May 10: A Very Nice School, Mother's Day, Strong Women

Merton matriculates to Public School . . .

I was already nearly too old for Ripley Court, being by now fourteen, but I had to pick up enough Latin to be able to make at least a presentable showing in a scholarship examination for some Public School.  As to the school where I should go, Uncle Ben made a more or less expert choice, in his capacity as retired headmaster of a prep school.  Since Father was poor, and an artist, there would be no thinking of one of the big schools like Harrow or Winchester--though Winchester was the one for which Uncle Ben had the greatest respect, having achieved his ambition of sending many of his pupils there with scholarships.  The reason was twofold:  not merely that Father could not be considered able to pay the bills (although, in fact, Pop was to pay them, from America) but the scholarship examinations would be altogether too hard for me.

The final choice was regarded by everyone as very suitable.  It as an obscure little school in the Midlands, and old foundation, with a kind of a little tradition of its own.  It had recently gone up slightly in its rating because of the work of its greatest headmaster, who was just about to retire--all of this was the kind of thing Uncle Ben knew and told me, and Aunt Maud confirmed it, saying:

"I am sure you will find Oakham a very nice school."

There's something very ominous in these three paragraphs.  Merton has not had a good track record when it comes to Public Schools.  The fact that the title of the next chapter of The Seven Storey Mountain is "The Harrowing of Hell" also does not bode well.  Although, when looking at the list of notable alumni from Oakham on Wikipedia, Thomas Merton is prominent, along with a couple bishops, famous mathematicians, and a British Ambassador to Peru.  So, Oakham is still going strong.

Today is Mother's Day.  I will not be able to see my mother in person, because of the pandemic.  She is in her late eighties, and, since I work in a medical setting, I don't even want to take the chance of spreading the virus to her.  Yet, Merton's Aunt Maud, who has the last work on Oakham in this passage, reminds me a lot of my mom. 

My mother always wanted what was best for me.  When I said I wanted to study English in college and become a writer, she said something like, "Well, why don't you go into computers.  There's a good future in that.  You can take all the English classes you want, too."  So, I became a Computer Science major, just like Merton followed Aunt Maud's advice and went to Oakham.

Strong women have always had a huge influence on my life.  I'm the youngest of nine kids.  I have three older brother, five sisters in between, and then I came along.  Thus, my sisters had a big hand in shaping me into who I am.  My mother had her hands full with so many kids.  So, my oldest sister pretty much taught me how to drive.  My middle sisters chauffeured me to play practices before I had my own driver's license.  They listened to my short stories and plays and poems.  Praised me, even though I'm pretty sure they thought I was a little odd.  I was.

And then I met my wife, who came from a family of very strong women.  All of these ladies (grandmother, great aunts, mother, sisters, cousins)  taught me so much about being a loving and supportive man, partner, and father to my wife and kids.  They have all been a part of my life for close to 30 years, and I don't know what I would do without them.

The mother of my children has had many struggles in her life with mental illness and addiction.  It has not been an easy road.  Our marriage and family have weathered some pretty turbulent storms.  Yet, through all of these difficult times, I think my kids have always known that they were loved and cherished by her.  That is really important.

So, on this day that celebrates motherhood, in all its shapes and forms, I give thanks for all of the strong females in my life, who have molded me and made me a better person.  They truly are heroes, each and every one.

Saint Marty loves them all.

February 15: Followed by Deep Shadow, Traveling, Dark Night of the Soul

Merton on the move with his father again:

The locomotive had big wheels and a low, squat boiler, and an inordinately high smoke-stack, so that it seemed to have escaped from the museum, except that it was very sturdy and did its work well.  And the three or four little coaches sped us quickly into a territory that was certainly sacramental.

The last town that had a brick campanile to its church, after the manner of all Languedoc, was Montricoux.  Then the train entered the Aveyron valley.  After that, we were more or less in Rouergue.  And then we began to see something. 

