February 6, 2026: ‘Another Theory of Time,” Long Week, “Winter Zen”

When I was a kid, summers seemed to last forever.  On the last day of school, when that final bell rang at the end of the day, it felt like a whole life spread out before me.  Sun, swims, movies, books, friends.  Later, in high school, parties, road trips, concerts.  Those three months were a wonderful eternity.

These days, a work week seems like an eternity, and the weekend is a melting snowflake, practically gone before it hits the ground.  As we gain in years, we seem to lose in time.  As Einstein thought, time is relative—the more time we have under our belts, the less time we have left.

Marie Howe meditates on time . . . 

Another Theory of Time

by: Marie Howe

So, I tell my daughter

—we are eating dinner, reading through the book of stories—

I’m worried about Jason.  If I seem distracted, that’s what’s on my mind.

And she says, Take it out of your mind,

then dips and eats a dumpling, and says, But don’t take out Jason.

And this morning at the deli I say, I’m grumpy because

it’s the first day of school, and I’m thinking of so many things,

and she says, Take them out, and I say, How do I do that?

and she says, Think about Now.

I bite into my egg and cheese on a sesame bagel, and it is good.  It is

Although it does bother me—

how she always wants to sit at the tiny deli counter

so near the garbage bins—eating meatballs for breakfast.

Then she says, I can’t remember the future or the past.

The local high school girls order iced coffee and whole wheat bagels

with nothing on them.  My girl eats her meatballs,

and I stare past the cutouts of ham and turkey taped to the window

and think about the moment I want so much to leave

—how small it is sometimes, this Now==

how constricting, me with my bad teeth and aging elbows,

as person after person tosses their trash inches behind my back

before walking out the open door.

The daughter in the poem is wise.  Truly, we can’t do anything about the past, and the future hasn’t even happened yet.  So, that leaves the present, in all of its messy glory.  Human beings spend way too much time lamenting past mistakes, old lovers, the “might have beens”  Or we worry about upcoming final exams, deadlines at work, or doctor’s appointments.  

I wish I could say I was as Zen as the daughter in Howe’s poem.  I’m not.  In fact, I’m already thinking about the coming summer months—my son’s high school graduation and subsequent party, future vacation, unedited poetry manuscript.  And, in the last few weeks, I’ve also been haunted with thoughts of my sister Rose, who passed on January 20 four years ago.  Future and past.  I almost never focus on what’s in front of me.

I’m not proud of that admission.  I think I’d be a lot happier if I could simply enjoy what I’m doing right now:  sitting on my couch on a Friday night, watching the opening ceremonies of the Winter Olympics in Italy, and petting my puppy.  It’s sort of a perfect moments, surrounded by all the things and people I love, doing the things I love to do.

I think that’s what writing poetry is all about.  A poet captures moments, preserving the emotion and essence of them.  When I sit down with my journal to work on a poem, one of the first things I do is just look around, see what’s in front of me.  Often, the sound of the car driving by outside will cruise right onto the blank page.  Or the snowstorm shaking the windows.  Or the smell of brownies baking in the oven.  All of those Now things.  

And, when I sit down to tap out a blog post on my iPad, those Now things creep in, as well.  Because, really, that’s all I’ve got.  Even at the end of a long week (and this week was L-O-N-G), I only have this: the plate of poutine in front of me, and the smell of my puppy farting on her pillow beside me.  That’s my moment.  (By the way, all the pictures on your phone’s camera roll, those are captured Now moments.  Visual poems, so to speak.)

I am going to try to be a little more Zen this weekend.  Instead of worrying about the movie I’m showing at the library on Monday evening, or my lesson plans for next week’s classes, I’m going to try to take it moment by moment,  song by TV show by poem by nap by walk by movie by meal.  And I’ll probably be a lot happier for the effort.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for this evening about a poet friend enjoying a winter moment , , ,

Winter Zen

by: Martin Achatz

They’re skating on Lake Superior

these days, the water smooth,

hard as unanswered prayer.

Last night, my best friend

rushed to the ice after work,

spun and raced from the shore

to the edge of the world, as if

somewhere beyond the razors 

on her feet were the fresh-shaved

cheeks of May and June, ready

to be smudged with lipstick

at junior prom.

October 6: "First Snow," Questions and Answers, Selfcare

Mary Oliver has questions . . . 

First Snow

by:  Mary Oliver

The snow

began here

this morning and all day

continued, its white

rhetoric everywhere

calling us back to why, how,

whence such beauty and what

the meaning; such 

an oracular fever! flowing

past windows, an energy it seemed

would never ebb, never settle

less than lovely! and only now,

deep into night,

it has finally ended.

The silence

is immense,

and the heavens still hold

a million candles; nowhere

the familiar things:

stars, the moon,

the darkness we expect

and nightly turn from.  Trees

glitter like castles

of ribbons, the broad fields

smolder with light, a passing

creekbed lies

heaped with shining hills;

and though the questions

that have assailed us all day

remain--not a single

answer has been found--

walking out now

into the silence and the light

under the trees,

and through the fields,

feels like one.

I almost skipped this poem from Mary Oliver--not because it isn't full of beauty and truth, but because I live in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan and, if the word "snow" is invoked too many times in October, you may wake to a world transformed by white.

That's what Mary Oliver is talking about here--the power of snow to make the familiar somehow mysterious and new.  Trees glitter, and fields smolder with light.  Nothing looks the same.  Any person who has experienced a first snow understands this erasure--the mustards and umbers of autumn wiped out by the silent whites of winter.  The world becomes a blank page waiting for a poem.

Today, I continued my campaign of selfcare.  I took yet another day off from work and tried to relax.  In the morning, after dropping my son off at school and wife at work, I drove to the shores of Lake Superior and watched the sunrise.  It was cold, and it got colder and colder as the day progressed, with a wind driving bouts of drizzle and mist.

I did take my puppy for a couple walks, but I stuck to wooded paths, so the trees sheltered us from the brunt of the wind and needles of rain.  In the afternoon, I returned to Lake Superior after picking my son up from school, and I watched a squabble of seagulls drifting above the foam and waves.  By that time, the sun was firmly sheathed in gray clouds, so it felt like a coming-of-snow kind of afternoon.

For Oliver, the first snow turns everything into a question--what's under that white heap?  where did the tree stump go?  whence such beauty?  Of course, none of these questions have apparent answers, and, really, it's silly to search for them.  The answer is the question itself.  Beauty isn't something to be understood or dissected.  Beauty just is.

Eventually, snow will arrive in my neck of the Upper Peninsula (hopefully later than sooner).  And it will be thrilling when it happens.  It always is.  I haven't ever lost that childish excitement when the air suddenly becomes a riot of white for the first time, whether in October, November, or December.  (I'd prefer January, but that's magical thinking.)

So, I'm in my flannel pajamas tonight.  After I'm done typing this post, I plan to . . . Well, to be honest, I don't have a plan.  I may read a book.  Watch a movie.  Listen to my 15-year-old son swear in his room like a Marine drill sergeant as he plays computer games.  Or I may just lie on the couch and listen to what scraps of silence I can find.  

Saint Marty isn't looking for answers.  All he wants are multiple-choice questions.