August 11: "May," Fear, Near Misses,

Mary Oliver on fear . . . 

May

by:  Mary Oliver

What lay on the road was no mere handful of snake.  It was the copperhead at last, golden under the street lamp.  I hope to see everything in the world before I die.  I knelt on the road and stared.  Its head was wedge-shaped and fell back to the unexpected slimness of a neck.  The body itself was thick, tense, electric.  Clearly this wasn't black snake looking down from the limbs of a tree, or green snake, or the garter, whizzing over the rocks.  Where these had, oh, such shyness, this one had none.  When I moved a little, it turned and clamped its eyes on mine; then it jerked toward me.  I jumped back and watched as it flowed on across the road and down into the dark.  My heart was pounding.  I stood a while, listening to the small sounds of the woods and looking at the stars.  After excitement we are so restful.  When the thumb of fear lifts, we are so alive.

Oliver is frightened by the copperhead, jumps back when it tries to strike at her.  Her heart pounds at the proximity of death, the nearness of her escape from the snake's venom.  It's a thrill of adrenaline that makes her acutely aware of her aliveness.  The working of her body.  The small sounds in the woods.  The stars spinning above.

I think most of my disciples reading this post have had their fair share of near misses like the one Oliver describes in this poem.  If you drive a car, there are those moments when you've almost been hit at a busy intersection.  If you've jumped off a cliff into deep water, there's the rush of gravity and fist of cold squeezing air from your lungs as you submerge.  If you've had a nightmare (who hasn't?), it's the first seconds after waking when every nerve in your body is sparking and reality seems transparent, liquid.

After these near misses, for a few, few moments, the universe and everything in it comes into extreme focus.  You can feel each corpuscle of blood moving through your veins.  The planet spinning on its axis at 1,000 miles per hour.  Trees and blades of grass stretching toward the sun.  As Oliver says, when the thumb of fear lifts, we are reminded how alive we really are.

I have a lot of fears that I live with every day, from the moment I get out of bed in the morning to when my head hits the pillow again at night.  Everyday fears.  Failure.  Loss.  Disappointment.  Trump supporters.  These kinds of fears don't trigger fight-or-flight responses.  They just make you feel shitty.

However, for the last three days, I've dealt with a more present fear.  For some reason, I've woken up in the middle of the night drenched in cold sweats.  Last night, as I surfaced from unconsciousness, I realized I was reciting the "Our Father."  Loudly.  As if I was trying to ward off some evil.

I kind of don't want to fall asleep tonight.

I don't remember the substance of the nightmares I've been experiencing.  I've never kept dream journals.  Usually, about ten seconds after I open my eyes, any movie that my unconscious was screening in the theater of my skull is gone.  So, I don't know what these bad dreams are about.

They might have to do with my over-stressed life--library programming, summer teaching at the university.  Or maybe some leftover anxiety from the dog attack a few months ago.  Or perhaps the upcoming anniversary of my sister's death.

Oliver sees fear as a catalyst for grace--a reminder of the wonders of being alive.  At the moment, I see fear as a catalyst for insomnia.

I wish I could be more like my puppy.  When I watch her dream, with paws twitching and tiny barks huffing out of her black lips, I know she's chasing a chipmunk or running along a beach or fetching her ball.

No near misses for her.  Or failure.  Or loss.  Or fear.  Just pure canine joy.

Maybe Saint Marty should count copperheads or chipmunks to fall asleep tonight.  Or take a sleeping pill.  

February 8: Duck Pond, Dance Competitions, Snow and Dead Frogs

All this comes to mind at the duck pond, because the duck pond is rapidly turning into a landfill of its own, a landfill paved in frogs. There are a million frogs here, bullfrogs hopping all over each other on tangled mats of algae.  And the pond is filling up.  Small ponds don't live very long, especially in the South.  Decaying matter piles up on the bottom, depleting oxygen, and the shore plants march to the middle.  In another couple of centuries, if no one interferes, the duck pond will be a hickory forest.

It's not a very beautiful picture Dillard paints.  A pond being eaten by the bodies of frogs.  Bullfrogs.  Piling up like snow during a blizzard.  The water dies, depleted of oxygen, and vegetation takes over.  Imagine the stink.  It's a story of decimation and reclamation.  Death and rebirth.  Rebirth and death.

I have had a bad day.  In the coming two months, my daughter has two dance competitions, one in March and one in April.  I will not be able to go to these competitions with my family as in years past.  I can't get the time off from work.  That means, for the first time since my daughter has been dancing, I will not be there to see her dance.

