February 14, 2026: “Persephone,” Valentine’s Day, “Why?”

Yes, I find myself still struggling with my writing.  It’s not that I’m not doing it.  I’m doing it every day.  It’s just that everything I write is crap.  Or, at least, it’s crap to me.  I’ve lost my ability to judge whether what I compose is good or bad.  My inner editor is broken or on an extended vacation or in some ICE detention facility somewhere in Texas.  I’m not sure.

It is Valentine’s Day, and my wife and I did go out to lunch to celebrate this afternoon.  I had a French dip sandwich, and the love of my life had a messy plate of nachos that she loved.  We have been through quite a bit in the 35+ years we have been a couple.  Breakups.  A wedding.  Two kids.  Separation.  Marriage counseling.  And here we are—still in love with each other.  Still best friends.  

I often wonder, if Orpheus and Eurydice or Romeo and Juliet had had chances to grow old together, would they have endured similar challenges?

Marie Howe writes about another ancient love story . . . 

Persephone

by: Marie Howe

People forget he was a king, a god,

and that down there deep

everything gleamed.

So tight did he hold me I was swaddled hard

so bound I couldn’t move,

and inside that grip he moved          and moved

                                     and it was a monstrosity

an ecstasy     I forgot myself.        I became

an animal again          I screamed.     It didn’t matter how long.

No one put a hand over my mouth.

                      And when it was over

I lay across his knees, on my back, entirely open,

nobody, no one

an animal on the altar of a king—a god.

Okay, so perhaps the myth of Persephone is NOT the most heartwarming or romantic.  I mean, it does begin with a kidnapping and grieving mother (who happens to be a goddess and almost destroys the world in her sorrow).  And Howe doesn’t really portray Persephone as a moony-eyed lover.  She’s more like an animal sacrifice meant to appease the king/god of the Underworld.  That beginning doesn’t bode well for a “happily ever after.”  But, maybe it’s a more realistic picture of the trials and tribulations of romantic love.  

I have loved my wife since the first day I laid eyes on her.  We had a lot of things stacked against us from the start.  There was an age difference that made both of our families a little suspicious.  At the time, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to be in a serious relationship; I was a few years into my college education and thinking about graduate school.  She was raised Methodist, and I was a cradle Catholic.  (This may not sound like that big of a deal, but it certainly was for my father, in particular.)  Like I said, a lot of obstacles.

Yet, where love exists, anything is possible.  

As I said earlier, my wife and I have had our share of challenges.  Loss.  Mental illness.  Addiction.  But, to paraphrase Sir Elton John, we’re still standing.  For that, I credit stubbornness, luck, prayer, and quite a lot of grace.

My wife’s family has become my family.  When my sister died of lymphoma of the brain, they were there for me, holding me up, providing love and support (and food for the funeral lunch).  They did the same for the deaths of my brother, parents, and another sister.  I never had to ask or beg for help.  They just stepped in and lightened my burdens.

When I fell in love with my wife, I gained not just a partner, but an entire village of brothers, sisters, aunts, and uncles.  I have been truly blessed with love in my life.

Saint Marty wrote a poem for today about his sister, whom he loved deeply.  She was taken way too soon , , , 

Why?

by: Martin Achatz

I am older now than my sister

will ever be.  She will never fire

up the Keurig to make morning 

coffee again, never sit under

a lonely star and wonder why

her legs won’t help her rise

from her chair, never wrap

a birthday or Christmas present

again.  I wonder, in her last 

breaths, if she still felt longing,

the ache to be held like an infant

in our mother’s arms one more time.

When that comet appeared in the Milky

Way of her brain, and when

that comet became a shower

of August Perseids, did she know

she would be leaving us so

soon?  Were her bags packed,

plenty of socks and underwear

for the long journey?  I can still

see her standing on the deck

of Charon’s boat that last morning, 

waving to me as if she’s just going 

to Walmart to pick up a few things—

toilet paper, toothpaste, a dozen eggs.