I did not realize what we were getting into until the train swept around a big curve of the shallow river, and came to stop under the sunny plane trees along the platform of a tiny station, and we looked out the window, and saw that we had just passed along the bottom of a sheer cliff one or two hundred feet high, with a thirteenth-century castle on the top of it.  That was Bruniquel.  All around us, the steep hills were thick with woods, small gnarled oaks, clinging to the rock.  Along the river, the slender poplars rippled with the light of late afternoon, and green waters danced on the stones.  The people who got on and off the train were peasants with black smocks, and on the roads we saw men walking beside teams of oxen, drawing their two-wheeled carts: and they guided the placid beasts with their long sticks.  Father told me that the people were all talking, not French, but the old patois, langue d'oc.

The next place was Penne.  At the meeting of two valleys, a thin escarpment of rock soared up boldly over the river, bent and sharply rising, like an open wing.  On the top were the ruins of another castle.  Further down, straggling along the ridge, went the houses of the village and somewhere among them the small square tower of a church, an open iron belfry on top, with a visible bell.

The valley seemed to get narrower and deeper as the train followed its narrow single track between the river and the rocks.  Sometimes there was enough space between us and the river to contain a small hayfield.  Occasionally a deserted dirt road or cattle track would cross our way, and there would be a house and a crossing-gate and one of those furious French bells, throwing the sudden scare of it clangor through the windows of the carriage as we passed by. 

The valley widened a little to contain the village of Cazals, hanging on to the foot of the hill across the river, and then we were back in the gorge.  If you went to the window and looked up, you could see the grey and yellow cliffs towering up so high they almost blocked out the sky.  And now we could begin to distinguish caves high up on the rock.  Later I would climb up there and visit some of them.  Passing through tunnel after tunnel, and over many bridges, through bursts of light and greenery followed by deep shadow, we came at last to the town of our destination.

It was an old, old town.  Its history went back to the Roman days--which were the times of the martyred saint, its patron.  Antoninus had brought Christianity to the Roman colony in this valley, and later he had been martyred in another place, Paniers, down in the foothills of the Pyrenees, near Prades, where I was born.  

So, Merton, as a young boy, comes full circle, returning to the place of his birth in France.  Merton's father seems to be on a journey himself--wrestling with his notions of religious faith.  So this little passage about travel is both literal and metaphorical, for both father and son.  There has been a void in Merton's life since the death of his mother.  A God-sized hole.  Merton's father is suffering from the same thing.

For the last couple of days, I've done some traveling myself, going from one place in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan to another and then back.  I've never been a fan of road trips.  Living in the U. P., however, you have to get used to them.  They become a necessity, for work, medical appointments, Christmas shopping, traveling Broadway performances, college educations, and the like.  There are just some things that are not readily available in this little shark-shaped piece of land surrounded by water.

During the week, I spend a lot of time on the road.  I live about 20 miles from the places where I mainly work--the university and the hospital.  So, during the course of a work week, I travel roughly around 40 miles a day.  I'm sure, for those who live closer to big cities like New York or Chicago, that commute seems like nothing.

I try to use my time in the car productively.  In the mornings, I pray a lot--for all the people in my life in need of some extra heavenly help.  (Saint Anthony is my go-to guy.  He has rarely let me down.)  In the afternoons, I listen to my favorite podcasts or an audio book--my recents include Normal People by Sally Rooney, A Gentleman in Moscow by Amor Towles and When Breath Becomes Air by Paul Kalanithi.  I don't like wasted time, and I tend to view the minutes/hours I spend in a car as empty time.  I need to fill that time

Metaphorically, I've been on a journey for the last year or so, and I'm not quite sure where I'm going to end up.  This little trip is sponsored by mental illness and addiction.  There have been a whole lot of valleys and tunnels, and not a whole lot of palm trees and margaritas this go 'round.  In fact, if I'm being completely honest, I started down this road quite a while ago--right around the time my daughter was born.

