August 21: "Paris," Helen, "The Path to Joy"

Today is the two-year anniversary of the passing of one of my best friends, Helen.  

It's hard to say all the things I've been feeling today, from sadness to happiness, joy to grief.  Helen was a force for goodness in the world.  I don't say that about a whole lot of people, but it truly does apply to her.  Through her Joy Center, a beautiful artist retreat she owned and ran, Helen fostered creativity, mindfulness, art, music, film, food--anything that incited laughter and friendship.

Helen was in my life for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  She was an amazing writer and poet.  Many an afternoon at the university, we sat in her office or mine and wrote.  We traveled to Stratford, Ontario, one summer to attend the Shakespeare Festival.  Went to a conference together to do presentations on poetics for a discussion panel.  When I was named U.P. Poet Laureate, Helen was one of the first people to ask me to do a poetry reading.  She lifted me up through some very dark times in my life.  

The word that came to my mind this morning when I was thinking about Helen was "hope."  A lot of people think of hope as kind of an empty thing.  I hope to win the Pulitzer Prize in Poetry or the Nobel Prize in Literature.  I hope to live until I'm 115 years old.  I hope I win the lottery.  You see what I mean?  Hope can be used to foster a lot of unrealistic expectations.  

For Helen, though, hope was as real and palpable as wild raspberries or sea-salt caramels.  She believed the best in people.  When Donald Trump was elected in 2016, she and I shared several days of darkness.  Then, she sent me a text message saying that she was going to stop being so . . . doomsday.  Instead, Helen chose to hold onto the idea that everything little thing was going to be alright.  (Cue Bob Marley.)  Yes, she even tried to believe there was goodness in that dumpster fire of a President.  Helen was the living embodiment of hope.

Billy Collins finds hope in Paris . . . 

Paris

by: Billy Collins

In the apartment someone gave me, 

the bathroom looked out on a little garden 

at the bottom of and air shaft 

with a few barely sprouting trees, 

ivy clinging to the white cinder blocks, 

a blue metal table and a rusted chair 

where, it would seem, no one had ever sat. 

Every morning, a noisy bird 

would flutter down between the buildings, 

perch on a thin branch and yell at me 

in French bird-talk 

while I soaked in the tub 

under the light from the pale translucent ceiling. 

And while he carried on, I would lie there 

in the warm soapy water 

wondering what shirt I would put on that day, 

what zinc-covered bar I would stand at 

with my Herald-Tribune and a cup of strong coffee. 

After a lot of squawking, he would fly 

back into the sky leaving only the sound 

of a metal store-front being raised 

or a scooter zipping by outside, 

which was my signal 

to stand up in the cloudy water 

and reach for a towel, 

time to start concentrating on which way 

I would turn after I had locked the front door, 

what shop signs I would see, 

what bridges I would lean on 

to watch the broad river undulating 

like a long-playing record under the needle of my eye. 

Time to stand dripping wet and wonder 

about the hordes of people 

I would pass in the street, mostly people 

whose existence I did not believe in, 

but a few whom I would glance at 

and see my whole life 

the way you see the ocean from the shore. 

One morning after another, 

I would fan myself dry with a towel 

and wonder about what paintings 

I would stand before that day, 

looking forward to the usual — 

the sumptuous reclining nudes, 

the knife next to a wedge of cheese, 

a landscape with pale blue mountains, 

the heads and shoulders of gods 

struggling with one another, 

a foot crushing a snake — 

but always hopeful for something new 

like yesterday’s white turkeys in a field 

or a single stalk of asparagus on a plate 

in a small gilded frame, 

always ready, now that I am dressed, 

to cheer the boats of the beautiful, 

the boats of the strange, 

as they float down the river of this momentous day.

Helen faced life like Collins does in this poem.  She got up, got dressed, and headed out into the world to cheer the boats of the beautiful and strange.  Every day was momentous for her, and she taught me how to chase momentousness every time I was in her company.