May 20: "Charmed," Vena Amoris, "Wedding Band"

Billy Collins leads a charmed life . . . 

Charmed

by: Billy Collins

The tiny figures

on your bracelet

ride around one wrist

while on the other

the hours

circle your pulse.

I have always envied people with charm bracelets for some reason, each tiny metal sculpture carrying its own narrative.  A starfish from your Honolulu honeymoon.  An angel from the gift shop of the hospital where your father died.  A musical note from the person who taught you piano for 12 years.

I don't own much jewelry.  In my dresser drawer, I have a cross on a chain and a gold earring.  I used to wear both all the time, but, over the years, the chain snapped and the post turned my earlobe green.  So now the only adornment I sport is my wedding band.

It's a simple, gold ring with scalloped engraving around the edges.  I've had it on my hand for close to 30 years.  It reminds of good times and bad times.  I remember once hearing a pastor explain at a wedding ceremony that the fourth finger of the left hand possessed a vein (Vena Amoris) that runs directly to the heart.  It's a lovely belief, but is anatomically untrue.  No such vein exists.  Yet, the symbolism, originating in ancient Egypt, persists.  It's a good narrative.

The ring on my hand tells a story, too.  It's not a fairy tale.  I'm certainly no Prince Charming.  (Maybe Prince Mildly Amusing.)  There are struggles and heartbreaks in the story.  Moments of great joy and intense sorrow.  A beautiful daughter.  A funny-as-hell son.  A puppy that embodies unconditional devotion.  A woman who puts up with all my faults and failings.

It's a love story, warts and all, I guess.

Saint Marty isn't holding his breath for happily ever after.  He'll be satisfied with able-to-pay-all-his-bills ever after.

Wedding Band

by: Martin Achatz

can be on your

ring finger

symbolizing love

without end

or those guys

at the reception

who got drunk, played

"Achy Breaky Heart"

three times

in a row.

The face of love . . . 

May 22: "The Gift," Storytelling, Singing Bowls

Mary Oliver finds a small gift from the sea . . . 

The Gift

by:  Mary Oliver

After the wind-bruised sea

     furrowed itself back

          into folds of blue, I found

               in the black wrack

a shell called the Neptune--

     tawny and white,

          spherical,

               with a tail

and a tower

     and a dark door,

          and all of it

               no larger

than my fist.

     It looked, you might say,

          very expensive.

               I thought of its travels

in the Atlantic's 

     wind-pounded bowl

          and wondered

               that it was still intact.

Ah yes, there was

     that door

          that held only the eventual, inevitable

               emptiness.

There's that--there's always that.

     Still, what a house

          to leave behind!

               I held it

like the wisest of books

     and imagined

          its travels toward my hand.

               And now, your hand.

Oliver finds the Neptune and gives us its story as only she can--full of wisdom and astonishment.  Everything and everyone in this world has a story, from the tiniest of seashells on a beach to the Himalayas.  It's very easy to walk through a day without thinking of any of those stories.  Let's face it, human beings are pretty self-absorbed creatures, myself included.

Perhaps that's why I like hanging around poets and writers.  Poets and writers train themselves to tell stories that nobody else may notice or care about.  In a poet's hands, a tiny shell on a beach suddenly becomes an astounding odyssey of survival akin to anything that Homer sang about.  (Yes, I just used the word "akin."  I'm a poet, so I'm allowed.)  There's real power in storytelling, because it's difficult to dismiss the worth of anyone and anything if you know the "once upon a times."

This evening, I attended a session of singing bowls meditation.  If you don't know that that is, don't feel bad.  Until a couple years ago, I had never even heard the term before.  Singing bowls are bowls made out of hammered metal that, when struck with a mallet, create a ringing and chiming.  The sound creates vibrations that are supposed to heal and relax.  When you have many of these bowls (and gongs) singing together in a space, it creates an energy difficult to describe.

The most amazing part of a singing bowls meditation is that the bowls make different sounds, depending on the people present.  Each individual brings a unique story and energy to a place, and the bowls respond to that story/energy.  The gentleman who led the meditation tonight told me a story.

