May 1, 2025: "Summer Solstice, New York City," Change, "Habemus Spring"

Yes, I know that it’s been a while since my last post.  A lot has happened since Good Friday.  Pope Francis died on Easter Monday.  President 47 ignored the Vatican dress code, played with his phone, chewed gum, and fell asleep in the front row of the papal funeral.  I taught my last classes for the winter semester.  

A lot has also stayed the same since my last post.  President 47 is still trying to dismantle the United States Constitution.  And defund NPR and PBS.  And get rid of the Department of Education.  And deport U.S. citizens to foreign countries without due process.  And send ICE agents into schools and churches.  I could go on, but you get the idea.  

It’s enough to make me want to climb to the top of a building and jump.

Speaking of which . . . 

Summer Solstice, New York City

by: Sharon Olds


By the end of the longest day of the year he could not stand it,
he went up the iron stairs through the roof of the building
and over the soft, tarry surface
to the edge, put one leg over the complex green tin cornice
and said if they came a step closer that was it.
Then the huge machinery of the earth began to work for his life,
the cops came in their suits blue-grey as the sky on a cloudy evening,
and one put on a bullet-proof vest, a
black shell around his own life,
life of his children's father, in case
the man was armed, and one, slung with a
rope like the sign of his bounden duty,
came up out of a hole in the top of the neighboring building
like the gold hole they say is in the top of the head,
and began to lurk toward the man who wanted to die.
The tallest cop approached him directly,
softly, slowly, talking to him, talking, talking,
while the man's leg hung over the lip of the next world
and the crowd gathered in the street, silent, and the
hairy net with its implacable grid was
unfolded, near the curb, and spread out, and
stretched as the sheet is prepared to receive at a birth.
Then they all came a little closer
where he squatted next to his death, his shirt
glowing its milky glow like something
growing in a dish at night in the dark in a lab and then
everything stopped
as his body jerked and he
stepped down from the parapet and went toward them
and they closed on him, I thought they were going to
beat him up, as a mother whose child has been
lost might scream at the child when its found, they
took him by the arms and held him up and
leaned him against the wall of the chimney and the
tall cop lit a cigarette
in his own mouth, and gave it to him, and
then they all lit cigarettes, and the
red, glowing ends burned like the
tiny campfires we lit at night
back at the beginning of the world.

It is the first day of May.  Summer is right around the corner.  In the next few months, lots of things in my life are going to be changing.  (Unfortunately, I don’t see impeaching President 47 as one of the changes.). My daughter is going to be moving downstate in early July to start medical school in the fall.  My son is going to be a senior in high school in the fall.  My sisters have decided to sell my mom and dad’s house (where I grew up) and move about 100 miles away.

I know that life isn’t static.  Whether I like it or not, loved ones grow up, move away, get sick, die.  Maybe that’s what is happening right now in Washington, D. C.  Growing pains.  Either we’re going to be a dictatorship, or we will rise up to protect and defend the Constitution.  Right now, I’m not quite sure which of those options will happen.

So, when faced with all these unknowns, I have to fall back on faith.  My daughter and son are great kids and love me.  The new pope will walk in the footsteps of Francis.  President 47 will eventually try to do something so stupid/outrageous that even Republicans will turn against him.  I have faith in all of these things.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for tonight about the changes of spring, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

Look up the names of flowers that grow in your geographical location and write a poem using at least ten of those names in a poem.  Also, feel free to use the names of flowers in unusual ways, such as I slipped on my ladyslippers or she hollyhocked her way into our conversation.

Habemus Spring

by: Martin Achatz

Soon cardinal flowers will conclave

as harebells ring under rough blazing

stars.  This morning, I wait for trillium

to unfurl their snow wings, bless my house

as a pope is buried like a tulip bulb

in Rome.  This in-between winter

and summer time, so much has yet

to happen:  peepers chanting in swamp

milkweed, white snakeroot blossoming

above the roof of the Sistine Chapel.

Geese, with their clerical collars, open

their beaks, fill the heavens with trumpet

blasts as they carry the sun on their backs

into June  Tonight, the grass and butterfly

weed will stretch and pray for lilacs

to fill the world with their sweet incense.

February 7, 2025: "New Mother," Strategic Planning, "Snow Blower Ode"

I spent a good portion of my day at a strategic planning retreat for work.  (That sounds like a military operation, but it was actually not too horrible.)  We talked about communication and the future.  Told jokes.  Had drinks and ate lunch.  (I had a grilled muenster and roasted tomato sandwich with onion rings, in case you're interested.)  By the end of our session, I felt like we'd given birth to something new and productive.

Sharon Olds writes about having a baby . . . 

New Mother

by: Sharon Olds

A week after our child was born,
you cornered me in the spare room
and we sank down on the bed.
You kissed me and kissed me, my milk undid its
burning slip-knot through my nipples,
soaking my shirt. All week I had smelled of milk,
fresh milk, sour. I began to throb:
my sex had been torn easily as cloth by the
crown of her head, I'd been cut with a knife and
sewn, the stitches pulling at my skin--
and the first time you're broken, you don't know
you'll be healed again, better than before.
I lay in fear and blood and milk
while you kissed and kissed me, your lips hot and swollen
as a teen-age boy's, your sex dry and big,
all of you so tender, you hung over me,
over the nest of the stitches, over the
splitting and tearing, with the patience of someone who
finds a wounded animal in the woods
and stays with it, not leaving its side
until it is whole, until it can run again.

It's a pretty intimate poem--this first sexual encounter between Olds and her husband after the birth of their daughter.  There's longing in these lines.  Fear.  Lust.  Yearning.  Hunger.  Everything has changed for them because of this fragile, new addition to their lives.  

As most of my faithful disciples know, I'm not a big fan of change.  I don't like new additions or emendations.  I eat the same breakfast and lunch every day.  Say the same prayers.  Listen to the same music.  Every night, I sit down and write a blog post.  Sure, there are sometimes slight variations, depending on the day of the week, but even those slight variations are pretty routine for me.

So, talking for an entire day about changes in my place of work was not completely comfortable for me.  But it wasn't as bad as oral surgery.  Because I was part of the discussion--instead of simply being told, through email, that X, Y, and Z are going to take place--I didn't experience that much anxiety.  (I still had anxiety, but I mixed it with gin and tonic to make it more palatable.)

Perhaps these changes will be good, make my life (and everyone else's lives at the library) better.  Sort of like buying a snow blower after shoveling snow for 20 years.

Saint Marty wrote a poem about a snow blower tonight, based on the following prompt from The Daily Poet:

In honor of the birthday of John Deere, inventor of the steel plow, write a poem about your favorite labor-saving device.  Examples:  coffee grinder/maker, ice maker, electric can opener, vacuum cleaner, washing machine, etc.  Bonus source:  consult the user manual of your chosen device.

