September 11: "The Kookaburras," Regrets, Car Problems

Mary Oliver experiences regrets . . . 

The Kookaburras

by:  Mary Oliver

In every heart there is a coward and a procrastinator.

In every heart there is a god of flowers, just waiting

to come out of its cloud and lift its wings.

The kookaburras, kingfishers, pressed against the edge of

their cage, they asked me to open the door.

Years later I wake in the night and remember how I said to them,

no, and walked away.

They had the brown eyes of soft-hearted dogs.

The didn't want to do anything so extraordinary, only to fly

home to their river.

By now, I suppose the great darkness has covered them.

As for myself, I am  not yet a god of even the palest flowers.

Nothing else has changed either.

Someone tosses their white bones to the dung-heap.

The sun shines on the latch of their cage.

I lie in the dark, my heart pounding.

Oliver is thinking back to a moment when she could have risen past her limitations, become a god of flowers.  The kookaburras ask to be freed from their confined lives, and Oliver's response is normal and very human:  she says "no."  It's a decision that haunts her later years, when the kookaburras have long since joined the great darkness.  In the middle of night, Oliver lies in bed, her guilty heart pounding out its regrets in the prison of her ribs.

I'm writing this post at the end of a very long and stressful day.  Attempting to drive my son home from school this afternoon, I noticed that many of the warning lights on my dashboard had suddenly come to life.  So, I pulled over, took out the owner's manual, and tried to decipher what was happening.  Being a person of little to no automotive knowledge, I failed at this task.

Therefore, I drove to the nearest Subaru dealer (the one where I initially purchased my vehicle) and tried to get a mechanic to diagnose my car's illness.  No dice.  The earliest appointment the dealership had was on Wednesday.  Then, I stepped outside and tried to acquire a rental car for a few days.  No luck.  Basically, every car rental company was fresh out.

I called my wife's cousin, whose husband is a mechanic.  She came in her truck, followed me back to her house, and her husband checked things out.  To make a long story even longer, I can report that my car is sitting in my driveway tonight.  All the lights in the dashboard are still glowing, and I have to nurse my car through the next few days until my appointment on Wednesday with the dealership.

And I've been thinking all day:  why am I a poet?  I should have studied to become something useful, like a mechanic.  I can't fix my car by reading a sonnet to it.  Can't make the lights in my dashboard turn off by reciting "Do Not Go Gentle into that Goodnight."  What can I do with the gifts I have?  I can write a blog post about it.  That's it.

Am I regretting my life choices?  Tonight, I am.  Coming from a family of plumbers, I can't really fix a leaky faucet.  After owning six or seven cars in my lifetime, I would have a hard time just changing a flat tire.  I worked in the healthcare industry for close to 25 years, and I still get nauseated around most bodily fluids.  In short, I have little practical life skills.

Again, I am at the end of a very stressful day.  Take everything I write tonight with a cannabis edible.  

That's what Saint Marty plans to do.

June 16: Shoots Like a Tree, Stuck in a Moment, Car Problems

I am not here yet; I can't shake that day on the interstate.  My mind branches and shoots like a tree.

Dillard is stuck in a moment when she was driving along the interstate.  She stopped at a gas station.  Petted a puppy.  As she did this, she watched sun and shadows pass over a ridge of mountains.  And she feels really alive, smaller and bigger than herself.  Metaphysically, she is Emerson's transparent eyeball, absorbing everything around her.

I'm sort of stuck in a moment today, as well.  I wasn't petting a puppy.  I wasn't watching the sun rise over Lake Superior.  I was on the phone with my wife, and she was telling me what the mechanic told her about my car. 

I have owned my Ford Freestyle for eight years.  My son grew up riding in it.  It has brought my daughter back and forth to dance class about 5,763 times.  I drove it to my brother's funeral.  I drove it to my sister's funeral.  I was going to give it to my daughter when she got her license.  I love this car.

Well, the mechanic's diagnosis is not promising.  Somewhere around two thousand dollars worth of repairs are needed.  The Freestyle is only worth about $2,500.  I face a difficult but necessary decision.  I have to get a new car.  This bothers me on several levels.  First, I have many memories attached to the vehicle.  Second, I just finished paying off the car loan about a year ago.  Third, I can't really afford to take on another monthly payment of any substantial amount.

