July 7: "In the Moment," Here and Now, Tiny Life Moment

Billy Collins lives . . .

In the Moment

by: Billy Collins

It was a day in June, all lawn and sky,

the kind that gives you no choice

but to unbutton your shirt

and sit outside in a rough wooden chair.

An if a glass of ice tea and a volume

of seventeenth-century poetry

with a dark blue cover are available,

then the picture can hardly be improved.

I remember a fly kept landing on my wrist,

and two black butterflies 

with white and red wing dots

bobbed around my head in the bright air.

I could feel the day offering itself to me,

and I wanted nothing more

than to be in the moment--but which moment?

Not that one, or that one, or that one,

or any of those that were scuttling by

seemed perfectly right for me.

Plus, I was too knotted with with questions

about the past and his tall, evasive sister, the future.

What churchyard held the bones of George Herbert?

Why did John Donne's wife die so young?

And more pressingly,

what could we serve the vegetarian twins

who were coming to dinner that evening?

Who knew that they would bring their own grapes?

And why was the driver of that pickup

flying down the road toward the lone railroad track?

And so the priceless moments of the day

were squandered one by one--

or more likely a thousand at a time--

with quandary and pointless interrogation.

All I wanted was to be a pea of being

inside the green pod of time,

but that was not going to happen today,

I had to admit to myself

as I closed the book on the face

of Thomas Traherne and returned to the house

where I lit a flame under a pot

full of floating brown eggs,

and, while they cooked in their bubbles,

I stared into a small oval mirror near the sink

to see if that crazy glass

had anything special to tell me today.

Living in the here and now is a good way of being.  If you get stuck in the past, you will spend your life grieving for what or whom you've lost.  If you live in the future, your existence is defined by fear, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

The present it a different thing.  By relishing each moment as it comes your way, all those pesky regrets (from the past) and worries (about the future) melt away like an ice cream cake on a July afternoon.  What is left is gratitude for what is in front your face.  People you love.  Music you dig.  Food you crave.  And laughter and laughter and laughter.

My here and now today consisted of a birthday party for my nephew who just turned 13 years old.  It was a wonderful time of games and food and (as I said above) laughter and laughter and laughter.  Then, this evening, I led an online poetry workshop.  Two of my closest poet friends Zoomed in.  We wrote Pablo Neruda odes to the things in our lives and homes.  So, in a way, we celebrated the present with words and language.

Poetry is a very immediate kind of art form.  Each poem preserves a tiny life moment--its emotions and physicality.  Perhaps that's why I fell into this poetic life I lead--because I want to deeply observe each of my experiences.  To find meaning and, when available, revelation.

Saint Marty's biggest revelation today:  never let a stranger pick out his corn on the cob.

June 26: "Terns," Trudging Forward, Future

Mary Oliver distracted by terns . . .

Terns

by:  Mary Oliver

Don't think just now of the trudging forward of thought,

but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.

It's summer, you never saw such a blue sky,

and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,

sweeping over the waves,

chattering and plunging,

their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes

happy as little nails.

The years to come--this is a promise--

will grant you ample time

to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought

where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.

But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,

than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.

The flock thickens

over the roiling, salt brightness.  Listen,

maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world

in the clasp of attention, isn't the perfect prayer,

but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,

is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,

but of pure submission.  Tell me, what else

could beauty be for?  And now the tide

is at its very crown,

the white birds sprinkle down,

gathering up the loose silver, rising

as if weightless.  It isn't instruction, or a parable.

It isn't for any vanity or ambition

except for the one allowed, to stay alive.

It's only a nimble frolic

over the waves.  And you find, for hours,

you cannot even remember the questions

that weigh so in your mind.

I spend most of my days in the trudging forward of thought, distracted by all of the details of life, as Oliver describes.  And I don't think I'm alone in this.  My life sort of requires me to think ahead, plan ahead, worry ahead.  Unless something stops me dead cold, because of its beauty or mystery or weirdness, I am always one or two or three steps/hours/days/weeks/months ahead in thought.

I know this practice isn't healthy.  In fact, it causes me a great deal of stress.  Because none of us really knows what the future holds.  We don't know if we are even going to wake up tomorrow morning or be spirited away in the middle of the night by some little comet of blood in our heads.  (Sorry.  This is the way my brain works.  I'm constantly distracted by these kinds of thoughts.)