During this journey, God and I have had an off again/on again relationship.  Sometimes, we're barely on speaking terms.  Other times, He's all I got.  At the moment, tonight, as I sit here in my living room alone, I have to say that the God-sized hole in my life seems pretty large.  I've tried praying, and it hasn't helped.  It's one of those times when it feels as though God has taken His own little vacation away from me.  Saint John of the Cross called a moment like this a "dark night of the soul."

What do I do with this feeling of isolation and abandonment?  If I was Mother Teresa (who was afflicted with a dark night of the soul that lasted for decades), I would continue to care for the sick and dying in Calcutta, doing God's work.  That's what faith is all about--trusting that God is there even when it seems like he's on the other side of the universe.

So, this evening I look for signs of God.  I found Him in my son, who gave me a hug and kiss as I put him to bed, said, "I love you, Daddy."  I find Him in my puppy, Juno, who's sitting quietly in the room with me, every once in a while lifting her head from her pillow to make sure I'm still here.  And I will find Him, hopefully, when I climb into bed tonight and try to chase down sleep.  Maybe, God will grant me some rest of mind and heart and body.

Saint Marty is tired of this road, this journey.  He'd rather be at Disney World.

September 10: I Write Novels, Mr. MAGA, Selfless Love

Ford and company are still dealing with the cops who are having existential crises . . .

Ford shouted out, "Hey, listen!  I think we've got enough problems of our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!"

Another pause, and then the bullhorn again.

"Now see here, guy," said the voice, "you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially!  I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterward in seedy space-ranger bars, like some cops I could mention!  I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterward for hours to my girlfriend!"

"And I write novels!" chimed in the other cop.  "Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!"

In a very funny way, this section illustrates a pretty important lesson.  These cops, who are trying to kill our heroes with Kill-O-Zap guns, have lives and problems and hopes and ambitions.  One has a girlfriend.  The other is a would-be novelist/writer.  Their two-dimensional character types (stupid, bloodthirsty bad guys) are battling their three-dimensional character developments.

Of course, we all go through our days judging people, putting them into categories that make sense to us.  If I see someone wearing a "Trump 2020" tee-shirt, I will make certain assumptions about that person--that he is a sexist, egotistical, lying, hypocritical bigot.  That is before I've spoken with that person, found out that he has a mother in a nursing home and has just been diagnosed with lymphoma.  Based on my shallow first impression, I immediately dismiss Mr. MAGA, make him less than human, which is exactly the tactic Donald Trump has been using during his whole time in office.

It's a question of control.  Using labels, we are able to approach a person/group of people not as fellow human beings.  By doing this, we cast ourselves as somehow superior.  It's a tactic that's been used throughout history.  It's how slavery was justified in the United States.  It's how Jews were sent to concentration camps in Nazi Germany.

If you call yourself a Christian, then you know that isn't really the way Jesus Christ operated.  For me, that is one of the great lessons of the Gospels.  Christ always hangs out with people from the lowest classes.  Fishermen.  Tax collectors.  Lepers.  Samaritans.  Gentiles.  Christ--because of his God-self--didn't judge these individuals.  He met them, ate with them, visited their homes, touched their wounds, loved them, and made them whole.

And that was one of Christ's greatest gifts--the ability to see all people as children of God, worthy of love and hope.  That Christ gift is something we should all try and emulate in our day-to-day interactions.  It's the way I try to be every day of my life, some days more successfully than others.  Anger and frustration have been my companions all too frequently in the last few months.  They have become comfortable emotions for me, especially when dealing with the irrationalities of mental illness and addiction.

Tonight, I have to remind myself to be more Christ-like.  To accept and love people in my life, despite their brokenness.  Or maybe because of their brokenness.  That's a tall order, especially if that brokenness causes you pain and heartache.  And that is another of the great lessons of the Jesus narrative.  Christ gave up His life for the human race, even though those humans didn't really deserve it.  In fact, those humans were kinda assholes to Him.  But that's what selfless love is all about.  And I ain't there tonight. 

