February 18: Neglected Grave, Death on the Mind, New Cartoon

Scrooge crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name, EBENEZER SCROOGE.

On this day, when a good portion of the world is focusing on New Jersey and Whitney Houston's funeral, I found myself drawn to this passage of A Christmas Carol.  It's at the end of the book, and the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come has brought Scrooge to his own "neglected grave."  By this time, Scrooge has pretty much realized how much of his life he has wasted.  This visit to the cemetery is the last push Scrooge needs to truly repent.
I wonder how many of us would change the way we live our lives if we were privy to scenes of our own deaths.  Certainly, if Whitney Houston could have had a Scrooge moment a few years ago, seen her distraught daughter and her own not-so-glorious end, she may still be with us today.  Instead, she is gone.  I know if I saw my death or my grave, I would probably have to reevaluate my life a little bit.

Maybe I would not be typing this post this morning at McDonald's.  Maybe I would be in a huge house, in my study, typing my next bestselling novel.  Maybe I'd be at some research library, gathering information for my newest, award-winning work of non-fiction.  Maybe I'd be at a university as a visiting poet, reading from my Pulitzer-Prize-winning collection of poems.  On the other hand, maybe I'd be working at a homeless shelter, handing out blankets or bowls of soup.  Maybe I'd be a missionary in the Congo, helping orphans.  I suppose it would all depend on the circumstances of my death, on what the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come showed me.

I'd like to think I'd be doing exactly what I'm doing right now.  Sitting with my family at McDonald's on a Saturday morning, watching my kids play, typing this post.  I'd like to think I wouldn't change a single thing about my life.  It's all about being satisfied with what you have.  I don't know of too many individuals who are that satisfied with ther lives.  Maybe Donald Trump.  Oprah Winfrey.  Kim Kardashian (I'm not sure it's possible for her to be that self-aware).  Even people who seem to have everything--money, fame, looks--can be absolutely miserable.  Whitney Houston, for instance.

Today, Saint Marty is satisfied with his life.  No grave-side visits necessary.

Confessions of Saint Marty

Sexton's Spade, Music, Cultivating Kindness

This morning, I'd like to visit the Christmas party thrown by Scrooge's nephew, Fred:

After tea, they had some music.  For they were a musical family, and knew what they were about, when they sang a Glee or Catch, I can assure you:  especially Topper, who could growl away in the bass like a good one, and never swell the large veins in his forehead, or get red in the face over it.  Scrooge's niece played well upon the harp; and played among other tunes a simple little air (a mere nothing:  you might learn to whistle it in two minutes), which had been familiar to the child who fetched Scrooge from the boarding-school, as he had been reminded by the Ghost of Christmas Past.  When this strain of music sounded, all the things the Ghost had shown him, came upon his mind; he softened more and more; and thought that if he could have listened to it often, years ago, he might have cultivated the kindness of life for his own happiness with his own hands, without resorting to the sexton's spade that buried Jacob Marley.

Scrooge has already started to change by the time we attend Fred's party in the book.  He's already been shown the things he missed in the past.  Now, the Ghost is showing him the things he's missing in the present.  Fred's wife, playing the harp, reminds Scrooge of his beloved sister, Fan, and the happier times of his boyhood.  His niece's music softens Scrooge "more and more," until he reaches the moment at the end of this paragraph where he thinks that music might have saved him from his present state of terminal unhappiness.  All through the power of music.

Music has so much power.  This past week, listening to the music of Whitney Houston on the radio and TV, I've been thinking about my younger days, when Whitney was at the height of her singing career.  I don't think I can ever hear the song "I Will Always Love You," without thinking back to my grad school days.  It also reminds me of the musical Best Little Whorehouse in Texas, which I directed back in the '90s.  My wife and I were dating, passionately.  All of our troubles with mental illness and sexual addiction were over a decade in the future.  The future looked bright, full of promise.

That's what I've been thinking about this week.  All because of a song.  I'm sure if someone had told me back then that Whitney Houston would be dead in 20 years of a possible prescription drug overdose, I would have told that person that s/he was full of shit.  Whitney Houston was flawless.  Entertainment royalty.  The daughter of Cissy Houston, a famous gospel singer.  The cousin of Dionne Warwick.  The sort-of adopted niece of Aretha Franklin.  She had it all.

Of course, music can't change the past.  It can't save my wife from being diagnosed with bipolar.  It can't save Whitney Houston from developing addictions.  It can't save my wife from her sexual addictions.  And it can't save Scrooge from the life he has lived.

But music can remind us all of those shining moments in our lives when everything seemed to be going right.  When things like mental illness, drug addictions, alcoholism, marital strife seemed impossible, out of the question.  Music can bring those moments back.  Music can give us hope.  Music helps me cultivate the kindness of life, for myself and the people I love.

It's never too late to cultivate kindness, to think about the good times in life and remember the soundtrack.  "I Will Always Love You" or the theme from Star Wars.  "Jesus Loves You" or "Stairway to Heaven."

Saint Marty doesn't need a ghost or a sexton's spade.  He just needs "Sister Christian" from Night Ranger.

Senior year of high school, baby!

February 13: Facetious Temper, Irritations, Stupid People

Seeing clearly that it would be useless to pursue their point, the gentlemen withdrew.  Scrooge resumed his labours with an improved opinion of himself, and in more facetious temper than was usual to him.

I love the word "facetious" in the above passage.  Using it to describe Scrooge's temper, Dickens gives the reader a picture of a man who kind of revels in his bad mood.  Scrooge has just dissed the two guys who came to his office seeking a charitable donation.  He's feeling pretty good about himself.  Of course, he has yet to encounter the specter of Jacob Marley and all the Christmas ghosts, so he doesn't know what his "facetious temper" has earned him in the afterlife.  In short, Scrooge can abuse the two gentlemen, make fun of the poor and hungry, bully his clerk, chase a Christmas caroller with a ruler, and he can feel good about doing it.  (He sort of sounds like a Republican presidential candidate.)

I'm in a terrible mood this morning.  It may have to do with the fact that I stayed up late watching the Grammy Awards.  It may have to do with the fact that I had to stop at Wal-Mart (also known as the tenth circle of Hell) before I came to work.  It may have to do with the fact that I have so many bills to pay today, and so little money to do it with.  It may have to do with the fact that Whitney Houston died this weekend.  It may have to do with the fact that I have so much work to accomplish this morning, and so little time to do it in.  It could be the accumulation of all of these irritations.

Or it could be the fact that I enjoy being ill-tempered, just like Scrooge.  I don't think that's the case, but my friends and family may argue otherwise. 

Pretty much says it all

I deal with a lot of different individuals, all day long.  Patients.  Students.  Doctors.  Doctors' office staffs.  On days like today, when I start out with a low supply of good nature, I tend to run into a lot of stupid people.  People whom God seems to put in my path just to piss me off.  (These people aren't really stupid.  Well, most of them aren't.  It's all about my skunk-ass mood.)  Unfortunately, I can not be like Scrooge and simply insult these people.  I have to be nice, kind, gracious, helpful.  That's the nature of my occupations, even if I'd rather be mean, spiteful, rude, and dismissive.

Saint Marty better watch his step today.  He may end up on the wrong side of crabby spirit.