have a mentor or friend.  His spiritual life is nonexistent.  He doesn't know how to pray.  He feels like he's completely alone.

Today is the first Prayer of the Week post.  To be honest, I put off typing this post all day long.  I didn't know how to write a prayer.  I think I'm a little too Catholic in my prayer life.  I'm used to memorized prayers.  Hail Marys.  Glory Be's.   Our Fathers.  That kind of thing.  However, one of my best friends is a United Methodist pastor, and I remember how he used to pray aloud when we were together.  It was like he was talking to me when he prayed.  There wasn't a lot of "Our Father, Who art in Heaven."  There was a lot more of this kind of thing:  "Dear God, I'm having a really shitty day.  Here's why..."  He was honest.  Brutally honest.  Sometimes he was angry or hurt or confused.  But there was trust in his prayer, and a lot of love.  I can do that kind of prayer.

So, here goes:

Dear God,

I want to talk to you about Dave.  You know him.  He sings and plays guitar and bass and violin in our band on Sunday mornings.  His path to You wasn't easy.  You know he was an alcoholic for many years.  But he does amazing things now for You.  He uses his musical gifts to glorify You, to spread Your word.

But You know all that crap.  And You know he's sick now.  Pancreatic cancer.  He's been suffering a long time, but he never complains.  These last couple of months have been tough for him, with chemo and doctor's visits and tests.  Yet, when he shows up on Sunday mornings, he jokes, laughs, corrects my mistakes in his delicate way ("It's just a one, a four, a five, and a one chord!  It's simple!"), and gives thanks to You.

I'm sure Dave has his dark times.  I'm sure he gets pissed and sad.  I'm sure he despairs.  Yet, he never shows it.  Ever.  He's always full of peace and love, in his prickly, Dave way.

My prayer, God, is to give Dave strength.  Bring him the healing he needs.  Let him know that he's one of Your cherished children.  I'm giving Him up to You, because You can do a hell of a lot more for him than I can.  We love Dave, and we want him here, with us, because we're selfish.

Forgive our selfishness.  We love him and want him with us as long as possible.

But, as the prayer goes, "Thy will be done."  Hopefully, Your will is to let us have Dave a little longer.

You loving child,

Saint Marty

Dave's on the far right