Snow Blower Ode

by: Martin Achatz

Snow ambushes our house

in the middle of night, captures

our garbage cans and car,

blockades the driveway, turns

trees into POWs, shackled

with drift and ice.  In this siege,

O snow blower, you sleep

in the bunker of the garage, 

mouth wide and open, ready

for your cold, cold breakfast.

You're Little Boy in the belly

of Enola Gay, Grant chasing

Lee to Appomattox, wood horse

waiting at the gates of Troy.

When the drums of your heart

roar and you march into battle

at morning light, rabbits flee, crows

retreat to sky, and you, O Napoleon, 

O Joan of Arc, wage your war against

the white supremacy of winter.

December 27, 2024: "Flying Over West Texas at Christmas," Hometown, Change

It's still the Christmas season, although the lights around my neighborhood are starting to disappear.  I haven't seen any Christmas trees sitting out on curbs, but the world is definitely a little darker, despite the fact that Epiphany hasn't arrived yet.  Plus, Hanukkah and Kwanzaa are in full swing.  

Billy Collins wings over Texas . . . 

Flying Over West Texas at Christmas

by: Billy Collins

Oh, little town far below
with a ruler line of a road running through you,
you anonymous cluster of houses and barns,
miniaturized by this altitude
in a land as parched as Bethlehem
might have been somewhere around the year zero—

a beautiful song should be written about you
which choirs could sing in their lofts
and carolers standing in a semicircle
could carol in front of houses topped with snow.

For surely some admirable person was born
within the waffle-iron grid of your streets,
who then went on to perform some small miracles,
placing a hand on the head of a child
or shaking a cigarette out of the pack for a stranger.

But maybe it is best not to compose a hymn
or chisel into tablets the code of his behavior
or convene a tribunal of men in robes to explain his words.

Let us not press the gold leaf of his name
onto a page of vellum or hang his image from a nail.
Better to fly over this little town with nothing
but the hope that someone visits his grave

once a year, pushing open the low iron gate
then making her way toward him
through the rows of the others
before bending to prop up some flowers before the stone.

Collins's poem is kind of a beautiful carol to all the little towns of the world at Christmas.  Think about it.  If Bethlehem wasn't included in the gospels as the birth site of Jesus Christ, it would simply be a tiny, dusty little desert berg that nobody would remember today.  

The little Upper Peninsula town where I grew up is known as the birthplace of a couple famous people:  Glenn Seaborg, who won the Nobel Prize in Chemistry, and John Voelker, who wrote the novel Anatomy of a Murder which was adapted into a film starring Jimmy Stewart.  So, my hometown is like a Bethlehem of sorts for those two men.

Of course, people's memories are fairly short.  There aren't any monuments or historical plaques in place reminding tourists of our two famous citizens.  The world changes.  Forgets.  Moves on.

Change has never been easy for me.  In fact, I pretty much hate the word, and most of its synonyms, intensely--alteration, transition, adjustment, revision, correction, mutation.  I could go on.  A quick Google search brings up about 182 matches or near matches.  

Hence, I dislike this time of the holiday season when everyone seems hell-bent on banishing all the sparkle and hope into cardboard boxes to be stored in the attic or garage for another year.  Sure, I know that New Year's Eve and Day are fast approaching with all the attendant promises of fresh beginnings, and I can also freely admit that 2024 has had its fair share of catastrophes (not the least of which was a convicted felon and wannabe dictator being elected President of the United States).

So I prefer to linger in the light a little while longer, which was a tall order today because of dense fog advisories.  I kept myself busy, though.  I had a dentist appointment (shots and drilling and filling) and an energy session with a healer friend.  Then I spent the afternoon making dinner, taking my puppy for a few walks, and picking out music for this weekend's worship services (all Christmas carols, in case you're wondering).

It was also a day of reflection and meditation for me.  I don't often get the opportunity to just sit and think for extended periods of time.  My life is usually too chaotic.  Yet, I had quite a few hours to ruminate about the universe and my place in it.  

I don't think anybody's going to be erecting statues in my honor once I shuffle off this mortal coil.  Aside from family and friends, my work will probably be forgotten after a few years.  The most I can hope for is that my kids keep my picture displayed somewhere prominently in their homes.  Maybe keep copies of my books on their shelves as novelties to show off.

These kinds of changes are inevitable.  Nobody is going to make a pilgrimage to my home town to see the house where I grew up or the church where I played the pipe organ.  Maybe my kids will visit my grave every once in a while to dust away the fallen leaves and prop some flowers before the stone.  Perhaps, every once in a while, somebody will have a vague recollection and Google my name to find out what I accomplished.  Or not.

Tonight, in the midst of this season of light, I hope that, if I'm remembered years from now, it will be because I was a loving husband, good father, and loyal friend with a really cute puppy.  

Sing with Saint Marty, "O little town of Ishpeming . . ."

October 31: "The Chairs That No One Sits In," All Hallows' Eve, Change

It is All Hallows' Eve.  Jack-o'-lanterns.  Candy.  Costumes.  Trick-or-treating.

In the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, All Hallows' Eve also means freezing rain, wind, and snow usually.  As I sit typing this blog post, it has just started snowing.  It's a little after 10 p.m., and I've spent a majority of my day thinking about how my life has changed.

Billy Collins meditates on empty chairs . . .

The Chairs That No One Sits In

by: Billy Collins

You see them on porches and on lawns
down by the lakeside,
usually arranged in pairs implying a couple

who might sit there and look out
at the water or the big shade trees.
The trouble is you never see anyone

sitting in these forlorn chairs
though at one time it must have seemed
a good place to stop and do nothing for a while.

Sometimes there is a little table
between the chairs where no one
is resting a glass or placing a book facedown.

It may not be any of my business,
but let us suppose one day
that everyone who placed those vacant chairs

on a veranda or a dock sat down in them
if only for the sake of remembering

what it was they thought deserved

to be viewed from two chairs,
side by side with a table in between.
The clouds are high and massive that day.

The woman looks up from her book.
The man takes a sip of his drink.
Then there is only the sound of their looking,

the lapping of lake water, and a call of one bird
then another, cries of joy or warning—
it passes the time to wonder which.

This poem, for me, drips with nostalgia and loss.  Two people used to sit in those chairs, perhaps an old man and woman.  They have been together so long that they no longer need words to communicate--reading each other's minds through looks or glances, body language.

This is the first Halloween in 24 years that my wife and I didn't go trick-or-treating with our kids.  Our daughter and son made their own plans, so we sort of experienced an empty nest night.  We handed out candy and walked down the street to visit our neighbor's haunted garage (an annual tradition on our street).  Then we drove to a good friend's house for hot chocolate, snacks, and conversation (another annual tradition for our family).