Occasionally now, I hear a beautiful bird singing or see a beautiful wildflower, and I know Helen is with me.  If there are guardian angels in the universe, she is one of them, looking out for us all, making everything so much brighter.

Saint Marty lifts up his friend, Helen, today.  She was a true force of joyful chaos and love.

A poem I wrote for Helen's celebration of life . . . 

The Path to Joy

by: Martin Achatz

for Helen

“The path to joy, like with sadness, did not lead away from suffering and adversity, but through it.”
          --the Dalai Lama

I have tried, Helen, tried
in these days since you called
me to say “I’m ready” and “I’ll be
with you always,” yes, I have
tried to find that path you walked
every day, the one that took you
by Penis Pond in frozen January
where two middle school girls
on snowshoes stamped out
the shape of an erect penis
in fresh snow on lake ice
for a month straight, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Then there was the Heritage Trail
path where you found
handfuls of ripe raspberries,
crammed them in your mouth,
let their juice spill down
your chin, stain your lips
the color of cardinal wings, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
Or that path to a cove in Maine
where oyster shells flashed, seaweed
and salt filled your lungs
with the breath of whales, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
How about that path up Croagh Patrick
in County Mayo, where you found
a sacred stone emblazoned with
the image of Bigfoot, and that
brought you joy, day after day.
So many paths, through mountains
in Spain, along beaches in Greece.
India. Scotland. Idaho. Superior. Atlantic.
Pacific. Aegean. Rushmore and Eiffel.
Joy and joy and joy and joy and joy.
Longitudes of it. Latitudes of it.
Your compass always pointed Due
Joy. So this is where you have led
me tonight, Helen—to a poem
where I have used the word joy
ten times already—because tears
are full of oceans, and grief tastes
like kumquats, a nova of sour
on the tongue, then sweetness
returning, the way you always
did, clicking your heels together
three times, saying over and over,
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.
There’s no place like joy.

 

August 18: "Morning Glories," Poet Friend, Hospice

Mary Oliver loves weeds . . . 

Morning Glories

by:  Mary Oliver

Blue and dark-blue

     rose and deepest rose

          white and pink they

are everywhere in the diligent

     cornfield rising and swaying

          in their reliable

finery in the little

     fling of their bodies their

          gear and tackle

all caught up in the cornstalks.

     The reaper's story is the story

          of endless work of

work careful and heavy but the

     reaper cannot

          separate them out there they

are in the story of his life

     bright random useless

          year after year

taken with the serious tons

     weeds without value humorous

          beautiful weeds.

Oliver sees worth in everything, including noxious weeds.  The morning glories in this poem are also called bindweed, and they are definitely not welcome additions to any farm field or garden.  Yet, they're vibrant and gorgeous.  As Oliver writes, blue and dark-blue, rose and deepest rose, pink and white, they are everywhere.  Common and beautiful.

I want to tell you about a poet friend of mine.  Her name is Rosalie.

I've known Rosalie for over 30 years.  We went to graduate school together.  At the time, I thought I was going to be the next Flannery O'Connor, studying fiction writing while Rosalie was already writing and publishing poems.  I never had a doubt that she was going to make a name for herself as a poet.  Her work was heartbreaking and beautiful even back then.

Being a graduate student is a strange experience--a mixture of attending Hogwarts and Crunchem Hall Primary School from Matilda.  There's magical moments (a class in Modern Women Poets, a poetry reading by Maya Angelou) and painful moments (postmodern literary theory, anyone?).  And you're part of a band of misfits.  Poets.  Novelists.  Short story writers.  Essayists.  If you survive, you're guaranteed to have PTDS--post-traumatic Derrida syndrome.  (That's a really funny joke if you are/were an English major.)

I found out this afternoon that Rosalie is currently in hospice care.  I'm not going to go into the details of her illness.  That's not my story to tell.  Her daughter, whom I've known since she was an infant, is caring for Rosalie at home.

So, I'm sitting here tonight, thinking of the classes I took with Rosalie.  The shared stress of teaching composition to groups of surly freshman who didn't know comma splices from comma faults.  (If you don't know, look it up.)  The laughter and tears we shared.  And, always, the writing.  Her poems.  My short stories.  

