Ives is older, retired. He has spent his life helping people, listening to people, trying to forgive people--even with his wounded heart. He has reached a point in his life where his cup feels a little empty, I think. He has become a little numb from years of grief and despair.
This morning, I went to McDonald's with my wife, sister, and son. We do it almost every Saturday morning. I call it McDonald's therapy. For a couple of hours, we are disconnected from our day-to-day lives. We relax. Read. Do crossword puzzles. I draw cartoons. It's one of my favorite times of the week. Of course, we have to return to reality in the afternoon. For a while, however, there's nothing to rush to, no task that needs to be done immediately.
When I'm not at work or the university, I like keeping to myself. I socialize very little on the weekends. Yes, I go to church, play the pipe organ and keyboard. But I need to recharge my depleted battery on Saturday and Sunday. I'm a little selfish with this time. Like Ives in the above paragraph, I like to sit in the corner and not be bothered.
Of course, if there is a birthday party or graduation or other family event, I gladly attend if I can. I'm not a misanthrope. I'm a introvert. I don't hate people, but I need a break from them every once in a while. That's who I am. Those breaks help me write poems, read good books, watch good movies. And those solitary things allow me to do the more social things in my life.
I have learned that, at the end of really busy weekends, I dread the upcoming week. The people, Job. Teaching. I'm a little off-center, and I don't regain balance until I carve out a little quiet time for myself somehow. A few hours just sitting in my office at the university, staring at the walls.
Billy Collins wrote a poem for the victims and survivors of 9-11. It's a poem that tries to find a center in an un-centered world. Read it by yourself. Reflect on its beauty. Find your balance.
That's what Saint Marty did this morning.
The Names
by: Billy Collins
Yesterday, I lay awake in the palm of the night.
A soft rain stole in, unhelped by any breeze,
And when I saw the silver glaze on the windows,
I started with A, with Ackerman, as it happened,
Then Baxter and Calabro,
Davis and Eberling, names falling into place
As droplets fell through the dark.
Names printed on the ceiling of the night.
Names slipping around a watery bend.
Twenty-six willows on the banks of a stream.
In the morning, I walked out barefoot
Among thousands of flowers
Heavy with dew like the eyes of tears,
And each had a name --
Fiori inscribed on a yellow petal
Then Gonzalez and Han, Ishikawa and Jenkins.
Names written in the air
And stitched into the cloth of the day.
A name under a photograph taped to a mailbox.
Monogram on a torn shirt,
I see you spelled out on storefront windows
And on the bright unfurled awnings of this city.
I say the syllables as I turn a corner --
Kelly and Lee,
Medina, Nardella, and O'Connor.
When I peer into the woods,
I see a thick tangle where letters are hidden
As in a puzzle concocted for children.
Parker and Quigley in the twigs of an ash,
Rizzo, Schubert, Torres, and Upton,
Secrets in the boughs of an ancient maple.
Names written in the pale sky.
Names rising in the updraft amid buildings.
Names silent in stone
Or cried out behind a door.
Names blown over the earth and out to sea.
In the evening -- weakening light, the last swallows.
A boy on a lake lifts his oars.
A woman by a window puts a match to a candle,
And the names are outlined on the rose clouds --
Vanacore and Wallace,
(let X stand, if it can, for the ones unfound)
Then Young and Ziminsky, the final jolt of Z.
Names etched on the head of a pin.
One name spanning a bridge, another undergoing a tunnel.
A blue name needled into the skin.
Names of citizens, workers, mothers and fathers,
The bright-eyed daughter, the quick son.
Alphabet of names in a green field.
Names in the small tracks of birds.
Names lifted from a hat
Or balanced on the tip of the tongue.
Names wheeled into the dim warehouse of memory.
So many names, there is barely room on the walls of the heart.
Confessions of Saint Marty