This morning, I shoveled my driveway.  Tonight, I shoveled my driveway again.  The snow will pile up again overnight, and I will have to shovel again tomorrow.  The frogs pile up, and the pond dies.  No matter how hard I work, how much I love my wife and daughter and son, I will be alone during those dance competition weekends in March and April.  There are things I simply cannot change.  Like snow in winter.  Dead frogs in a duck pond.

If you can't tell, my mood is a little fatalistic at the moment.  My life has not turned out as I planned.  I try to be a good person, hard worker, loving husband and father.  I treat everyone I meet with kindness, never act in anger.  I'm not perfect.  Far from it.  But I am not an asshole or abuser or Republican.  Yet, disappointment follows me around like a stray cat.

That's all I have to say.  The snow is falling already.  I will have to get up early tomorrow to shovel.  Probably have to shovel tomorrow night again.  Because that's life.  Or that's my life, anyway.

Saint Marty is tired of dead frogs.

I laugh because it's true

December 7: Poet of the Week, Catharine Savage Brosman, "The Pianist," "Ives" Dip, Off the Top of My Head

I have been struggling recently with the idea of disappointment.

I don't like disappointing people.  As a teacher, I get near-migraines when I can't get my grading done in a timely fashion for my students.  As a husband, I constantly feel like a failure when I don't earn enough money to provide for my family properly.  As a father, I experience incredible sadness when I can't afford to pay for my kids' dental appointments or dance costumes.  Every day, I fight a losing battle and go to bed plagued by disappointments.

This morning, driving to work, I had a long talk with God.  I talked about a lot of stuff.  Work.  Kids.  Teaching.  Money.  Loss.  Grief.  I simply had to unload all the things that have been floating around in my head for the past weeks.  By the time I pulled into the parking lot, I wasn't feeling unburdened and peaceful.  More like angry and resentful at a Supreme Being that seems to be constantly testing my trust and love.

God can take my anger and disappointment.  He understands.  But, at the moment, I take no comfort in that.  I would prefer a God that drops a tenure-track job in my lap.  Or a God that fixes the brakes on my car or makes my mortgage payment.  It would be really easy to love a God like that.

Unfortunately, God doesn't work like that.  God sometimes forces you to make hard decisions, like asking the Salvation Army to help you get Christmas presents for your kids.  Or bringing your sister home from the hospital under hospice care and watching her die.  God wants us to love Him in times of great happiness and great sorrow.

Sorry for the long ramble.  I've had these thoughts kicking around my head for several days, and my conversation with God this morning just made them a little harder to ignore.

I do have a new Poet of the Week.  Catharine Savage Brosman and the poems from her collection The Muscled Truce:

The Pianist

by:  Catharine Savage Brosman

The notes convulse the air
before the final pause.
He rises, shakes his hair,
and bows to the applause.

The power of desire
preserved in every chord,
his purpose is entire,
and passion its reward,

for, with his practiced hands
and genius in his ears,
his body understands
all beauty that he hears;

but in another space,
where music is unknown
and evening has no face,
he finds himself alone,

and on the heart's clavier
a silent sound is heard,
the forming of a tear,
the falling of a bird.

I guess that poem appealed to me because of the ending.  The tear.  The dying bird.  The silent sound of isolation.  I may be surrounded by people all day, but very few of them will take the time to ask me "How are you?" and expect an honest answer.  That's the silence of the human condition a lot of the time.

So, today is Ives Dip Monday.  I have so many unanswered questions today that I don't know where to start.  So, maybe I'll just ask this:

Am I a disappointment to the people in my life?

And the answer:

...Those were changes that [Ives] liked, but, just the same, Ives had moments in the office when the sense that he had wasted himself creatively would come over him, and he would feel nostalgia for his younger days, when he had fantasies about the creative life...

Well, there you go.  Ives dealing with disappointment, as well.  I guess it's just part of being human to always want something better, something that's just out of reach.

Off the Top of My Head

April 20: Disappointment, Windmills, "Ives" Dip

Today, I received disappointing news.

Not the kind of disappointing news that ends marriages or shortens lives.  It wasn't catastrophic disappointing news.  As disappointment goes, it ranks up there with a rejection of a manuscript by a publisher or the need to have a strange mole removed from a shoulder.  It was a medium-sized disappointment.  A blow to the ego more than anything else.

I am not going to spend this entire post lamenting this disappointment (not that I'm above wallowing).  No, today's setback is just me tilting at another windmill.  I set myself up for failure all the time.  I engage in some kind of endeavor, convince myself that success is inevitable, and then find myself flat on my back in the mud, staring up at the stars.