Once upon a time, he was leading a singing bowls meditation at a local Episcopal church.  He set up his bowls and gongs in the basement of the building at first, and they did their thing, singing and vibrating.  But then he moved into the sanctuary of the church.  When he began striking his instruments, the man said, "The energy was so powerful."  The pastor of the church told him, "When you pray in a place for over 100 years, that prayer has to make a difference."

Think about that.  All the sick and dying relatives.  Griefs and joys.  Baptisms and funerals and weddings.  Christmases and Easters.  All those stories swirling around you as you sit in a pew.  When I attend Mass at my home church, I can sometimes still hear my mother's soprano voice above the organ, feel my father sitting in his place in the choir loft.  Their stories are still there, the wisest of books, as Oliver says.

The singing bowls vibrate with those stories.

We should all do the same.  The next time you see a homeless person sitting in a library or outside a gas station, remember that person has a story, just like you, full of happiness and heartache.  When you see a dandelion growing on your lawn, think of the impossible process of photosynthesis that allows it to exist.  Your story.  My story.  The dandelion's story.  The homeless person's story.  They're all chambers of the same Neptune shell.  Chorusing and humming.

Saint Marty hopes you all sleep happily ever after tonight.

March 7: One's Own Will, Gingerbread Houses, Second Chances

Merton contemplates the purpose of his life . . . 

And so, having prayed, sitting on the floor, I began to consider the reason why God had brought me into the world: 

Man was created to this end: that he should praise God, Our Lord, and reverence and serve Him, and by doing these things, should save his soul. And all the other things on the face of the earth were created for man, to help him in attaining the end for which he was created. Whence it follows that man must use these things only in so far as they help him towards his end, and must withdraw himself from them in so far as they are obstacles to his attaining his end.... Wherefore it is necessary that we make ourselves indifferent to all created things, in so far as it is permitted to our free will ... in such a way that, as far as we are concerned, we should not desire health rather than sickness, riches rather than poverty, honor rather than ignominy, a long life rather than a short life, and so on, desiring and choosing only those things which more efficaciously lead us to the end for which we were created. 

The big and simple and radical truths of the “Foundation” were, I think, too big and too radical for me. By myself, I did not even scratch the surface of them. I vaguely remember fixing my mind on this notion of indifference to all created things in themselves, to sickness and health, and being mildly appalled. Who was I to understand such a thing? If I got a cold I nearly choked myself with aspirins and hot lemonade, and dived into bed with undisguised alarm. And here was a book that might perhaps be telling me that I ought to be able to remain as cool as an icebox in the presence of a violent death. How could I figure out just what and how much that word “indifferent” meant, if there was no one to tell me? I did not have any way of seeing the distinction between indifference of the will and indifference of the feelings—the latter being practically a thing unknown, even in the experience of the saints. So, worrying about this big difficulty of my own creation, I missed the real fruit of this fundamental meditation, which would have been an application of its notions to all the things to which I myself was attached, and which always tended to get me into trouble. 

However, the real value of the Exercises for me came when I got to the various contemplations, especially the mysteries of the life of Christ. I docilely followed all St. Ignatius’s rules about the “composition of place” and sat myself down in the Holy House at Nazareth with Jesus and Mary and Joseph, and considered what they did, and listened to what they said and so on. And I elicited affections, and made resolutions, and ended with a colloquy and finally made a brief retrospective examination of how the meditation had worked out. All this was so new and interesting, and the labor of learning it engrossed me so much, that I was far too busy for distractions. The most vital part of each meditation was always the application of the senses (hearing the yelling of the damned in hell, smelling their burning rottenness, seeing the devils coming at you to drag you down with the rest, and so on). 

As far as I remember, there was one theological point that made a very deep impression on me, greater than anything else. Somewhere in the first week, after having considered the malice of mortal sin, I had turned to the evil of venial sin. And there, suddenly, while the horror of mortal sin had remained somewhat abstract to me, simply because there were so many aspects and angles to the question, I clearly saw the malice of venial sin precisely as an offense against the goodness and loving kindness of God, without any respect to punishment. I left that meditation with a deep conviction of the deordination and malice there is in preferring one’s own will and satisfaction to the will of God for Whose love we were created. 