That's the moment I'm stuck in.  By the way my wife and I figure it, we will be able to afford a small, four-door car.  Considering how much winter driving I do for work, I am not looking forward to downsizing.  I've owned a Geo Metro before.  It was a good car.  However, I didn't have two children at the time.

So, in a week or so, I will probably be saying goodbye to my Freestyle, trading it in for a vehicle that I will probably hate driving simply because it is not my Freestyle.  I try not to write about money problems and car problems because I know that I'm better off than probably 99% of the world's population.  I have two good jobs.  A home with a brand new roof (for which I'm still paying).  Food and clothing.  Good health.  I'm very blessed.

Saint Marty just wishes his car was a little more blessed.

June 15: More Bad News, "Ives" Dip, Poet of the Week, Sally Wen Mao, "Valentine for a Flytrap"

Well, another day and more bad news.

My car isn't going to be fixed until the end of the month.  We had budgeted about $300 for the fix.  It's going to cost about twice as much as that.  I have to wait until my next paycheck at the end of the month.  Then I'll be able to pay for it.  Notice that I didn't say I would be able to afford it, just pay for it.  The mechanic also says I need four new tires.  Not even touching that right now.

Let's see.  What else has gone wrong today?  Ummmm.  We got a note from my daughter's chorus teacher informing us that she didn't get accepted into the high school show choir.  She has been looking forward to getting into that group for four years.  Now, we have to go back to the school and reconsider her entire fall schedule.  My sister is going back to the nursing home tomorrow, and, sometime this week, I have to go to the credit union to sign the papers for a loan to get my roof fixed.

On the flip side, I have a friend who has offered to drive me to work tomorrow.  I will be able to get my roof fixed, and then my kitchen ceiling.  Eventually, my car will be drivable again.  Eventually.  Physically, my sister is doing better.  She needs to do physical therapy now.  Massive physical therapy.

My Ives dip question has to do with my luck:

Is my luck going to change any time soon?

And the answer from Edward Ives is:

In the falling elevator, he [Ives] recalled how stupid and hopeless he had felt that day at the beach, and in his supposed last moments, though the sun loomed through a late-summer haze like a god, he had no thoughts of comfort, and simply wanted to be saved.  If the truth be told, he cried for all his faith, doubting there would be another life ahead of him . . . .

Okay, there's no comfort in that little passage.  Ives trapped in a falling elevator.  Ives nearly drowning at the beach when he was a kid.  Ives doubting his faith, thinking he's going to die.  I guess it's going to be a bumpy summer.

I am pleased to announce Sally Wen Mao is the Poet of the Week.  All the poems you will be reading will be coming from her first collection, titled Mad Honey Symposium.  It's the kind of poem that appeals to me right now.  Cruel.  Vicious.  Beautiful.

Kind of describes Saint Marty's life right now.

Valentine for a Flytrap

by:  Sally Wen Mao

You are a hairy painting.  I belong to your jaw.
Nothing slakes you--no fruit fly, no cricket,
not even tarantula.  You are the caryatid
I want to duel, dew-wet, in tongues.  Luxurious
spider bed, blooming from the ossuaries
of peat moss.  I love how you swindle
the moths!  This is why you were named
for a goddess:  not Botticelli's Venus--
not any soft waif in the Uffizi.  There's voltage
in your flowers--mulch skeins, armory
for cunning loves.  Your mouth pins every stickey
body, swallowing iridescence, digesting
light.  Venus, let me swim in your solarium.
Venus, take me in your summer gown.

Open wide and smile

June 7: Car Trouble, Money, Saint Robert of Newminster

The latch on the gate of my wife's Subaru is now fixed.  However, last night, its battery died.  After my sister jump-started it, my wife noticed the odometer and tachometer and other electrical gauges weren't working.  When my wife informed me of this fact, I got a sick feeling in the pit of my wallet.  Whenever anything electrical goes wrong on a car, it's generally not an easy fix.

I just received a phone call from the mechanic which confirmed my fears.  He told me that the instrument control doohicky was shot and needed to be replaced.  Cost:  $540.00.  After I threw up a little in my mouth, he said he checked around for a used doohicky.  Cost of used doohicky:  $120.00.  That's still expensive, but at least my family will be able to eat during the month of July.