It's time for bed.  Maybe Saint Marty will do better tomorrow.  There's always hope.

A reminder from a friend:

August 3: An Illusion, World of Alternate Choices, Mansion on a Hill

Trillian, Ford, and Zaphod trying to come to terms with their current predicament . . .

"Who put all that [gold] there?" yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed.

"Don't get excited," said Ford, "it's only a catalog."

"A who?"

"A catalog," said Trillian, "an illusion."

"How can you say that?" cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground.  He poked it and prodded it.  It was very heavy and very slightly soft--he could mark it with his fingernail.  It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold.

"Trillian and I came round a while ago," said Ford.  "We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalog to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us.  This is all Sens-O-Tape."

Zaphod stared at him bitterly.

"Ah, shit," he said, "you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else's."  He sat down in a huff.

"What's that series of valleys over there?" he said.

"Hallmark," said Ford.  "We had a look."

"We didn't wake you earlier," said Trillian.  "The last planet was knee-deep in fish."

"Fish?"

"Some people like the oddest things."

"And before that," said Ford, "we had platinum.  Bit dull.  We thought you'd like to see this one though."

Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked.

Everyone has different dreams.  A planet of gold.  A planet filled with fish.  A planet where Donald Trump was never born.  A planet where cell phones never existed.  A planet designed to be one big Disney World.  A planet where mental illness and addiction could simply be cured by eating a vanilla ice cream cone or a banana split.  I could go on.

Dreams are wonderful things, fueled by imagination and hope and perfection.  Of course, I know that living a life of dreams is not healthy.  No matter how much I want it, I probably will never wake up, get dressed, and go out to breakfast with Charles Dickens, Barack Obama, and Flannery O'Connor.  Not gonna happen.

Yesterday, I was speaking with a very smart person about things that are happening in my life.  At one point in our conversation, this person said to me, "You know, people who say things like 'Well, this is God's will' and 'God has a plan in all this' are full of shit.  There's this little thing called freewill involved in everything.  What God has is foreknowledge of the consequences of each choice a person makes."

Imagine a world of alternate choices.  What if, 2,000 years ago, the Roman centurions hammering ordered to hammer those spikes into Christ's hands and feet had made the choice to set him free instead?  What if Adolf Hitler had spent his whole life as a struggling artist, painting and painting and painting?  What if Eve had never taken a bite of that apple?

I can see the path of the choices I've made, how one decision led to another decision that led to another decision, on and on, leading to where I am at this moment.  Of course, no choice is perfect, unless you're Jesus Christ.  Christ was fully human, with freewill, just like the rest of us.  Yet, he made all the right decisions and went on to save the human race from itself.

This morning, I'm thinking about the perfect world of my choices.  What planet I thought/wish my decisions would have landed me.  My personal Magrathean planet, designed to my specifications.  It would look a lot like the planet I live on now.  The same place--the Upper Peninsula of Michigan (perhaps with milder winter weather).  The same people--my wife, daughter, son, sisters, brothers, sisters-in-law, family, friends.  Because I love the people in my life and where I have chosen to make my home.

Now, for the perfection.  My life and the people in it would be free of mental illness and addiction.  Every day, I would watch my wife and children flourish in healthy, loving ways, our lives simply a measure of the love we have for each other and the world around us.

In the morning, I would get up, wander into my study, and write poetry for several hours.  I would drop these poems in the mail in the afternoon.  In a few days' time, I would receive a check in the mail for those poems, providing enough money to pay my bills, fill my cupboards and refrigerator, and allow me to put some aside for rainy days, which never arrive.

I would teach full-time at the university, and I would have the respect of my colleagues and students.  I would be the poet every student wants as a professor.  Young people would enroll as English majors just because they want to be in my classes.  I would be able to teach courses like "Introduction to Sacred Poems" and "Spiritual Autobiography" and "The Mythos and Poetry of Star Wars."