Yes, Merton learns a lesson about indulgence versus sacrifice.  His will versus God's will.  The world is a pretty selfish place.  Most people walk around, more worried about their own needs and wants and ambitions than about the greater good--what's better for the world and the universe.  I'm just as guilty of anyone else of this "sin."  Because, when you're in the midst of struggle, it's pretty hard to think of anything else.  Proverbially, seeing the forest instead of the trees.

If you've read my last two posts, you know that I've been focusing on the trees.  A lot.  That's a pretty human thing to do.  When you're lost in the woods, there's pretty much only one thing you can think about:  getting back home.  Hansel and Gretel, in their efforts to become unlost, made the mistake of nibbling the eaves on the witch's gingerbread house, which led to their imprisonment; to the witch being turned into a witch-kabob in the oven; to, eventually, a return home and happily ever after.

Being lost is pretty common.  Nibbling on metaphorical gingerbread houses is pretty common, too.  There are all kinds of temptations in the forest as you try to find your way home.  Things that distract you from the path.  That's what a majority of fairy tales are about.  Getting lost and then getting found.  Red Riding Hood meeting the wolf.  Jack meeting the guy who gives him the magic beans, and all the giant stuff that follows.  Aurora Rose pricking her finger on the spinning wheel.  Of course, there's always happily ever afters, but they come after the wolf eats grandma or the entire kingdom is hexed into a very long nap.

I frequently fall into the trap of straying from the path that God has laid out for me to follow.  Pretty much everyone from any story in the Bible does the same.  Adam and Eve get kicked out of the Garden of Eden.  David has a little thing with Bathsheba.  Peter denies Jesus.  Paul is blinded.  It's a human thing.  We all eat the forbidden gingerbread house at one point or another, stop to chat with hairy, fanged strangers.

Right now, I'm trying to find my way home after being lost in the woods.  Life is full of wolves and spinning wheels and gingerbread houses.  My particular wolf this weekend came in the form of a loved one who was lost in the forest momentarily and almost did something very permanent to find a way out.  The Big Bad Wolf didn't win, but came pretty damn close.

Now, we are at the edge of the forest, can see home and a kind of happily ever after in the distance.  We still have a ways to go, but there's a trail of breadcrumbs to follow.

Saint Marty is thankful for the miracle of second chances.  And third chances.  And fourth.  And . . . 

April 17: Low and Hopeless, the Burning of Notre Dame, Holy Week, Happily Ever After

Arthur and Ford are about to meet Marvin the robot . . .

Arthur listened for a short while, but being unable to understand the vast majority of what Ford was saying, he began to let his mind wander, trailing his fingers along the edge of an incomprehensible computer bank.  He reached out and pressed an invitingly large red button on a nearby panel.  The panel lit up with the words Please do not press this button again.  He shook himself.  

"Listen," said Ford, who was still engrossed in the sales brochure, "they make a big thing of the ship's cybernetics.  'A new generation of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation robots and computers, with the new GPP feature.'"

"GPP feature?" said Arthur.  "What's that?"

"Oh, it says Genuine People Personalities."

"Oh," said Arthur, "sounds ghastly."

A voice behind them said, "It is."  The voice was low and hopeless and accompanied by a slight clanking sound.  They spun round and saw an abject steel man standing hunched in the doorway."

"What?" they said.

"Ghastly," continued Marvin, "it all is.  Absolutely ghastly.  Just don't even talk about it.  Look at this door," he said, stepping through it.  The irony circuits cut in to his voice modulator as me mimicked the style of the sales brochure.  "'All the doors in this spaceship have a cheerful and sunny disposition.  It is their pleasure to open for you, and their satisfaction to close again with the knowledge of a job well done.'"

