August 7: My Will and My Intelligence. T-I-R-E-D, Grading

Santiago gets ready for the fight . . .

I wonder why he jumped, the old man thought. He jumped almost as though to show me how big he was. I know now, anyway, he thought. I wish I could show him what sort of man I am. But then he would see the cramped hand. Let him think I am more man than I am and I will be so. I wish I was the fish, he thought, with everything he has against only my will and my intelligence.

Will and intelligence.  Some days, that's the only thing that makes me get out of bed.

Coming back from a vacation is never easy.  In my experience, I usually need a day to recover from it.  Perhaps this is a sign of age.  Or maybe it's an indication that, like most people, I turn my time off from work into a kind of job.  There's road trips to drive, tickets to buy, and meals to plan.

I'm not saying I didn't have a good time with my family at Great America.  But I am t-i-r-e-d.  And today I had to finish the grading for my online summer course.  I had about 15 or 16 final essay exams to grade.  I started early this afternoon and worked for five hours straight.  I did it only by will and intelligence., because everything in my body just wanted to take a nap.

As I sit on my couch typing this post, however, I feel a sense of accomplishment.  The end-of-semester grading today was not as torturous as it usually is for me.  I made a concerted effort these past six weeks to be diligent in my grading.  I responded to student work every day.  A lot of the time, the turnaround for grading an assignment was less than two hours.

Looking back, I have to say this class is the most successful online course I've taught, and I've taught quite a few.  It's really easy, if you don't look your students in the face every day, to procrastinate on grading and posting assignments and lectures.  This is especially true if you are a contingent professor who works another full-time job to pay bills and maintain medical insurance.  The last thing I want to think about after working a nine- or ten- or eleven-hour day is sifting through a pile of papers or exams or discussion forums.

It's only by will and intelligence that I kept my head above water this summer.  And it was only by will and intelligence that I got shit done today.  Now, I have more time to breathe before the fall semester starts.  

Maybe I'll have a few more days off to breathe even more deeply.  Or write poems.  Read a good book.  See a movie.  Think about a friend who's seriously struggling to hold on to life every day.  Remind myself what's important.

Saint Marty's blessing for today:  time to breathe deeply and send love into the universe.

May 4: Burdens, Nick Flynn, "Twenty-Pound Stone"

Everyone carries burdens, things that weigh them down.  Worry or guilt or need.  The last few nights, I've had trouble sleeping because of the changes that are about to occur in my life.  The semester is over, and my university paychecks are going to stop coming soon.  In a month, I will be starting my new job; that means a new work schedule with new responsibilities and new stress.  At the end of June, I will be teaching my first online course.  My daughter is taking driver's training this summer.

Those are a few of my burdens right now.  I could also talk about the fact that my daughter never puts her socks in the clothes hamper.  She also leaves her bed unmade all the time.  My son's medication is still not working properly; he threatens his sister's life with a toy sledgehammer on a daily basis.

Burdens come in all shapes and sizes.  Teenage daughters.  Grains of sand.  Dirty socks.  Pebbles.  Twenty-pound stones.

Saint Marty is going to have a glass of wine tonight.  Alcohol is not a coping mechanism.  It just makes burdens look like unicorns with pink horns.

Twenty-Pound Stone

by:  Nick Flynn

It nests in the hollow of my pelvis, I carry it with both hands, as if
offering my stomach, as if it were pulling me forward.

At night the sun leaks from it, it turns cold, I sleep with it
beside my head, I breathe for it.

Sometimes I dream of hammers.

I am hammering it back into sand, the sand we melt into glass,
the glass we blow into bottles.

This stone is fifteen green bottles with nothing inside.

It never bleeds, it never heals, it is a soup can left on the back shelf,
the label worn off.

It is the corner of a house, the beginning of a wall.

At night it changes shape, it lies on one side, casting jagged shadows.

It brightens where my tongue touches it.

Richard's eyes were this color, a pale fruit, honeydew.

When I swing it over my head I swear it could lift me.

If I jump from a bridge it would drag me down, the current couldn't
carry us, it has no lungs, no pockets of air.

If I could walk it to the center of a frozen pond & leave it,
in the spring it would be gone.

This is your burden on wine . . .