One of my huge fears in life is money.  I'm always worried that something is going to happen which will cost so much money I'll have to declare bankruptcy.  Don't laugh.  I've had a few relatives who've done just that.  I'm afraid of losing my house, losing my car, losing my job, losing my sense of humor.  A huge, unexpected expense makes me break out in hives.  I've been really good in recent years about putting away money for emergencies like my wife's electrical issues.  However, now that we have that monetary cushion, I'm afraid of losing that cushion.  I feel unprotected, vulnerable.

Of course, these feelings go completely against the Christian idea of trusting God completely.  I have a friend who is a strong Christian and leads the praise band at church.  She's been out of work for over three years.  She's been pushed to the brink of despair on many occasions.  Yet, she shows up every Sunday and sings her heart out.  I know she's struggled with her faith in the past year.  I keep waiting for God to reach down and pick her up.  Hasn't happened yet.

Robert of Newminster, today's feast saint, is annoyingly trusting.  He was a priest and abbot in the 12th century, and he did things like recite the entire Book of Psalms every day, deny himself food to feel closer to God, and exorcise demons from possessed people.  He often met with a hermit named Godric and discussed "heavenly mysteries."   When Robert died on June 7, 1159, Godric "saw his soul ascending to heaven like a ball of fire."

I wish I had the faith of Robert of Newminster.  However, right now, I find myself full of doubt and worry.  I know, in comparison to 99% of the people on this planet, I'm a very blessed person.  I have a house, money, food, cars, jobs.  I can pay my bills, for the most part, without having to give up Diet Mountain Dew or Cheetos.  You know, the staples.  I am a blessed person.  And I want to hold on to my blessings.  Not let them go.

A friend once told me the opposite of faith isn't doubt.  It's fear.  I'm a living example of that fact.  No matter how much I talk about trusting and praising God, when my wife's car pukes out (when I have to put my words into practice), I'm just as weak and afraid as the next person.  Today, I have to take a leap.  I have to put my trust where my mouth is, along with some cash.  It's a lesson I have to learn over and over.  I'm sure Robert wouldn't have struggled if his oxcart lost a wheel. or his ox died.  He would have fasted, prayed, and trusted.  He would also have kicked some demon ass to boot.

Robert of Newminster probably struggled, like my friend from the praise band.  Like me.  He was human, after all.

Saint Marty just wishes struggling wasn't so expensive.

A little song about trust...

May 25: Waiting for the Shoe, Car Problems, Disappointment

I dropped off my wife's car at the dealership this morning.  When I drove it last week, she mentioned that the car rattled when it was idling.  "How long has it been doing that?" I asked.  She shrugged her shoulders, as if I'd just asked her about the mating habits of the Brazilian magpie rather than the car she drives every day.  On top of the rattle, the latch on her back door sometimes sticks and doesn't open.  When I dropped her vehicle off, I listed these problems, and all I could see were dollar signs.  I have a feeling this little check-up is going to hurt.  All day long, I've been waiting for the call from the dealership, for the metaphorical shoe to drop.  I can imagine it will go something like, "Well, we got everything fixed.  The entire engine needed to be rebuilt.  The brakes needed replacing, and your tires were all worn out.  We had to repaint the entire body of the vehicle, as well, because we found some rust on the undercarriage.  Your bill comes to $27,852.73."  Or something like that.

Last night, I tried to climb to the top of my column, like Simeon.  However, I had to climb down once or twice to take care of a few things.  I spent a good hour trying to chase down my daughter's dance instructor to obtain a CD so my daughter could do a dance solo at a nursing home this morning.  I failed.  I spent three hours grazing in our kitchen because I couldn't figure out what I wanted to eat for dinner.  And I had a little battle of wills with my two-year-old son, who didn't want to go to bed.  I didn't feel very balanced last night, certainly not balanced enough to perch on top of a spiritual pole.

I'm a little tired right now, and I know the evening is going to be long.  I have praise band practice at church tonight, and my daughter is determined to watch the finale of American Idol, which I don't give a crap about.  Both of the finalists are teenage country singers.  I'd rather have a prostate biopsy.  I've hinted to my wife that I want to get take-out stir-fry for dinner tonight.  I'm not sure if she got the hint.

Top that all off with the fact that SH, my dreaded relative, will be flying in for her month-long visit in just eleven days.  I can hardly wait.  Really, I can.  Hardly.  Wait.

New poem tomorrow, or later today, if I find the time.

Saint Marty's waiting for that phone to ring....

The shoe's going to drop...