As the door closed behind them it became apparent it did indeed have a satisfied sighlike quality to it.  "Hunnnnnnnyummmmmmm ah!" it said.

Again, the hero of this scene for me is Marvin, with his low and hopeless voice.  Especially this evening.  I have been absent from blogging these last two days for a few reasons:  teaching, Holy Week, and the burning of Notre Dame Cathedral.  All of these things have overwhelmed me, left me speechless, and, in a strange way, they all seem bundled together.  It has been a low and hopeless 48 hours.

I learned of the burning of Notre Dame as I was heading to the university to teach on Monday afternoon.  I opened up Facebook on my phone and saw a news post with a picture of the cathedral ceiling engulfed in orange flames and yellow smoke.  At the time, the spire was still standing, but it was a huge finger of fire pointing toward the heavens.  And then I received a text from my daughter:  "Notre Dame is on fire."

As I continued to campus, I felt a huge heaviness descend on me, and I can't really identify why.  I have never been to Notre Dame, although it was on my bucket list.  For me, it has always been the backdrop in movies and books and art.  Although it was human-made, it seemed eternal.  Like something God placed in the world and nothing could destroy.  Not plagues or bombings or world wars.  It seemed divinely protected.

I taught my first class of the day, and then I went back to my office, looked at my phone again, and watched a video of the spire of Notre Dame buckling, bending, and collapsing.  I heard the crowd in the video gasp as this happened.  Sitting alone, I thought about the meaninglessness of what I had said in class an hour before, the pointlessness of what I was going to say to the students in my evening class.  One phrase was on an infinite loop in my mind--"It just doesn't matter"--as that 800-year-old sanctuary infernoed toward oblivion.

It is now Wednesday night.  The day before Holy Thursday, the beginning of the Easter Triduum for Catholics around the globe.  The towers of Notre Dame are still standing, the Rose windows still refracting prisms of light.  But the floor of the sanctuary is a charred and melted pile of roof and spire.  Even before the blaze was extinguished, companies and millionaires and billionaires began pledging funds for the restoration of Notre Dame.  French President Emmanuel Macron said in a speech, "I believe profoundly that we will turn this tragedy into a moment to come together, to be reflective of what we were and what we have to be.  We must be better than we were."

The burning of Notre Dame Cathedral is a lesson for me this Holy Week, and I tried to turn it into a lesson today for my students.  In my mythology class, we have been reading Grimm fairy tales, reflecting on what "happily ever after" really means, whether or not it's even relevant in the 21st century.  Or whether that phrase is just a holdover from a bygone time in history.  This is what I told my class today, after we talked about the fire and destruction of Notre Dame:  "I think that everyone in this room wants a 'happily ever after.'  You wouldn't be here as students if you didn't believe, somehow, the world can be a better place.  Even in the face of immense loss and tragedy, people come together, rally, believe that the future will be brighter and stronger.  That's what I think happily ever after is all about."

Teaching.  The burning of Notre Dame Cathedral.  Holy Week.  For me, these all reinforce the central tenet of this time of the Christian year.  Becoming better, stronger, happier people.  Letting go of past hurts, destructive beliefs and behaviors.  Traveling through the darkness toward light.  Embracing the power of redemption and resurrection.

It doesn't matter whether you're Catholic or Methodist or Buddhist or Jewish or Muslim or agnostic or atheist.  Everyone deserves this chance.  This hope.

Saint Marty wishes everyone who reads this post tonight a happily ever after.  Amen.

May 24: Cinderella, Most Popular Story, Happily Ever After

The banquet hall was illuminated by candlelight.  There were heaps of fresh-baked white bread on the tables, gobs of butter, pots of marmalade.  There were platters of sliced beef from cans.  Soup and scrambled eggs and hot marmalade pie were yet to come.

And, at the far end of the shed, Billy saw pink arches with azure draperies hanging between them, and an enormous clock, and two golden thrones, and a bucket and a mop.  It was in this setting that the evening's entertainment would take place, a musical version of Cinderella, the most popular story ever told.