But there were empty chairs at our All Hallows' Eve table.  Don't get me wrong.  My wife and I enjoyed the evening, despite the shitty weather.  The trick-or-treaters were cute.  Chocolate was plentiful.  And we laughed a lot at our friend's house.  However, when we got in our car to drive home, my wife said, "It sure was strange not having the kids."

Yes, my wife and I are slowly transitioning into our days of porch sitting and world observing.  When I picked up my son tonight from his friend's house, he put his head back on the seat and fell asleep without so much as a "Happy Halloween!"

If you haven't noticed, I do not deal with change well.  This childless All Hallows' Eve was a huge change.  I missed the joy (and frozen misery) of ransacking neighborhoods for candy with my kids.  Missed painting their faces and forcing them to pose for pictures.

Saint Marty missed it all.  It's a good thing there's plenty of leftover chocolate.

August 31: "Peonies," Summer Green, Carpe Diem

Mary Oliver practices a little carpe diem . . . 

Peonies

by:  Mary Oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready

     to break my heart

          as the sun rises,

               as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open--

     pools of lace,

          white and pink--

               and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes

     into the curls,

          craving the sweet sap,

               taking it away

to their dark, underground cities--

     and all day

          under the shifty wind,

               as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,

     and tip their fragrance to the air,

          and rise,

               their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness

     gladly and lightly,

          and there it is again--

               beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.

     Do you love this world?

          Do you cherish your humble and silky life?

               Do you adore the green grass with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,

     and softly,

          and exclaiming of their dearness,

               fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,

     their eagerness

          to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are

               nothing, forever?

Oliver really is seizing the day in this poem.  She knows the peonies will last only a little while before they are claimed by the terror beneath the grass, so she doesn't waste a second.  In the thin light of morning, she ventures out barefoot and collects them in her arms, hugs them to her body.  She wants to love this part of the world, this short moment of beauty, before it vanishes.

I went for a walk this evening with my wife and puppy.  The long light of late August stretched our shadows out before us, and the trees flashed their last gasps of summer green.  As I looked up into their canopies, I saw the first hints of autumn.  Gold, just tiny flecks of it in that lake of chlorophyll.  Not enough to declare summer over just yet, but enough to send prospectors out to pan for more gold.

It is the last day of August.  I know this.  While the rest of the United States has been baking under a brutal heat wave, I've been waking up in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to almost frost on the windows.  I'll call it a heavy mist.  Fall is breathing down our necks.

Change is on the way.

I'm not going to get all Dead Poets Society in this post.  However, I feel that urgency to squeeze as much summer into these last warm days as possible.  I took tomorrow off from work.  I don't have to teach, either.  Maybe I'll go for a long walk with my dog.  Or maybe I'll sit in my backyard all afternoon with a good book, my journal, and a pen.  I still haven't seen Oppenheimer yet.

Moving from one season into another is always difficult for me, because my life changes drastically.  Summer to fall, the shift is all about getting back into the classroom.  No more quiet nights at home.  Those nights will now be filled with grading and lesson planning and calming the fears of anxious students.  

There's something in me that stubbornly wants to hold onto the ice cream days and nights of summer.  I want a few more scoops of vanilla topped with hot fudge, if you know what I mean.  Of course, there's nothing stopping me from going to the grocery store and picking up some Ben & Jerry's in September or October.  Even December, if I want.

But it won't be the same.  Ice cream on a 90-degree July day tastes different than ice cream on a 15-degree December day.  

So, I'm following Oliver's lead here.  Gathering up all the summer I can.  In fact, I just went outside barefoot to look at the full moon, and the air smelled like July and August still.  Cut grass lingering.  Everyone in my neighborhood, it seems, mowed their lawns today.  

Poet Robert Herrick wrote:  "Gather ye rosebuds while ye may, / Old Time is still a-flying; / And this same flower that smiles today / Tomorrow will be dying."

Mary Oliver wrote:  "Do you cherish your humble and silky life?"

Saint Marty writes:  "Maybe I should get some Cherry Garcia."  

October 15-17: Noisy and Shallow and Violent People, Change, Closed Doors

 Merton on chaotic political ideals . . . 

As far as I can remember, it seems that what most of us thought we were doing, when we took that pledge, was simply making a public-statement, and doing so in sufficient numbers, as we hoped, to influence politicians.  There was no intention of binding ourselves under any obligation. The notion never even occurred to us. Most of us probably secretly thought we were gods anyway, and therefore the only law we had to obey was our own ineffable little wills. It was sufficient to say that we did not intend to go to war for anybody: and that was enough. And if, afterwards, we changed our minds—well, were we not our own gods? 

It’s a nice, complex universe, the Communist universe: it gravitates towards stability and harmony and peace and order on the poles of an opportunism that is completely irresponsible and erratic. Its only law is, it will do whatever seems to be profitable to itself at the moment. However, that seems to have become the rule of all modern political parties. I have nothing to say about it. I do not profess to be either amazed or brokenhearted that such a thing should be possible. Let the dead bury their dead: they have certainly got enough to bury. It is the fruit of their philosophy that they should: and that is all that they need to be reminded of. But you cannot make them believe it. 

I had formed a kind of an ideal picture of Communism in my mind, and now I found that the reality was a disappointment. I suppose my daydreams were theirs also. But neither dream is true. 

I had thought that Communists were calm, strong, definite people, with very clear ideas as to what was wrong with everything. Men who knew the solution, and were ready to pay any price to apply the remedy. And their remedy was simple and just and clean, and it would definitely solve all the problems of society, and make men happy, and bring the world peace. 

It turned out that some of them indeed were calm, and strong, and had a kind of peace of mind that came from definite convictions and from a real devotion to their cause, out of motives of a kind of vague natural charity and sense of justice. But the trouble with their convictions was that they were mostly strange, stubborn prejudices, hammered into their minds by the incantation of statistics, and without any solid intellectual foundation. And having decided that God is an invention of the ruling classes, and having excluded Him, and all moral order with Him, they were trying to establish some kind of a moral system by abolishing all morality in its very source. Indeed, the very word morality was something repugnant to them. They wanted to make everything right, and they denied all the criteria given us for distinguishing between right and wrong.

And so it is an indication of the intellectual instability of Communism, and the weakness of its philosophical foundations, that most Communists are, in actual fact, noisy and shallow and violent people, torn to pieces by petty jealousies and factional hatreds and envies and strife. They shout and show off and generally give the impression that they cordially detest one another even when they are supposed to belong to the same sect. And as for the inter-sectional hatred prevailing between all the different branches of radicalism, it is far bitterer and more virulent than the more or less sweeping and abstract hatred of the big general enemy, capitalism. All this is something of a clue to such things as the wholesale executions of Communists who have moved their chairs to too prominent a position in the ante-chamber of Utopia which the Soviet Union is supposed to be.