Tragedy is common as noxious weeds.  It's everywhere, sprouting and thriving.  Is there beauty in tragedy?  Perhaps.  Speaking from experience, having a loved one in hospice is like distilling life down to its most necessary and important elements.  I've had the privilege of being in the room when two of my sisters, my father, and my mother have died.  Yes, it was a privilege to be able to hold their hands, tell them how much they were loved, and witness those last breaths that seemed almost like sighs of relief after long and winding roads.  And then the peace that followed.

Of course, loss is painful, too.  Always.  Especially when it involves someone as relatively young as Rosalie.  It's not easy to find beauty when you are in the weeds of grief.  Yet, in Rosalie's final struggle, there is love.  Deep, abiding, multiplying love.

Tonight, I raise my poet friend up to all of you.  Remember her, if you have a moment.  Know that she is a beautiful soul, on the cusp of blossoming into eternity.  Say her name like a prayer.  Give it breath.  

Rosalie.

Saint Marty is going to let his friend have the last word tonight . . . 

Before Leaving

by:  Rosalie Sanara Petrouske

I climb black rocks with my daughter,

who scrambles ahead.

Close behind, I'm ready to reach out

should she stumble on the uneven surface.

At the top, we stare out at Superior,

breathing in the peace of lake and sky.

Below, a few waves crest white,

then lap

the million-year-old ledge beneath us.

On a far shore, sugar maple, hemlock, balsam fir

and white pine cover the island and grow down sides

of distant outcroppings.

Pairs of seagulls rise from the Bon Rocks.

They lift and circle,

           dip and glide.

To the West, I point out Hogsback

and Sugarloaf, remnants of ancient glaciers.

Near us, a group of college students gather.

We watch as they leap from the highest point

to plummet into icy water.

This ritual repeats year after year.

Perhaps, I think, one day my daughter will dive

from this cliff into Superior's silvery-blue.

Her breath will catch when she rises

and gulps warm air,

yet her heart will beat again

when she discovers

effortless, she can fall and still rise.

For now, we simply sit side by side.

Sun warms our shoulder blades

and dampness gathers in the hollows

of our necks

where tendrils of hair separate to expose

skin to mid-afternoon light.

I tell her this place, this moment will always be part of us--

its mantra will call to us when we close our eyes

and still hear lake sounds, as if someone placed

a seashell against our ears.

We will carry it inside.

"Inside here?" she asks.

She places a hand across her chest.

Reaching, I take her other hand.

I squeeze, but she pulls away.

            "Don't hold so tightly," she says.

August 31: Ice Cream, Marie Howe, "The Copper Beech"

There's nothing worse in life than feeling unprotected.

I've been fairly lucky in my life.  I had parents who supported me in every crazy thing I did, including abandoning a possible career in computer programming to go to graduate school to study creative writing.  I have a wife who's willing to listen to 500 drafts of a poem until it's done.  And my kids aren't too embarrassed with having a father who cries at movies like a pregnant woman sometimes.

I've had love and protection, even during the darkest moments of my life.  That's pretty unusual.  Yet, everyone deserves this.  Everyone should have a person to go get ice cream with.  To sit at a picnic table on a hot August day and lick away at some Mackinac Island Fudge or Blue Moon.  It has made all the difference in my life, this human assurance.

Saint Marty hopes everybody reading this post has a Dairy Queen pal.  Or at least a copper beech to sit under.

The Copper Beech

by:  Marie Howe

Immense, entirely itself,

it wore that yard like a dress,

with limbs low enough for me to enter it

and climb the crooked ladder to where

I could lean against the trunk and practice being alone.

One day, I heard the sound before I saw it, rain fell

darkening the sidewalk.

Sitting close to the center, not very high in the branches,

I heard it hitting the high leaves, and I was happy,

watching it happen without it happening to me.

Everyone deserves ice cream every once in a while