The most popular story ever told.  That's Vonnegut's claim about Cinderella.  An abused girl rescued from her wicked step-family by a handsome prince, swept away to a castle where she will be married and live happily ever after.  Of course, in the original version of the story, I believe Cinderella has her stepmother and stepsisters blinded by a flock of crows or seagulls.  There's also a point where the stepsisters cut off their toes in order to make their feet fit into the glass slipper.  So it goes.

I'm sure there are other stories that could make a claim to the "most popular story ever told" award.  There's the tale of Scrooge and the ghosts.  Or the one about Belle and her hairy love interest.  Let's not forget the Jesus narrative from the gospels.  Don Quixote sparring with windmills.  Gilgamesh.  There are a lot of stories that have been around for a very long time.

Of course, the one thing that most of these narratives have in common is the ending.  Everyone, in the most popular stories, lives happily ever after.  Belle kisses the Beast.  Presto.  Instant Brad Pitt.  Ebenezer Scrooge wakes up on Christmas morning and goes on to save Tiny Tim's life.  Jesus rises from the dead and redeems all of humankind.  Don Quixote finds his Dulcinea.  Love wins.

That's why these narratives are so enduring.  They provide hope.  In the ash heaps of life, there's a Fairy Godmother waiting to change you into a princess.  Even if you're the biggest son of a bitch in London, there's a ghost willing to rescue your soul from eternal misery.  And, of course, the biggest and most important narrative, God sends His son to suffer and die for our sins. 

That's why we tell stories.  It's the promise of salvation, the light of hope.  We are all children who want to live happily every after.  Billy Pilgrim wants it.  You want it.  I want it.  Nobody wants to live forever in world of darkness and pain and death. 

So, we sit on our parents' laps, open a book, pay attention in Church.  And we listen:  "In the beginning . . . Once upon a time . . . "

Saint Marty is thankful tonight for stories.

July 10: Terrible Darkness, Text Ping, Matthea Harvey, "Preset Fairy Tale Mode"

As they happily walked to the subway, they were looking forward to spending a lot of time together at home during the holiday, in the company of family and friends.  Ives and Annie had stopped to peer into a window display of French linen when, just like that, a terrible darkness entered them, and they could not move and stood looking at one another stupidly, on the crowded and busy sidewalk.

Ives and Annie are out on the town, enjoying some pre-Christmas festivities:  parties, window shopping, watching ice skaters at Rockefeller Center.  As they prepare to return home, they are suddenly overtaken by a cloud of sadness.  They don't understand what has just happened.  All they can do is stare at each other, not knowing that their son has just been killed on the sidewalk in front of their church.

I have spent most of this week dreading a similar experience.  Every time I receive a phone text, a sense of dread overtakes me.  It's not that I have no hope for my sister, but when you're bombarded with terms like "lymphoma" and "neuroblastoma" and "brain atrophy," it's kind of tough to remain positive. 

This morning, I heard the text ping on my phone while I was having breakfast.  I just sat on the couch, not moving for several seconds.   Then I got up and read the message.  It was from the person with whom I carpool, telling me she was going to be a little late.  I literally said "Thank God" because I was so relieved.

This afternoon, my sister went to surgery for her brain biopsy.  Everything went well, but there won't be any news about the results for a couple of days.  That means that I will receive a text on Monday at work.  I'm praying for good news.  Hoping for good news.  But that text could bring a terrible darkness, as well.

I'm really not in the mood to write a fairy tale this week, so I'm going to let the Poet of the Week do that job for me.

Hopefully, Saint Marty, and Saint Marty's sister, will live happily ever after.

Preset Fairy Tale Mode

by:  Matthea Harvey

Once upon a time, in the time
of once upon a time, there was
an inventor who loved a mermaid
and would do anything to please her.
Because she loved sound, he invented
a megaphone, a telettrofono and a drink
that fizzed with the tiny effervescent
fireworks of fermented fruit.  Because
she loved light, he invented smokeless
wicks and built a candle factory.  Because
she was over-fond of candles, he invented
flame retardant paint.  Because she loved
her cats, he came up with a way to carefully
quantify the amount of cream in their milk.
Because she missed her sisters' voices
he made a marine telephone.  Because
her bones were not made for this loud
human world, they began to crack and
ache and crumble.  Because she needed quiet
he tried to hush the trains, the carriage,
even the gulls.  Because she could no longer
climb up or down the stairs, he carried her.