I have to stop dreaming the impossible dreams.  It's something I've done my whole life, and it hasn't served me well up to this point.  Perhaps I simply need to ground myself in reality.  I'm a decent poet.  I have a not-very-important job in a medical office.  I'm a contingent instructor at a university where both the administration and full-time faculty count me as pariah.  I live paycheck-to-paycheck.  That's reality.  Dreaming is too expensive a pastime.  This morning, I had to have some of my teeth drilled down by my dentist because I've been grinding them in my sleep, giving myself jaw-aches and headaches.  That's what dreaming has gotten me.

So, I relinquish windmills this evening.  It's time for me to embrace my truths.  Maybe my teeth will stop hurting, and my bruised self-esteem will begin to heal.  And that's my question for Ives this evening:

Should I stop dreaming my impossible dreams?

And the answer:

". . . Just remember, if you don't take care of business, no one else will.  Do you really think God gives a shit?"

 Saint Marty knows God gives a shit, but He sometimes has a pretty funny way of showing it.

I'm retiring my lance

June 1: Gonna Kill You, New Poem, "Thunderstorm Warning on Corpus Christi," New Cartoon

She wouldn't take it off, though.  You can't make her do something if she doesn't want to.  All she kept saying was, "Daddy's gonna kill you."  You could hardly understand her with that goddam pillow over her head.

Phoebe has just figured out that Holden has been kicked out of school again in the above passage.  She's covered her head with a pillow and is refusing to look at or talk with Holden.  She's simply saying "Daddy's gonna kill you" over and over.  Obviously, Holden getting expelled from Pencey Prep is simply the latest in a series of academic failures for him.  Holden's father, a successful lawyer and chronic workaholic, is going to come down on Holden hard.

I love my daughter, but she has a problem following through on responsibilities sometimes.  She loses parts of expensive dance costumes.  She forgets to turn in homework assignments.  She doesn't remember when concerts and dance practices are.  Since she was young, I've noticed this pattern of behavior with her.  I've suspected for a long time that she suffers from ADHD.  It's hard to keep her focused, unless it's on her iPod or Kindle (and those are just extensions of her distractions--multimedia explosions of sound and images).  Despite a few tough academic scrapes, she's coped pretty well in school.

This morning, my daughter told me she forgot to turn in an important form and check yesterday at school.  It's not the end of the world, but I sort of felt like Mr. Caulfield.  Exasperated.  Angry.  Tired.  Disappointed.  I thought the trials of school were behind me for a few months.  Now, on Monday, we're going to have to call the school office and see where we go from here.  As I said, tiring.

When my daughter told me she forgot to turn it in, my response wasn't great.  At first, I thought she was joking.  Yesterday morning, the last thing I told her on the phone was, "Don't forget to turn in that form and check."  It was the only really important thing she had to remember to do on the last day of school.  This morning, I just stood looking at her, shaking my head, saying, "You're kidding, right?"  Then I think I slammed a few things around.  I may have even cursed a little bit under my breath.  Daddy's gonna kill you.  I know I made her feel horrible, and (I'm sort of ashamed to say this) I wanted her to feel horrible.

As I said, it's not the end of the world.  On Monday, my wife will probably drive up to the school and hand in the form and check.  (My daughter doesn't even know where it is right now.)  I'm pissed that we have to go through this extra effort.  I don't like looking irresponsible.  I don't like my daughter being irresponsible.

That's what's been on my mind all day.  I do have a new poem for you.  It is Beatnik Saturday, so drag out your berets and bongos.

Saint Marty's not gonna kill his daughter.  He's just going to make her suffer a little bit.

Thunderstorm Warning on Corpus Christi

It crawls across the bottom of TVs.  It's announced with blasts of rusty trumpet on radios.  A warning.  Something severe approaches.  Thirty miles per hour.  Filled with hail large as bird skulls, winds strong as whale fluke.  In pews, we ignore the shift from Genesis three to two, light to void.  Sing hymns of wheat, blood.  Thousands fed with five buns, two cans of tuna.  This is the Word.

Then it hits.  A flood against the stained glass window Christ.  He's crying now.  Sweating the Jordan.  Thunder.  So loud the priest stops mid-blessing.  Stands before the table, counting place settings, nervous.  As if God has just knocked on the door and is waiting for him to say, "Come in."

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 30: Disappointment, Jordyn Wieber, "Carol" Dip

So I watched the Olympics last night.  Of course, there were a lot of events that were covered, but the one that really struck me was the women's gymnastics competition.  I think the term "women's" is a little misleading, because most of the athletes competing are these tiny little teenage girls.  That being said, I was really moved by the story of American gymnast Jordyn Wieber.

Here's a girl who's been working her whole life for this Olympic moment.  She's the reigning world all-around gymnastics champion.  She posts the third best score of the night, but because of a rule that only allows the top two scorers from each country to compete in the women's all-around finals, Jordyn Wieber will not be able to fulfill her dream of trying to win an all-around Olympic gold medal.