Today, for example, was filled with planning ahead.  This morning, I took my puppy for a physical therapy appointment for her injured leg.  For an hour, I worked with the therapist, helping her stretch, ultrasound, and exercise my dog.  I'm doing this so that my dog will have the most mobility possible for the rest of her life.  Planning ahead.

I had an event this evening at the library, and I was a performer in the show.  So, I spent the bulk of my time setting up mics and chairs, printing out sketches and set lists, selecting poems and essays to read.  Basically, doing everything within my power to make sure that the show went smoothly.  Planning ahead again.

You see what I mean.  I didn't have a chance to walk down to Lake Superior and watch the ducks or geese.  (I've never seen a tern in my little corner of Lake Superior, but I'm terrible at identifying birds.)  The only time I lived in the present today were the two hours I was performing.  You sort of have to be in the moment when you're onstage.  Other than that, I was physically here, but my mind was planning for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.  

The only creature in my life that lives in the moment is my dog.  She doesn't worry about the future.  Pretty much, she lives from meal to walk to meal, with occasional trots around the backyard to relieve herself.  That's her life.  She gets hungry, food is given to her.  She has a full bladder, out to the lawn she goes.  She gets tired, her pillow is right next to her for a nap.  In. The.  Moment.

I think all our lives would be so much simpler and better if we lived like my dog.  Pay attention to what is in front of your face, be it terns, the moon, or a hot fudge sundae.  Let the future take care of itself until it becomes the present.  

Now, Saint Marty needs to go for a walk around the backyard.  His bladder is full.  (Just kidding.)

December 31: Great Canyon of Clouds, Happy New Year, Namaste

Santiago eats as night comes on . . . 

Under the stars and with the night colder all the time he ate half of one of the dolphin fillets and one of the flying fish, gutted and with its head cut off.

"What an excellent fish dolphin is to eat cooked," he said. "And what a miserable fish raw. I will never go in a boat again without salt or limes."

If I had brains I would have splashed water on the bow all day and drying, it would have made salt, he thought. But then I did not hook the dolphin until almost sunset. Still it was a lack of preparation. But I have chewed it all well and I am not nauseated.

The sky was clouding over to the east and one after another the stars he knew were gone. It looked now as though he were moving into a great canyon of clouds and the wind had dropped.

This passage seems like an appropriate one to end the year of The Old Man and the Sea.  The fish is still alive and pulling the boat.  Santiago is eating, preparing for the coming battle.  And there are no sharks anywhere in sight.

It is New Year's Eve.  In a few short hours, I will countdown to midnight, blow some cheap party horns, and shout "Happy New Year!"  

We shout that phrase at the top of our lungs at midnight every December 31st/January 1st.  Maybe it's a prayer, ancient and hopeful--summoning goodness and luck and grace for the coming 365 days.  Sometimes it's an exclamation of relief.  Thank God the old year is over!  Good riddance.  Shalom.  Aloha.  Godspeed.

When you think about it, so many ways of saying "goodbye" are also ways of saying "hello."  Aloha--goodbye, hello.  See ya--see ya later, see ya soon.  Ciao--Italian, same thing.  Salut!--French.  Namaste--Hindi.  

That's what we're really doing on New Year's Eve--bidding farewell and welcome in the same breath.

I, for one, am happy that 2022 is going to be in my rearview mirror.  It hasn't been an easy twelve months.  In fact, they have been filled with sadness and loss, grief, a search for meaning.  Just because we are now going to be writing "2023" instead of "2022," it doesn't mean the doors of heaven have been blown wide open and the saints are going to come marching in.  The same monkeys that were on my back in the old year are riding on my shoulders in the new one.

Yet, I have hope.  In the midst of all of my struggles last year, there were blessings and grace.  My son is doing great in school.  My daughter made the Dean's List again this semester.  All of my close family and friends are healthy and happy.  I got two classes to teach next semester at the university.  So, although I've been fumbling around in the dark since last February, there is light.  Like the moon pushing through storm clouds on the winter solstice.

I'm blowing in the New Year at my parents' house with my sisters.  We will eat a lot of junk food, play board games, and pop some balloons.  It's the first time we have been able to celebrate together since 2019.  COVID sidelined the party in 2020 and 2021.  Our ranks have certainly shrunk.  In 2019, my mother and sister, Rose, were still with us.  Yet, despite the empty places at the dining room table, I think we will all feel joy at just being together.  Alive.  In the moment.

So, ciao, Santiago.  Aloha, great fish.  Namaste, Ernest Hemingway.  

Saint Marty wishes you all a Happy New Year!  See ya in 2023.