Noisy and shallow and violent people, torn to pieces by petty jealousies and factional hatreds and envies and strife.  Thomas Merton might have been writing about Communists, but he is pretty much describing the current state of politics in the United States at the moment.  Constant readers of this blog pretty much know what side of the political spectrum I fall on.  (For occasional readers, or passersby, I will say this:  Donald Trump is to the United States of America what fracking is to the environment.  Blight and ruin.) 

The history of these last three years in my country has been violent and destructive.  I am not a fan of the two-party political system.  However, as the Republican Party of the United States has lost itself in one person's warped ego, I find myself becoming incredibly intolerant of Trump supporters.  Which is ironic, since Donald Trump is pretty much the poster child for intolerance.  I have become what I hate most about the current resident of the Oval Office.

I crave change on the national level.  I don't want to see my country, for which my father served in the armed forces, face another four years of institutionalized hatred and stupidity.  I want to see something shift, move, realign, reset.  If I could, I would press the restart button and reboot the entire world to its pre-2016 settings.

Instead, I find myself wanting change.  Needing change.  Of course, that's pretty much what 2020 has been about.  A global pandemic has a way of reshaping even the simplest of daily tasks.  Going out to the grocery store for a gallon of milk has become a military exercise in preparation.  Do I really need this milk right now?  Do I have my facemask?  Is there enough hand sanitizer in the car?  How crowded is the parking lot?  Can I avoid people wearing masks around their chins like feedbags?  Can I get in and out of the store with a minimum of social interaction?  

This year has also been a time of personal struggle and change for me, as well.  Relationship-wise and career-wise and parenting-wise.  Nothing has been easy these past 290 days, and I have had to face some difficult decisions.  This past Friday, I bid farewell to a healthcare career of over 25 years.  On Monday, I begin a whole new chapter of my professional life--one that I chose and am excited about.

In this same week, I celebrated my silver wedding anniversary, and my 19-year-old daughter fell into a state of unrest and upheaval in her personal life.  (Hers is not my story to tell, so I won't go into detail.)  My son continues to stretch my parenting skills to the breaking point, and Covid-19 cases in my little portion of the Upper Peninsula are sky-rocketing.  An ER nurse friend is working 15- and 16-hour shifts daily.

Not all change is bad.  I know this.  In fact, the badness or goodness of any change is an incredibly subjective thing.  I welcome my career change.  My new job as the adult programming coordinator for a local library will allow me to be creative and artistic in ways that I've always dreamed of.  And I'm getting paid to do it.  On the other hand, I wake every weekday morning with a knot in my stomach, wondering what kind of day my son will hand me.  Will he go to school?  Will he reduce me to sputtering anger?  I miss the son who went to school willingly, loved being with his friends and learning, didn't see the world darkly.

Doors close in life.  Sometimes those doors remain ajar.  Sometime, they are locked and bolted forever.  Either way, you are standing on the opposite side, in a room that may not be very familiar to you at all.  That's where I am right now.  In a house with an unfamiliar floorplan.  

But my foundation hasn't changed.  I still hate Donald Trump.  Love my children and wife.  Enjoy good poems and a glass of wine.  Cherish my friends.  Dream of a kinder, gentler new year.

For the miracle of open and closed doors, Saint Marty gives thanks.

September 30: Horsehead Nebula, Change, Pink Sand

The crew of the Heart of Gold has escaped annihilation again . . .

That night, as the Heart of Gold was busy putting a few light-years between itself and the Horsehead Nebula, Zaphod lounged under the small palm tree on the bridge trying to bang his brain into shape with massive Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters; Ford and Trillian sat in a corner discussing life and matters arising from it; and Arthur took to his bed to flip through Ford's copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy.  Since he was going to have to live in the place, he reasoned, he'd better start finding out something about it.

Arthur doesn't know where he's going.  His home planet is no more.  Everything that was familiar or brought him comfort is gone.  He's lost everything.  And now he's sailing through the universe in a stolen spaceship with a couple aliens, a girl who rejected him at a party, and a suicidal robot.  That sounds pretty rock bottom to me.

I understand Arthur's predicament, when everything joyful and safe turns alien and dangerous.  It's not a pleasant place to be.  It's like waking up one morning and realizing that the world as you knew it has ceased to exist.  You have to reinvent your whole life.

I don't understand some people's need for change.  Like change is always good and heals whatever ails your heart.  I'm hear to tell you that change can be a pretty destructive force, as well.  It can tear families apart.  Create unemployment.  Cause addiction.  As much as change can be a constructive force, it can be pretty destructive, too.

Now, how you deal with change is a whole other thing.  Arthur is choosing to learn and adapt to his new life situation.  That's a healthy and positive reaction.  He can do nothing to un-destroy the planet Earth.  Or bring back his family.  He has to accept his plight and make that best of it.

I wish I had a Hitchhiker's Guide to my life.  Something that I could refer to for answers.  Reality, unfortunately, is not as easy as fiction most of the time.  You can't jump on a spaceship headed for the Horsehead Nebula to escape mental illness.  And you can't reprogram someone you love to eliminate addiction.  If only it were that easy.

Instead, you hold on.  Pray.  Hope.  Wait.  Pray some more.  Hope some more.  Along the way, there might be bright moments on the surface of beautiful, alien worlds.  Or dark moments of Vogons torturing you with Vogon poetry. 

Yesterday evening, for me, was Vogon poetry.  This evening, a warm beach of pink sand and purple seas on some distant world.  I feel some hope tonight.  Like God is watching out for me.  Don't ask me why.  I just do.

Saint Marty wants to stay on this pink planet of hope for a little while.

November 17: Praying at the Bottom of the Sea, Ritual, Change

He paused a little; then kneeling in the pulpit's bows, folded his large brown hands across his chest, uplifted his closed eyes, and offered a prayer so deeply devout that he seemed kneeling and praying at the bottom of the sea.

Father Mapple at a church service that Ishmael attends.  Church services, whether they are Catholic or Methodist or Baptist, involve a certain amount of ritual.  You can't get away from it.  That's how organized religion works.  It's organized.  Tradition plays a big part in it.  Change doesn't happen very often.  Changing anything in a church is like turning the Titanic.  It doesn't happen quickly or easily.

Change.  Don't like it.  Never have.

Usually, I am at McDonald's on Saturday morning with my family.  That's our little tradition.  We sit there for a few hours, talking, listening to music, solving the world hunger and conflicts in the Middle East.  My sister, Sally, started this little ritual.  Since her death, it seems like a disservice to her memory if we're not sitting in our booth by 9 a.m. on Saturday.

