September 25: Uncramped, My Mojo, a Little Cold Light

Santiago thinks about the fish swimming below him . . . 

Once in the afternoon the line started to rise again. But the fish only continued to swim at a slightly higher level. The sun was on the old man's left arm and shoulder and on his back. So he knew the fish had turned east of north.

Now that he had seen him once, he could picture the fish swimming in the water with his purple pectoral fins set wide as wings and the great erect tail slicing through the dark. I wonder how much he sees at that depth, the old man thought. His eye is huge and a horse, with much less eye, can see in the dark. Once I could see quite well in the dark. Not in the absolute dark. But almost as a cat sees.

The sun and his steady movement of his fingers had uncramped his left hand now completely and he began to shift more of the strain to it and he shrugged the muscles of his back to shift the hurt of the cord a little.

The old man has been fishing all his long life.  It is second nature to him.  Even when his hand is cramping and the fishing line is digging into his sore shoulders, Santiago keeps fishing.  Because that's who he is.

Last night, I published my first blog post in a long time.  As I described yesterday, I've been struggling, unable to write, for a while.  This morning, as I prepare to go into rehearsal for a show I'm in tonight, I feel like my writing muscles are uncramping, and I'm not fighting with my lines so much.  In fact, I wrote these first two paragraphs in less than a minute.  Perhaps I am finally getting my mojo back a little.

I am a writer.  Words are how I understand the world.  When I am joyful, I write about it.  When I am in despair, I write about it.  When I am hungry, I eat some chocolate, and then I write about the chocolate.  That is how I mediate my experiences, and I've been doing it for a very long time.  Some people take pictures and post them on Facebook.  I compose poems and blog posts and essays and stories.

It feels good to be friends with language again.  These last 30 or so days, I was lucky if I could write two words in my journal without descending into an existential crisis.  Now, here I am, writing my second blog post in less than twelve hours.  And my head seems clearer, as if, just by sitting with my laptop, tapping on the keyboard, I've opened the windows in the attic of my head, blown away the cobwebs, let a little cold light shine in.

Thanks to all my faithful disciples--family and friends--for putting up with this tired, sad saint.

Saint Marty's blessing today:  words.

February 26: Uncramped, Day-to-Day, Pain of Grief

Santiago works through his pain . . . 

He settled comfortably against the wood and took his suffering as it came and the fish swam steadily and the boat moved slowly through the dark water. There was a small sea rising with the wind coming up from the east and at noon the old man's left hand was uncramped.

I understand Santiago here.  He remains focused and resolute, despite the aches and cramps of his protesting body.  So much of life is like that.  Working through all the roadblocks until you reach your destination.  Sometimes, those roadblocks are tiny--a cramp in a hand.  And sometimes, they're huge--the death of a loved one.

Since my sister's funeral at the beginning of the month, I have found myself, at times, struggling with day-to-day obligations.  Yes, I've kept my head above water, but I feel as though I've been treading water a lot of the time.  Often, when I get home, I'm too exhausted to think of doing anything but going to sleep.

I'm not sure how much of this struggle is mental and how much is physical.  Certainly, I'm still working my way through the grieving process.  I can go for days without feeling sad, but then I find myself weeping in my car at a traffic light.  But I've also noticed that, since having COVID back at the beginning of January, my body simply doesn't want to function much past 8:30 p.m.   

So, if you are a friend of mine, and feel as if I've been distant or uncommunicative, I apologize.  If you've sent me a text or email, and it's taken me two days to respond to it, I am not ignoring you.  I just find myself a little . . . paralyzed at times.  Or asleep.

I think there's a perception in society at large that, once the funeral is over and leftovers from the wake are eaten, you must rejoin life fully, without missing a beat.  Doing anything less than that is considered a weakness.  Like you're wallowing in self-pity.  (Think Cher in Moonstruck, slapping Nicolas Cage in the face and shouting, "Snap out of it!")

I am here to tell you that it's not that easy.  On top of that, I'm a poet, and poets tend to obsess.  We do things like write entire books about a single mushroom.  At the moment, my obsession is a little existential.  Doing the tally, since 2014, I have lost three siblings and both of my parents.  Mortality has, more or less, been my constant companion for close to eight years now.

It is Saturday night.  Everyone else in my family is asleep.  I am sitting on the couch in my living room, staring at the lights on my Christmas tree.  (The fact that my Christmas tree is still up is not due to my current state of mind.  I often leave my Christmas decorations up for a long while.  They make me happy.  Remind me of my mom's holiday hams and family gettogethers  at my Grandma Hainley's house.)  I am thinking of my sister Rose.  And my mom and dad.  My sister Sally and brother Kevin.  All gone now.

British psychiatrist Colin Murray Parkes said, "The pain of grief is just as much a part of life as the joy of love; it is, perhaps, the price we pay for love, the cost of commitment."

Saint Marty will add to that statement:  the price of grief is sometimes exhaustion.