That wasn't the part that really move me.  The part that moved me was Jordyn Wieber's disappointment, which was immediately evident and immediately heartbreaking.  She alternated between tears and stiff-upper-lip.  As the father of a girl who dances competitively, I just about died watching Wieber's post-competition interview.  I've sat in an auditorium and witnessed my daughter receive a medal I knew she wasn't happy with.  I don't care if my daughter takes bronze, silver, gold, or platinum in competition.  I care about the disappointment she feels in herself.  That's what I saw last night with Jordyn Wieber, and I could barely stand it.

This post isn't about the United States being screwed out of a chance for a gold medal.  Or an unfair Olympic rule.  Or unfair Olympic judging.  It's about a little girl who isn't even going to get a chance to make her dream come true.  That's really depressing to me.

It is a Monday, and, therefore, it's time for a Carol dip.  I've been thinking long and hard about the question I was going to ask this morning.  I think it's going to have to do with disappointment:

Will I be disappointed with the employment contract that's currently under negotiation at the university?

And the answer from the ever-wise Charles Dickens is:

...The misery with them all was, clearly, that they sought to interfere, for good, in human matters, and had lost the power for ever...

Wow.  That answer depresses me even more this morning.  Misery.  That doesn't sound very appealing.

Excuse Saint Marty now.  He needs to go take some Prozac.

I just want to give her a hug

September 4: Blues Fest, Disappointment, New Cartoon

Playing at the Blues Fest went great this morning.  Just as we started unloading and setting up in the tent, it started to pour rain.  Buckets.  But we got everything set up, and, with a slight delay of fifteen minutes, we started playing.  By then end of the hour, the tent was almost completely full.  One of the organizers from the Blues Fest told us that, yesterday, the guitar workshop only got one person to show up.  We packed the place.  Score one for Jesus.

I hung around the Blues Fest for a little while with some friends from the English Department.  I listened to the first act on the main stage.  The band was good, but the rain and wind were brutal.  After about an hour and a half, I had enough blues in the rain.  I came home.

I was pretty tired when I arrived at my house.  I had to make brownies for the family barbecue tonight, and then I took a half hour nap.  I feel a little refreshed, but I'm still tired.

Well, I'm a little disappointed that, once more, Wonder Twin is the only entrant in my contest.  I'm going to give all of you disciples (I know you're out there) one more chance.  The contest will close next post.  Get your game hats on.  Give me a subject to write a poem about.  I will write a poem, send you an autographed copy of it (along with a really cool saint holy card), and publish your poem on the blog. 

Saint Marty wants him some contestants.

Confessions of Saint Marty

July 15: Poetry Contest, Waiting, On Edge

OK, I've set myself up for a really disappointing day.  Let me explain.

Several months ago, I submitted a chapbook of poetry for a contest.  The winner gets $1,000, publication this Fall, and 100 copies of his/her book.  Until a couple weeks ago, I'd completely forgotten about the competition.  Unfortunately, I did eventually remember.  I went to the contest's Website, and I found out that they're announcing the winner sometime TODAY.

Poetry is causing me stress today

Of course, I've tried to squelch my expectations.  Tell myself how many times I've entered contests like this one before and never made it past my entrance fee check being cashed.  However, I've been pretty unsuccessful trying to remain bitter, sarcastic, and pessimistic.  I've been thinking about that thousand bucks.  As you know, I've had quite a few expensive car repairs this summer.  Without having the income from teaching May through August, those repairs have drained our back account substantially.  The contest money would really come in handy.

Not to mention the fact that I'd like to publish another book to add to my list of writing accomplishments.  I'd love to go back to the university in a couple months and bask in 15 minutes of fame.  I've seen some pretty mediocre writers getting published in the last few years.  Maybe it's my turn.  (Not that I'm a mediocre writer.  I just mean it's time for a good writer to get published.  Me, to be exact.  You know what I mean.  Oh, never mind.)

As you can probably tell, I'm setting myself up for a really big let-down sometime in the next 24 or so hours.  I've tried to reason with myself.  I even looked up the work of the judge of the contest to see what kind of poetry he writes/likes.  His "stuff" is very different from the kind of poetry I write.  I know I'm not going to win, or I stand a very slim chance of winning.  I'm not trying to humble.  I'm trying to be realistic.

That's where I am this morning.  On edge.  Anxious.  Waiting.  Checking my e-mail every five minutes.  Obsessing.  Pretty much the way I am every day, multiplied by about a thousand.

Saint Marty needs to prepare himself for the bad news.  Wish him luck.

Waiting to open my empty present