Today, because of remodeling, the lobby of McDonald's is closed.  So, we are at Burger King instead.  Many of you are thinking, "Big deal!  Greasy BK food instead of greasy McD's food."  It's not necessarily about the good, however.  It's about the atmosphere and vibe.  Different place, different feel.

Of course, as I said above, I don't like change, big or small.  It bothers me.  I'm a creature of habit.  When I wake up in the morning, I know exactly what my day will hold.  For example, today, after our little breakfast peace summit at Burger King, I am planning on cleaning my house with my daughter and her boyfriend.  This afternoon, it's church.  Thanksgiving songs.  Tonight, we're putting Christmas decorations up at home.  My day.

You see what I mean.  My three constant readers know this about me.  I am the patron saint of habit and ritual.  There's something very comforting in hearing an old song on the radio, coming across an old episode of Bewitched or Gilligan's Island on the TV.  It's part nostalgia, I suppose.  Conjuring up old memories of bygone times (which can be dangerous if you allow yourself to get lost in them).  There's a feeling of safety in it, as well.

Of course, with habit and ritual comes the possibility of stagnation.  I know that change is a necessary part of life.  Almost every student I teach at the university has changed majors at least once (some multiple times).  It's a proven fact that most people change careers at least twice in their lives.  I, myself, ordered a different breakfast sandwich this morning than my normal sausage biscuit.

When the change is something I choose, as opposed to something that's forced upon me, I can get into that.  Embrace it, even.  However, when I'm told that I HAVE to do something, I find myself bridling a little.  For example, every Christmas morning, I usually play a Mass at my church.  This year, because of a change in pastor and pastor assignments, I am not playing a Mass this Christmas at all.  Not my choice, and I find myself a little upset about it.  I love playing Christmas songs and music.  Not to mention the fact that I'm losing money by not playing.  However, I have no voice in this decision.  It's necessary and unavoidable.

So, you see, this Christmas season will be different for me.  Perhaps I will appreciate being able to relax on Christmas morning.  Sit around in my pajamas.  Drink eggnog.  Watch A Christmas Story on TBS.  Then, go over to my parents' house for a Christmas breakfast.  It my be the start of a new Christmas tradition.   Maybe I'll learn to accept it.  Enjoy it, even.  Or, for the rest of my life, maybe I'll feel like something's missing on Christmas morning.  I don't know.

Saint Marty is thankful this morning for Bailey's and hot chocolate on a cold November night.  That's a tradition he can really get into.

August 3: Heisenberg, Principle of Indeterminacy, Change

Back in 1927 Werner Heisenberg pulled out the rug, and our whole understanding of the universe toppled and collapsed.  For some reason it has not yet trickled down to the man on the street that some physicists now are a bunch of wild-eyed, raving mystics.  For they have perfected their instruments and methods just enough to whisk away the crucial veil, and what stands revealed is the Cheshire cat's grin.

What Dillard is talking about here is Heisenberg's Principle of Indeterminacy that says that "you cannot know both a particle's velocity and position.  You can guess statistically what any batch of electrons might do, but you cannot predict the career of any one particle."  Basically, Heisenberg said that you can't predict the behavior of the universe.  You can guess, but you can never know for sure.  Look through the highest powered telescope or microscope, and all you will see is the Cheshire cat, laughing his ass off.

Of course, that's just my very rudimentary understanding of highly complex idea.  The universe is full of mystery.  Heisenberg lifted the mysterious veil and revealed more mystery.  Scientists and mystics are cut from the same cloth.  They just try to answer the questions in different ways.  The answer remains the same.

I have given up trying to understand the universe.  I've seen the Cheshire cat's grin too many times.  No matter how much I plan, I will never be able to predict the trajectory of my day.  I can make educated guesses--I will write a blog post, grade student essays, eat chicken for dinner--but they are still guesses, nothing more.  As Heisenberg pointed out, I can't know both the velocity and position of my life.

The poet Keats called this Negative Capability--living in uncertainty, without grasping around for explanations.  I have to exist comfortably with the idea that I am not in control of anything, aside from, maybe, going to the bathroom and whether I eat peanut butter M&Ms or plain.  Trusting in uncertainty.  That's pretty much what faith is all about.  The opposite of faith isn't doubt.  It's fear.  I cannot call myself a person of faith and walk around constantly terrified of what's going to happen next.  Those two conditions--faith and fear--are mutually exclusive.

So, tonight, I'm singing the praises of uncertainty.  At the beginning of the summer, I was driving a ten-year-old car with over a hundred thousand miles on it.  I was working a job that caused me great stress daily, and I was finishing my twentieth year of teaching.  Now, at the end of the summer, I am driving a new car, have a new job, and received a promotion from the university.  Uncertainty was a good thing for me these last few months.

Of course, that doesn't mean that life will always be rainbows and chocolate bars.  However, even in the throes of despair, I can say to myself, "This, too, shall pass."  Sadness will give way to calm, which will eventually transform into some kind of joy.  That's what indeterminacy is all about.  Wait a second, and things will change.

Make no mistake, though.  Saint Marty isn't embracing change.  More like trying to negotiate a cease fire.

April 1: Wretched Excess, Change, Different Job

It is spring.  I plan to try to control myself this year, to watch the progress of the season in a calm and orderly fashion.  In spring I am prone to wretched excess.  I abandon myself to flights and compulsions.  I veer into various states of physical disarray.  For the duration of one entire spring I played pinochle; another spring I played second base.  One spring I missed because I had lobar pneumonia; one softball season I missed with bursitis; and every spring at just about the time the leaves first blur the willows, I stop eating and pale, like a silver eel about to migrate.  My mind wanders.  Second base is a Broadway, a Hollywood and Vine; but oh, if I'm out in right field they can kiss me goodbye.  As the sun sets, sundogs, which are mock suns--chunks of rainbow on either side of the sun but often very distant from it--appear over the pasture by Carvin's Creek.  Wes Hillman is up in his biplane; the little Waco lords it over the stillness, cutting a fine silhouette.  It might rain tomorrow, if those ice crystals find business.  I have no idea how many outs there are; I look through the left-handers, staring at rainbows.  The field looks to me as it must look to Wes Hillman up in the biplane:  everyone is running, and I can't hear a sound.  The players look so thin on the green, and the shadows so long, and the ball a mystic thing, pale to invisibility. . . .  I'm better off in the infield.

When spring springs, the world (and everything in it) goes a little berserk.  For Dillard, it's all about surrendering to obsessions.  Pinochle and softball.  Distractions.  Sundogs and silhouettes and rainbows.  Trees burst and pop, giving in to the same Dillard excess.  As winter approaches, the compulsion is to eat, pack on pounds for the upcoming cold.  As spring nears, Dillard fasts, becomes pale and thin.  Transforms into something new.  Blossoms, if you will.  Changes into something new.