And, at the end of the night, my daughter will kiss me goodnight; my son will hug me and say "You're the best daddy in the whole world!"; my wife and I will sit in our living room for an hour or so, discussing the day's events; and then, around eleven, we would go to bed, fall asleep in each other's arms, telling each other how much we love each other.

That is my perfect world, the perfect result of the choices I have made in my life, everything scrubbed clean of pain and hurt and illness and disappointment.  My mansion on a hill, as the old gospel song goes.

No person lives in her/his perfect world.  Yet, it's wonderful to imagine it.  Yes, I'm getting a little John Lennon here.  I have found myself imagining it a lot in recent weeks.  It gets me through long days of struggle.  I'm not sure it's a healthy practice, but I also believe a life without hope isn't really a life I want a part of.

And Saint Marty still hopes to find a room in his mansion on a hill.

A picture a friend sent me yesterday that fills me with hope . . .

July 26: A Moment's Panic, Miss Lonelyhearts, Dorothy Gale

An answer to the Big Question of life, the universe, and everything is about to be revealed . . .

As the crowd erupted once again, Arthur found himself gliding through the air and down toward one of the large stately windows on the first floor of the building behind the dais from which the speaker was addressing the crowd.

He experienced a moment's panic as he sailed straight toward the window, which passed when a second or so later he found he had gone right through the solid glass without apparently touching it.

No one in the room remarked on his peculiar arrival, which is hardly surprising as he wasn't there.  He began to realize that the whole experience was merely a recorded projection which knocked six-track seventy-millimeter into a cocked hat.

The room was much as Slartibartfast had described it.  In seven and a half million years it had been well looked after and cleaned regularly every century or so.  The ultramahogany desk was worn at the edges, the carpet a little faded now, but the large computer terminal sat in sparkling glory on the desk's leather top, as bright as if it had been constructed yesterday.

Two severely dressed men sat respectfully before the terminal and waited.  

"The time is nearly upon us," said one, and Arthur was surprised to see a word suddenly materialize in thin air just by the man's neck.  The word was LOONQUAWL, and it flashed a couple of times and then disappeared again.  Before Arthur was able to assimilate this the other man spoke and the word PHOUCHG appeared by his neck.

"Seventy-five thousand generations ago, our ancestors set this program in motion," the second man said, "and in all that time we will be the first to hear the computer speak."

That's a long time to wait for a computer to run a program.  Seventy-five thousand generations.  That's almost as bad as waiting for your laptop to update and restart.  It's an eternity of anticipation, with little pay off for most of the waiters.  Yet, all of the planet's inhabitants have gathered for the occasion.  The Time of Waiting is over

Miracles happen every day.  Just don't sit around waiting for them, though.  Recognize them, give thanks for them.  Even in the middle of the darkest moments of my life, I have experienced grace and blessing.

I have a friend right now who's really hurting because someone close to her is in the grips of an addiction.  She is distraught, lonely, and heartbroken.  There's a great novella called Miss Lonelyhearts by Nathanael West.  It's one of my favorites.  For the sake of this post, I'm going to call my friend "Miss Lonelyhearts."

Well, Miss Lonelyhearts, I know right now it's hard to find a rainbow in the storm that you're in.  It's really easy to get lost in dark clouds and tornadoes.  Just ask Dorothy Gale.  She tried running away from her problems, and her problems swept in and carried her away.  (She also got a bitchin' pair of ruby slippers along the way.)  Of course, the problem with Dorothy is that her troubles really did melt like lemon drops.  Your problems are not quite as easy to solve.

I know where you are.  Have been where you are.  Am there every day of my life.  You see, Miss Lonelyhearts, addiction isn't some puzzle you solve once.  It's a puzzle that you have to keep working on all the time.  That's what I've learned dealing with my wife's addiction.  Addiction isn't the common cold.  You can't cure it with chicken soup and bed rest.  Addiction is something you work on every day of your life, whether you're the addict or a family member of the addict.

