June 20: "Honey Locust," Being Thankful, Not-Shitty Things

Mary Oliver bee-ing grateful . . . 

Honey Locust

by:  Mary Oliver

Who can tell how lovely in June is the

     honey locust tree, or why

a tree should be so sweet and live

     in this world?  Each white blossom

on a dangle of white flowers holds one green seed--

     a new life.  Also each blossom on a dangle of flowers

          holds a flask

of fragrance called Heaven, which is never sealed.

     The bees circle the tree and dive into it.  They are crazy

with gratitude.  They are working like farmers.  They are as 

     happy as saints.  After a while the flowers begin to

wilt and drop down into the grass.  Welcome

     shines in the grass.

                                        Every year I gather

handfuls of blossoms and eat of their mealiness; the honey

     melts in my mouth, the seeds make me strong,

both when they are crisp and ripe, and even at the end

     when their petals have turned dull yellow.

                                                                So it is

if the heart has devoted itself to love, there is

     not a single inch of emptiness.  Gladness gleams

all the way to the grave.

My favorite line in this poem is "They are crazy / with gratitude . . ."  The bees are so wild with gratitude for the sweetness of the honey locust that they are diving into it, having a bee religious experience with it.  Gratitude is their jam, filling them with happy holiness.

Since this poem is all about being thankful, from white blossom to gladness gleaming "all the way to the grave," I thought I'd provide a list of things that I am grateful for in my life.  Because it is so easy simply to focus on all the shitty things that happen in a day instead of all the not-shitty things.

Honey locust in my life today:

1. The fruit smoothie my wife made me this morning for breakfast.  Full of berries and yogurt.  It was enough to make me feel like Lazarus rising from the tomb.  The sweetness of my wife's love.
2. My friend, Jody, who, despite being down-and-out because of shoulder surgery, can still send texts with one hand that crack my shit up.  The sweetness of friendship.
3. My son who gets my weird humor and poet obsessions.  I know he would follow me into the woods to go Bigfoot hunting if I asked him.  The sweetness of a fellow freak.
4. My daughter.  She has seen me at my best and worst.  And she still crocheted me a Father's Day present.  The sweetness of a giving heart.
5. All my poet friends.  Because they see light in darkness, and they understand that sometimes dusk is just as beautiful as dawn.  The sweetness of poets.
6. Girl with a Pearl Earring.  Because a movie doesn't have to have screaming car chases and serial killers.  A movie can be about art and love and desperation and inspiration.  And it is thrilling.  The sweetness of film.
7. The roof of the library where I work.  I spent a few minutes this morning, taking in the view, staring at the endless blue of Lake Superior, being happy to be above the hustle and bustle for a little while.  The sweetness of perspective. 
8. Mary Oliver, for being Mary Oliver and reminding me each day what a gift life is, even in sadness  The sweetness of words.
9. Mosquitoes.  That's right, I said mosquitoes.  For showing up every spring with their buzz and blood lust.  Even the tiniest of lives is worth celebrating.  The sweetness of itching.
10. Libraries.  You know, until I started working for a library, I never realized how important they are.  Necessary, even.  Libraries are for kids learning to love books.  Teens learning to live life.  Adults learning to be open-minded and accepting.  The sweetness of intellectual freedom.
11. My family.  My siblings and parents.  I was a strange child, chronically distracted, wildly obsessive.  I saw the original Star Wars (prior to ":  A New Hope) 27 times in the theater, before I could drive or had money to spend.  The sweetness of unconditional indulgence.
12. Juno.  My mini Australian shepherd.  She's sweet and tough and loving.  After she was severely attached by a 90-pound dog, Juno taught me about recovery and survival.  The sweetness and strength of puppy kisses.
13. A journal.  As I scribble these final words on the final page of this journal, I wonder at the writing process.  Ideas.  Abandoned ideas.  Poems.  Abandoned poems.  Sketches.  Abandoned sketches.  The sweetness of creativity.

I could go on, but you get the idea.

Saint Marty is a very lucky bee.

March 30: Gratitude Twenty-Six, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

I am grateful for my family today.

I live very close to my parents and sisters.  One of my older brothers lives only an hour away.  Another of my older brothers lives in town.  I see my siblings, mom, and dad frequently.  Every Sunday evening, we have dinner at my parents' house.  It's a loud affair, usually with the TV blaring in the background.  Sometimes there's arguing or glaring, like a bad SNL skit.  Other times, there's jokes and laughter and good-natured teasing.

I love my family.  Even when they drive me crazy, I know, when the chips are down, that I can always depend upon them.  That's a huge blessing.  When my wife suffered a pulmonary embolism the month after my son was born, I didn't worry about my kids.  I knew my sisters would watch them while I worked, taught, and arranged hospital things.

We may not agree all the time, but we love each other.  All the time.

And I am grateful for that.

I have a Classic Saint Marty for you guys this afternoon.  This particular episode originally aired exactly two years ago.  It's about my go-to saint.

March 30, 2012:  Go-to Guy, Saint Anthony, Lost and Found
 
I went shopping at Wal-Mart this afternoon.  Then I drove home, unpacked the groceries, and put my son down for his nap.  After he was asleep, I cleaned the house.  Finally, I sat down to rest a little bit, until I realized my hip pack, containing my wallet and checkbook, was missing.  It wasn't in my car.  It wasn't in the house.

I distinctly remembered putting my groceries in the back of my car at Wal-Mart.  I also distinctly remembered walking my shopping cart to a cart keeper a few parking spaces away, looking down, seeing my hip pack in the cart, and thinking, I better not forget to grab that.  After that, things got a little fuzzy.  Therefore, I made the assumption that I left my hip pack in the cart.

Well, when I lose something, I tend to drive myself a little crazy.  I tore the house apart.  I tore my car apart.  No hip pack.  So, after I picked up my daughter from school, I drove back to Wal-Mart.

I think I've written about Saint Anthony before.  He is the patron saint of lost things.  Basically, if you lose something, you pray to Saint Anthony, and he's supposed to help you find your lost property.  It's a Catholic thing.  Tony is my go-to guy.  He has never let me down.  All the way to Wal-Mart, I was saying prayers to him.  The prayers went sort of like this:  Helpmehelpmehelpmehelpmehelpme, pleeeeeeease, Saint Anthony.

Well, I  went to the customer service desk when I got to Wal-Mart.  That's where the lost and found department is.  I know this fact because that's where I picked up my hip pack the last time I lost it.  (Yes, I have done this on a couple of occasions.)  My hip pack was sitting on the back counter, in plain view.  I breathed a huge sigh.

Tony is da man, I'm telling you.  He has always answered my prayers.   He's the kind of saint I want to be when I grow up.  Dependable.  All the time.

Saint Marty, on the other hand, would lose his halo if it weren't attached.

Have you seen my halo anywhere?

Confessions of Saint Marty