Spring has come to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan.  Snow fell yesterday.  Snow is falling now.  In fact, snow is in the forecast for the next week, with a one-day break for sunlight and blue skies.  I am ready for change.  Because I'm tired of snow.  After months of cold and gray and white, I'm ready for some change.

That statement may come as a surprise to my two Constant Readers.  In the past, I have expressed my dislike for change.  I am not the kind of person who embraces newness.  I am suspicious of it, maybe even a little threatened by it.  I have friends who love change, thrive on it, even.  I love these friends, but I don't understand them.  "Sharon" recently left her full-time job with benefits and opened a private therapy practice.  She loves her new life.

Spring is here.  Change is on the way.  Warmth.  Leafing branches.  A little while ago, I actually applied for a different job.  Had an interview.  Lost that job to a twenty-something girl.  I went out, invited change into my life, and it punched me in the face like a bully on a playground. 

So, if you're keeping score:  Change--1, Saint Marty--0.

February 5: Mosquitos, Parking Slush, Change

You might think the Eskimos would welcome the spring and the coming of summer; they did, but they looked forward more to the coming of winter.  I'm talking as usual about the various Eskimo cultures as they were before modernization.  Some Eskimos used to greet the sun on its first appearance at the horizon in stunned silence, and with raised arms.  But in summer, they well knew they would have to eat lean fish and birds.  Winter's snow would melt to water and soak the thin thawed ground down to permafrost; the water couldn't drain away, and it would turn the earth into a sop of puddles.  Then the mosquitos would come, frenzy so that they trampled their newborn calves, the famous arctic mosquitos of which it is said, "If there were any more of them, they'd have to be smaller."

Annie Dillard is greeting the coming of spring and summer.  At Tinker Creek, the trees are leafing up, sap is flowing, and birds are churning the air with song.  In short, Tinker Creek is the exact opposite of the Upper Peninsula.  The Eskimos may dread the rising sun and melting ground, but I'll take moose-killing mosquitos over blizzards any day.  I don't have to shovel mosquitos; I just have to spray myself with Deep Woods Off.

Today was warm for February in the U. P.  When I stepped outside after work, I didn't have to brace myself against a steely wind.  In fact, I swear I could almost smell something like thaw in the air.  It wasn't exactly mud or permafrost or a sop of puddles.  It was warmth (and, when I say warmth, I mean about 25 degrees).  The parking lot was actually parking slush.

No, I am not going to spend this entire post debating the pros and cons of winter versus summer.  My point, tonight, is about those Eskimos and how they greet the change of seasons with stunned silence and raised arms.  I greet most change in my life like that.  I know that change is inevitable, like winter storms and spring thaws.  However, change hasn't been a friend in my life these last few years.

Let me give you some examples:

• Two of my siblings have died in the past two years.  Bad.
• I had to leave a job that I held for 17 years.  Bad.
• Due to budget cuts at the university, many of my contingent colleagues have lost their teaching positions.  Bad.
• My daughter is in high school. Depressing and bad.

I could go on, but I think you get the idea.  Change is my swarm of mosquitos, driving me into a frenzy.  I'm sitting here, thinking, "If there were any more of them, they'd have to be smaller."  Okay, that doesn't really make a whole lot of sense, but I think the sentiment comes through.

Yes, Saint Marty is bitching about change once again.  It's his monthly rant.

Change works for some people . . .

November 9: Winter Storm Warning, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

Yes, the National Weather Service has issued a winter storm warning for my piece of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan starting Monday night through Wednesday morning.  Depending on the source, we are going to be getting anywhere from six inches to two feet of snow.

This news depresses me more than a little bit.  I'm not ready for winter yet.  My mind has not made the adjustment from rain mode to snow mode.  Of course, I live in the U.P., so a snow storm at the beginning of November should not surprise me.  Actually, a snow storm at the beginning of September shouldn't surprise me.  I just am not looking forward to moving that much white rain.  Too much work.

Today's Classic Saint Marty first aired three years ago.  In 2011, I was yet again bitching about a winter storm warning.  Some things just don't change.

November 9, 2011:  Got to Be Kidding, Best Drink, Snowstorm

I just looked at the latest Blog of Note (BON).  It's another artist blog.  Looks like the artist/blogger just finished illustrating some kind of book.  My reaction when I looked at his blog:  you have got to be kidding.  Really, it seems like strong written content doesn't mean a hill of beans to the people of Blogger.  It's about art and food and fashion and baby pictures.  Don't worry about being a good writer.  The thing that bothered me the most about the latest BON was that there was no gushy post from the said blogger about how excited and surprised he was.  No welcome to all his new followers.  No thanks to the people of Blogger for giving him the honor.  Nothing.  Now, I know that being named a BON isn't exactly like winning an Oscar or a Pulitzer Prize, but I want to see some kind of reaction.  Anyway, I was just a little torqued this morning.

My wife and I went out on a date last night.  We traveled to a local micro-brewery, even though we're not beer drinkers.  I ordered a peppermint patty, which is a hot chocolate spiked with a healthy dose of peppermint schnapps.  Quite good.  We also ordered a heaping plate of every deep-fried appetizer on the menu:  waffle fries, mozzarella cheese sticks, mushrooms, and chicken fingers.  It was delicious, but I was paying for it for the rest of the evening and into the night, gastro-intestinally speaking.

There is a winter storm warning in effect for my little area of the world today.  Depending upon which weather report you believe, we could be in for anywhere from three to eleven inches of thick, white, heavy rain.  I was really hoping this little winter event was going to blow past us, either to the west or east.  No such luck.  I guess I better drag out the old snow boots.

Saint Marty is having a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad weather day.

Not quite ready for this shit!

Confessions of Saint Marty

June 9: Welcome to My Mind

Tonight, I will open my mind to you.  I will simply unleash my thoughts, without editing or proofreading or stopping.  You can call this post "Saint Marty Unplugged."

Here goes...

My sister broke her wrist on Friday.  She's splinted now, waiting for the swelling to go down before she has her appointment with the hand doctor.  She doesn't know if she needs surgery or not.  To screw or not to screw, so to speak.

I'm watching American Ninja Warrior with my wife and daughter right now.  I hate this show.  My girls, however, love it.  I don't think is has anything to do with the half-naked guys getting wet and sweaty.  I think it has everything to do with the fact that they enjoy forcing me to watch it.  They know I find it incredibly tedious and frustrating.  For the last three years, we've watched this stupid show all summer only to reach the finale and find out there was no American Ninja Warrior crowned.