That sounds a little preachy, doesn't it?  Sorry about that.  It's just what I know, Miss Lonelyhearts.  I've tricked myself into believing sometimes that my wife's addiction and mental illness have gone away.  They haven't.  That's magical thinking, believing that your thoughts and ideas can actually influence that material world.  I think my wife is cured of addiction and mental illness.  Therefore, my wife is cured of addiction and mental illness.  Doesn't quite work that way.

My definitive answer so far this evening is this, Miss Lonelyhearts:

1. Treat yourself kindly.  Don't blame or beat yourself up for your addict's behavior.
2. Don't think that you're going to force your addict into becoming sober.  Again, that's magical thinking.  Not gonna happen.
3. Addiction is selfish, stubborn, hurtful, confounding, frustrating, painful, debilitating, and devastating.
4. Recovery is a long, yellow brick road through cornfields, enchanted forests, and poppy fields.  When you get to the Emerald City, they won't let you in.
5. Recovery is lifelong, for yourself and your addict.

Please know, Miss Lonelyhearts that you are not alone.  I remind myself that tonight, as well.  Loneliness is just one of the lands your have to travel through before you get to see the Wizard.

Also, remember to pay no attention to that man behind the curtain, Miss Lonelyhearts.

Saint Marty will meet you at the witch's castle with a bucket of water.

March 9: Blindly Plunged, Calumet, Control Freak

At last the anchor was up, the sails were set, and off we glided. It was a short, cold Christmas; and as the short northern day merged into night, we found ourselves almost broad upon the wintry ocean, whose freezing spray cased us in ice, as in polished armor. The long rows of teeth on the bulwarks glistened in the moonlight; and like the white ivory tusks of some huge elephant, vast curving icicles depended from the bows.

Lank Bildad, as pilot, headed the first watch, and ever and anon, as the old craft deep dived into the green seas, and sent the shivering frost all over her, and the winds howled, and the cordage rang, his steady notes were heard,-

"Sweet fields beyond the swelling flood, Stand dressed in living green. So to the Jews old Canaan stood, While Jordan rolled between."

Never did those sweet words sound more sweetly to me than then. They were full of hope and fruition. Spite of this frigid winter night in the boisterous Atlantic, spite of my wet feet and wetter jacket, there was yet, it then seemed to me, many a pleasant haven in store; and meads and glades so eternally vernal, that the grass shot up by the spring, untrodden, unwilted, remains at midsummer.

At last we gained such an offing, that the two pilots were needed no longer. The stout sail-boat that had accompanied us began ranging alongside.

It was curious and not unpleasing, how Peleg and Bildad were affected at this juncture, especially Captain Bildad. For loath to depart, yet; very loath to leave, for good, a ship bound on so long and perilous a voyage- beyond both stormy Capes; a ship in which some thousands of his hardearned dollars were invested; a ship, in which an old shipmate sailed as captain; a man almost as old as he, once more starting to encounter all the terrors of the pitiless jaw; loath to say good-bye to a thing so every way brimful of every interest to him,- poor old Bildad lingered long; paced the deck with anxious strides; ran down into the cabin to speak another farewell word there; again came on deck, and looked to windward; looked towards the wide and endless waters, only bound by the far-off unseen Eastern Continents; looked towards the land; looked aloft; looked right and left; looked everywhere and nowhere; and at last, mechanically coiling a rope upon its pin, convulsively grasped stout Peleg by the hand, and holding up a lantern, for a moment stood gazing heroically in his face, as much as to say, "Nevertheless, friend Peleg, I can stand it; yes, I can."

As for Peleg himself, he took it more like a philosopher; but for all his philosophy, there was a tear twinkling in his eye, when the lantern came too near. And he, too, did not a little run from the cabin to deck- now a word below, and now a word with Starbuck, the chief mate.