Looking for more Disney, less Grimm brothers

May 24: A Blanket, Unknown Needs, Ellen Steinbaum, "Letter Home," New Cartoon

"That's just what we need," said Avery.  "A blanket."

"Of course it is," replied Lurvy.  And he spread the blanket across the sideboards of the truck so that it was like a little tent.  The children sat in the shade, under the blanket, and felt better.

After lunch, they stretched out and fell asleep.

Avery doesn't know what he needs.  He's hot and tired.  When Lurvy shows up with the Indian blanket he won, Avery doesn't realize it's just what he needs.  A blanket.  Tent.  Shade.  Nap.

Most of us don't realize what we actually need.  We walk around, vaguely unfulfilled, not knowing what will make us truly happy.  A new job.  New love.  Happy family.  All of the above.  None of the above.  Most of the time, we yearn for things we don't have.  And if we get those things, we find out they don't make us happy at all.

For years, I've dreamed of a full-time teaching gig at the university.  I've convinced myself that, if I had that, life would be perfect.  Of course, I know that's a load of crap.  Perfection is a fallacy.  A dream.  Unattainable.  Something that simply makes me strive for something better all the time.

Needs, once met, become experience.  Experience becomes memory.  Memory becomes story.  I guess what I'm saying is that we're all trying to write our story, and we all want a happily ever after.  That's not a bad thing.  For the moment, I'm happy.  I have a home, wife, children, family.  I can almost pay my bills on time.  And, through the fall and winter months, I get to do what I love--teach and talk about literature.  I'm lucky.

Saint Marty has a poem for you tonight that seems appropriate for Memorial Day weekend.

Letter Home

by:  Ellen Steinbaum

I love you forever 
my father's letter tells her
for forty-nine pages,
from the troopship crossing the Atlantic
before they'd ever heard of Anzio.

He misses her, the letter says,
counting out days of boredom, seasickness,
and changing weather,
poker games played for matches
when cash and cigarettes ran out,
a Red Cross package--soap,
cards, a mystery book he traded away
for The Rubaiyyat a bunkmate didn't want.
He stood night watch and thought
of her.  Don't forget the payment
for insurance, he says.

My mother waits at home with me, 
waits for the letter he writes day by day
moving farther across the ravenous ocean.
She will get it in three months and
her fingers will smooth the Army stationery
to suede.

He will come home, stand
beside her in the photograph, leaning
on crutches, holding
me against the rough wool
of his jacket.  He will sit
alone and listen to Aida

and they will pick up their
interrupted lives.  Years later,
she will show her grandchildren
a yellow envelope with
forty-nine wilted pages telling her

of shimmering sequins on the water,
the moonlight catching sudden phosphorescence,
the churned wake that stretched a silver trail.

Confessions of Saint Marty

February 14: Jane Gallagher, Doberman Pinscher, Valentines

"Jane Gallagher," I said.  I even got up from the washbowl when he said that.  I damn near dropped dead.  "You're damn right I know her.  She practically lived right next door to me, the summer before last.  She had this big damn Doberman pinscher.  That's how I met her.  Her dog used to keep coming over in our--"

Holden has a thing for Jane Gallagher.  All through the novel, he keeps thinking about her.  A couple of times, he even comes close to calling her.  He never does.  Jane remains this unattainable love for Holden.  Every time he thinks or speaks about her, there's a sense of melancholy and longing.  In the years since I first read The Catcher in the Rye, I've always imagined that Holden finally did call Jane.  I want a happy ending for him.  I want Holden and Jane to date, get married, and have normal, well-adjusted kids.  That's the romantic in me.  (Yes, I do have a romantic in me.  I just choose to keep it locked away from the sunlight.)  In reality, considering Holden's instability,  I would expect him to drift through life, flunking out of college, bouncing from job to job.  Jane is not in his future.