I am trying to remain positive about my new job.  The people I work with are friendly.  They like me and seem to appreciate my efforts.  I am not going to focus on the fact that I'm not enjoying the change.  Change is inevitable.  I know that.  I accept that.  I don't have to like it.  I don't think I will ever be a fan of change.  That would require a complete change in my personality.

I am ready to get to work on my new poem.  I'm not sure I have any idea of what I'm going to write.  However, I have to put pen to paper this evening.  Something will happen.  I'm sure.  In fact, I can almost hear the first line.  It's goes something like this, I think...

Do not go gentle into that good night...

or

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood...

or

We're going to need a bigger boat...

or

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

or

Saint Marty is a poet god...

Yep, that's me

June 4: The Future, Graduation Time, Change

[E. B. White] graduated from high school in January 1917 but didn't leave for Cornell until fall.  Whit a thousand dollars' worth of scholarships--ten times Cornell's annual tuition--he had no financial worries.  But the future did not look rosy...

E. B. White graduated from high school just before President Woodrow Wilson declared war on Germany, throwing the United States into World War I.  Instead of going off to college, many young men went off to war.  On Palm Sunday that year, White looked out his window and "noticed that the neighborhood lawns were sporting so many flags they looked like red, white, and blue spring flowers."

It's that time of year.  Graduation is in the air along with the pollen.  This Friday, one of my niece's is graduating from high school.  Last month, another of my nieces graduated from college, and she's getting married in the fall.  Early June is a time of change.  The planet shifts from the dead branches of winter to the dandelion blossoms of spring.  Everybody is happy, celebrating the sun and warmth.

I've never been a lover of change.  This time of year sort of depresses me.  Young people are growing up, moving away, starting new lives.  Like E. B. White, I don't see the future as rosy.  I'd need to drink a lot of gin to attain that outlook. 

My future looked rosy when I graduated from high school and had a full-ride scholarship to college.  My future looked rosy when I graduated from college and had a full-ride assistantship to graduate school.  My future looked rosy when I earned my Master's degree and had a full-ride fellowship to a PhD program.  My future looked rosy when I received another full-ride fellowship to an MFA program.  And my future looked rosy when I marched into my MFA graduation ceremony.

Since then, things have not always been so rosy.  In fact, much of the last ten years has been a struggle.  Tonight, on the fourth of June, the lilacs are blooming.  The crickets are chirping.  My kids are done with school for the summer.  And I'm struggling again.  I'm sure I'll find my happy place again.  It's going to take a while.

In the meantime, Saint Marty will have to rely on sleeping pills and chocolate.

No matter how high you throw them, they always end up in the dirt

May 14: White Wednesday, Blowing Away, A Way to Live,

...Despite this and other setbacks, [White] kept scribbling and typing.  Distilling his experience into words on a page was the only way he could find to prevent his daily life from blowing away like clouds.

That's a pretty common feeling with most writers, I think.  The impulse to write is inextricably connected to the impulse to preserve memory and experience.  Even as a young man, E. B. White knew this.  That's why he took up pen and paper and typewriter at such a young age.


In the last couple years, things have changed for me quite a bit.  Hell, in the last couple weeks things have changed for me quite a bit.  I've had no control over these changes.  Winds have simply blown into my daily life and swept some clouds away, as Michael Sims says in the passage above.

Tomorrow, I begin a new chapter in my professional life.  A new job.  I will be learning new procedures, new tasks, new computer programs, new people.  That's a lot of "new" for a person who likes the "old."  Old job, old procedures, old tasks, old computer programs, old coworkers.  I would be lying if I didn't admit that I'm more than a little apprehensive about tomorrow.  In fact, the thought of walking into that office in the morning makes me a little nauseous.

I have to remind myself that it's just a job.  A way to pay the bills, keep a roof overhead, food in our bellies, and a health insurance card in my wallet.  That's all.  I can't invest myself in what I'm going to be doing.  I did that with my last medical office job, and, in the end, it really didn't make a difference.  I will do what I need to do to keep this new position.  Perform to the best of my abilities.  Then, I will come home and focus on what's really important--my family.  And I won't think about that new job again until I punch the time clock the following morning.

Working is a way to live.  Living isn't a way to work.

That's Saint Marty's mantra for tomorrow.

The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind

March 6: Gratitude Number Two

I have to be honest here.  I'm having trouble with gratitude this evening.  Didn't have a great day at work.  I spent a good portion of my time thinking about all the change that's coming my way.  Change doesn't elicit gratitude from me.  More like dread.  There's way too many unknowns in my life right now, and I'm not enjoying it very much.

But, back to gratitude.  When I got outside after work, it felt like a spring day.  The sun was shining, and there was a wind blowing.  However, it wasn't one of those arctic blasts that have been the norm for the past three months.  No, it was a pretty warm wind, and it smelled like melt.  Slush.  Mud even.  I actually took my time walking to my vehicle so that I could enjoy that small reminder of the green months to come.

I am grateful for those few moments today.  Sunshine.  Wind.  The promise of spring and summer.

That's all Saint Marty's got today.  The hope of something better.

The promise of something beautiful

June 21: The Only Thing, Medical Office, Fairy Tale

...You could go there a hundred thousand times, and that Eskimo would still be just finished catching those two fish, the birds would still be on their way south, the deers would still be drinking out of that water hole, with their pretty antlers and their pretty, skinny legs, and that squaw with the naked bosom would still be weaving that same blanket.  Nobody'd be different.  The only thing that would be different would be you...

A lot of things have changed for me this week.  At work.  At the university.  I wish my life could be like the little museum display Holden is talking about in the passage above.  Everything stays the same--the Eskimo, the fish, the birds, the deer.  (I won't go near the use of the word "squaw," which, obviously, is quite dated and culturally insensitive nowadays.)  Holden finds stability comforting.  Unfortunately, change happens.  People change.  Holden recognizes this fact.  And, because people change, the world changes.  Every time I reread a book, it changes for me.  The words don't change.  The story doesn't change.  I change.

I didn't work today at the medical office.  That's one of the changes that happened this week.  I woke up this morning feeling like I should be answering phones, putting together medical charts, and responding to emails.  I should have been working, like I've been doing every Friday for the last twelve or thirteen years.  It was unsettling, and I still feel uncomfortable with the fact that I didn't earn any money today.  But I can't change this situation.  I have to accept it.  Deal with it.

Today I'm supposed to provide a fairy tale, since it's Fairy Tale Friday.  I'm not feeling very once-upon-a-time-ish right now.  I feel more gin-and-tonic-ish.  However, I am a saint of my word, so...

Once upon a time, a farmer named Hamster lived on the same plot of land that five generations of his family had lived on.  For close to two hundred years, the Hamsters had raised turnips and artichokes on the Hamster farm.

One day, King Louie drove up in his carriage and said to Hamster, "Pack up your shovels and hoes, peasant.  You're no longer allowed to farm here."