But, at last, he turned to his comrade, with a final sort of look about him,- "Captain Bildad- come, old shipmate, we must go. Back the mainyard there! Boat ahoy! Stand by to come close alongside, now! Careful, careful!- come, Bildad, boy- say your last. Luck to ye, Starbuck- luck to ye, Mr. Stubb- luck to ye, Mr. Flask- good-bye and good luck to ye all- and this day three years I'll have a hot supper smoking for ye in old Nantucket. Hurrah and away!"

"God bless ye, and have ye in His holy keeping, men," murmured old Bildad, almost incoherently. "I hope ye'll have fine weather now, so that Captain Ahab may soon be moving among ye- a pleasant sun is all he needs, and ye'll have plenty of them in the tropic voyage ye go. Be careful in the hunt, ye mates. Don't stave the boats needlessly, ye harpooneers; good white cedar plank is raised full three per cent within the year. Don't forget your prayers, either. Mr. Starbuck, mind that cooper don't waste the spare staves. Oh! the sail-needles are in the green locker. Don't whale it too much a' Lord's days, men; but don't miss a fair chance either, that's rejecting Heaven's good gifts. Have an eye to the molasses tierce, Mr. Stubb; it was a little leaky, I thought. If ye touch at the islands, Mr. Flask, beware of fornication. Good-bye, good-bye! Don't keep that cheese too long down in the hold, Mr. Starbuck; it'll spoil. Be careful with the butter- twenty cents the pound it was, and mind ye, if--"

"Come, come, Captain Bildad; stop palavering,- away!" and with that, Peleg hurried him over the side, and both dropt into the boat.

Ship and boat diverged; the cold, damp night breeze blew between; a screaming gull flew overhead; the two hulls wildly rolled; we gave three heavy-hearted cheers, and blindly plunged like fate into the lone Atlantic.

It's a Christmas of parting.  The Pequod leaves port and is getting under way.  Peleg and Bildad, two of the owners of the ship, have a difficult time letting go of the ship and its crew.  Indeed, it seems as if the two men are ready to cast caution to the wind and join the voyage themselves.  Yet, they leave on the rowboat, and the Pequod plunges out into the dark ocean on that holy night.

I am currently sitting at home alone.  The kids are at school.  My wife is at work.  I'm waiting to be picked up by a friend for a trip to Calumet, where I'm performing this weekend at the Calumet Theatre.  It seems strange to be setting out by myself like this.  I don't usually go anywhere without some member of my family.  I think that I'm suffering a little bit of what Peleg and Bildad suffer from as they leave the Pequod.

It's going to be a long couple days of rehearsals and performance.  It will be fun, but exhausting.  Just getting ready to go these last couple days has been a little stressful.  I'm not quite sure of the accommodations tonight, so I don't really know how to pack.  Should I bring a blanket, towel, wash cloth?  Is there going to be internet access?  Am I going to have to share a room?  All things I don't know.

Don't get me wrong.  I will be able to adapt to whatever hand I'm dealt, but I'm the kind of person that pretty much likes to know all the details of my days and nights, right down to menus and the names of the front desk people at the hotel.  Tonight and tomorrow, however, are a big question mark to me.  So, in that way, I'm sort of like Ishmael, not knowing what in the hell he's signed up for.

I guess I'm everybody in this passage from Moby-Dick this morning:  Ishmael, Peleg, and Bildad.  There's excitement and anxiety and sadness all mixed together.  If I were a person prone to panic attacks, I would be on the floor, hyperventilating right now.

My family will be driving up tomorrow for the performance.  I'll be staying at a hotel with them afterward.  Until then, however, things are a little bit out of my control.  And I'm kind of a control freak.  Life experiences with my wife's mental illness and addiction has pushed me in that direction.

But, for today, Saint Marty is thankful for new adventures, even if they come with a healthy dose of cold sweats and pounding pulses.