But, since it's Valentine's Day, let's focus on the former option.  Love.  Romance.  Happily ever after.  Not too many people get that.  In 2015, my wife and I will celebrate our twentieth anniversary.  That's crazy.  I'd love to say it's been roses and chocolate all the time.  It hasn't.  We've struggled a great deal.  Because of my wife's mental illness and its accompanying complications, I would say we are survivors of the love trenches.  I have the scars to prove it.

And yet, love won.  We have a home.  Two cars.  Two beautiful kids.  From the outside, we are living the American dream.  Sort of.  We still have problems, concerns that keep me awake at night.  Today is not the day to think about worries, however.  Today is a day to celebrate the love I have in my life.  I have hung on to that love, through the battles of the past two decades.  It has been my armor.  I think Holden holds on to his love for Jane for the same reason.  It gives him hope.

Saint Marty bows to the wisdom of Saint Paul this morning:  "...love bears all thing, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.  Love never fails."

It hasn't failed me yet

May 2: Once Upon A Time, Fairy Tales, HEA

Once upon a time--of all good days in the year, on Christmas Eve--old Scrooge sat busy in his counting-house.

After teaching Grimm fairy tales for the last half of the semester, this little sentence from the beginning of A Christmas Carol appealed to the mythologist in me.  First, the sentence places Scrooge and company squarely in the fairy tale realm.  That's one of the reasons why all the supernatural stuff works so well.  Upon hearing the phrase "once upon a time," the readers are predisposed to accept things like ghosts and phantoms and magical Christmas spirits.  Second, the phrase calls to mind story templates most readers are very familiar with.  Cinderella.  Little Red Cap.  The Big Bad Wolf.  Rumpelstiltskin.  We, as readers, know what to expect from these stories.  Third, "once upon a time" guarantees the use of an equally familiar phrase at end of the tale:  "happily ever after."  And we do get a phrase very much in that vein as the last sentence of the A Christmas Carol:  "And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God Bless Us, Every One!"

I think we all crave the stuff of fairy tales.  Magic.  Familiar narratives.  Happy endings.  We live our lives trying to attain these things.  We want magic--romance, money, vacations, perfect jobs.  We want familiar structures on a daily basis--breakfast, school/work, lunch, more school/work, dinner, recreation, bed.  Whether we admit it or not, we all like the familiarity of routine.  And any evil witch or wizard who interferes with that routine must be dispatched so we can return to our comfortable routines and attain...happily ever after, of course.  We're all searching for some sort of happiness in our lives.

Admit it.  You have a fairy tale in your mind for the trajectory of your life.  I do.  It's called dreaming.  And everybody, from Oprah Winfrey on down, tells us to live our dreams.

Here's Saint Marty's fairy tale:

Once upon a time, there lived a relatively young saint named Marty.  Marty was good looking, strong of spirit, and the best writer in the world.  He wrote every day--poetry, stories, novels, memoirs, blog posts.  One day, Saint Marty entered a poetry contest sponsored by the king.  The king loved the saint's poems so much, he gave the saint five bags of gold and the title of Poet Laureate of the Kingdom.

After a few years, a group of scholars in the far away land of Stockholm met behind closed doors and selected Saint Marty to receive the most prestigious literary award in the world.  The Nobel Prize.  People all over the planet rejoiced as beloved Saint Marty traveled to Stockholm to accept his honor.

When he returned home, Saint Marty continued to write his wonderful verse and prose.  People from all over came to Saint Marty, seeking his wisdom and advice.  Saint Marty lived 135 years. 

One night, Saint Peter came to Saint Marty, took him by the hand, and escorted him to the heavenly banquet table.  The Lord accepted Saint Marty with open arms, saying, "Well done, good and faithful servant." 

And Saint Marty lived happily in the ever after.  God bless us, every one.