"But," Hamster protested, "I've lived here my whole life.  Farming this land is the only thing I know."

King Louie listened patiently, and then he said, "Suck it."

Hamster and his family were escorted off the Hamster family farm, and King Louie sold the land to a huge, corporate farming conglomerate that converted the farm into a strip mining operation.

And Saint Marty lived unhappily ever after.

The Hamster family farm today...

April 10: Big Glass Cases, Change, the Future

I'm going to use a passage from The Catcher in the Rye I've used before:

...Certain things they should stay the way they are.  You ought to be able to stick them in one of those big glass cases and just leave them alone.  I know that's impossible, but it's too bad anyway.  Anyway, I kept thinking about all that while I walked.

I love this passage because it captures one of my greatest fears/worries:  change.  Basically, Holden has as much a problem with change as I do.  The only constant in his life has been change.  He's seen his younger brother die.  His older brother moved to California.  He's been expelled from at least three schools that I can recall.  He's tired of change.  That's why he likes museums so much.  Everything is in big glass cases, and nothing changes.

Most people know I'm not a fan of change.  In fact, I would rank change right up there with root canal and colonoscopy.  It's a matter of comfort.  If life is calm and happy, why rock the boat by doing something stupid like taking up sky diving or switching jobs?  I could refine my position on change a little bit:  I welcome change if I am its catalyst.  If I sell my house and get a bigger house, I'd be fine because it's my choice.  If I'm offered a full-time position at the university, I'd say, "Where do I sign?"  These are things I've want.  Things I've actively pursued.

This morning, I went for a walk with a friend of mine who is a nurse.  We started talking about the recent take-over of our hospital by a large healthcare system.  The outpatient surgery center where we work is now owned by a national corporation.  And that national corporation is making big changes.  It's going to take our little family of coworkers and transform it into a huge outpatient surgical facility.  In a couple of years, we're not even going recognize each other, let alone where we work.  Big changes.

As we were walking, I could feel my stomach tensing into a hornet's nest.  Even the thought of change has a physical reaction in my body.  By the end, I had a headache and a serious case of diarrhea.

I know that, like shit, change happens.  There's no way to avoid it.  The future is one big black question mark, and it gives me hives.  Of course, my hope is to have a full-time teaching position at the university before construction is complete on the new surgery center.  That's my hope.

Saint Marty keeps that hope in a big glass case in his Museum of Things to Come, right next to his Pulitzer Prize for poetry and Nobel Prize for Literature.

I would not pay to get into this place

September 11: Old Marley's Name, All the Same to Him, Not Caring

Scrooge never painted out Old Marley's name.  There it stood, years afterwards, above the warehouse door:  Scrooge and Marley.  Sometimes people new to the business called Scrooge Scrooge, and sometimes Marley, but he answered to both names; it was all the same to him.

This passage is an example of Scrooge not caring.  He doesn't like change, is a creature of habit.  Thus, he leaves Marley's name on his business's door.  I'm convinced it's less a matter of cheapness and more a matter of constancy.  Scrooge craves sameness.  He likes the security of the same office, house, gruel.  Change brings upheaval, and Scrooge wants nothing to do with that.

I am very much like Scrooge in this respect.  I do not like upheaval.  The chaos of change can be a good thing sometimes, but, most of the time, chaos is just chaos.  Disorderly.  Hectic.  Anxiety-inducing.  I'm not sure I would have painted out Marley's name if I had been Scrooge.  It's much easier to ignore change until it's staring at you like some phantom or ghost, insisting to be noticed.

I am a creature of habit.  During the school year, my life is pretty structured.  For four months (September to December), my life stays the same.  Work.  School.  Work.  Home.  Then a new semester arrives, and I fall into a new routine for another four months (January to April).  There's a great deal of comfort in that kind of order and harmony.  Like Scrooge, I crave that kind of order and harmony.

My coworker in the medical office is nine months pregnant.  Very shortly, she will not be my coworker for about three months.  I have another change coming, and I'm not looking forward to it.  In fact, I'm a little panicked.  I don't do well with prioritizing tasks.  I tend to get overwhelmed.  The last time my coworker was gone for an extended period of time, I got so far behind in my work that I felt like I was drowning under a pile of medical charts.

I'm not going to acknowledge that my coworker is on maternity leave.  I'll just pretend she's in the medical records room, filing away charts.  Maybe that's what Scrooge did when his partner died.  He convinced himself that Marley was in the vault, counting money, for seven years. 

Saint Marty is haunted today, by the Ghost of Change Past, the Ghost of Change Present, and the Ghost of Change Yet to Come.

It's not denial.  It's Medical Records.

September 6: Past, Present, and Future

"I will live in the Past, the Present, and the Future!" Scrooge repeated, as he scrambled out of bed.  "The Spirits of all Three shall strive within me.  Old Jacob Marley!  Heaven, and the Christmas Time be praised for this!  I say it on my knees, old Jacob, on my knees!"

Yes, I have returned to one of the passages that inspired my year-long adventure in blogging about A Christmas Carol.  Scrooge is embracing change in his life.  He has seen his future, and it wasn't very pleasant.  He needs to do something, or else he's going to end up on the wrong side of a gravestone very shortly.

I'm not a person who embraces change easily.  (For disciples who have been following this blog for a while, this should come as no surprise.  I mentioned this morning to a coworker that I wasn't a big fan of change.  Her response:  "You're kidding.  I never would have realized that."  Imagine huge eyes and a sarcastic smile accompanying that statement.)  No, change and I do not often break bread together.  Generally, I have to be dragged, kicking and screaming, to the table when Change is the dinner guest.

My wife starts her new job today.  She has to be there around 11:30 a.m.  I'm really happy for her.  I can embrace this change.  It will be great for my wife's self-esteem, and it will be great for our finances.  Unfortunately, this job may mean that she won't be able to go on our family vacation to the Wisconsin Dells in October.  We talked about this possibility last night.  Of course, it's going to be very disappointing if she can't accompany us.  We have to go in October; it's for a dance convention for my daughter.  There's no changing the dates.

This would be an example of Change being both good and bad.  I have a niece who is currently studying abroad in Costa Rica.  She's been preparing for this semester for quite a while.  Well, she got there a few days ago, and an earthquake rocked the country a day ago.  She's fine, wasn't even near the epicenter.  However, she is a victim of the good and bad of change.  She's loving the country and the parrot who curses in Spanish in her house; she's not that fond of a glass building shaking and shivering while she's in a classroom on its second floor.  Good and bad.

So, the upshot of this post is:  wife's new job, good; wife not going on vacation, bad.

Saint Marty wonders if Scrooge ever regretted raising Bob Cratchit's salary.

Bad change