July 12: "I Ask You," Calumet, Veterans

Billy Collins finds some peace . . .

I Ask You

by: Billy Collins

What scene would I rather be enveloped in

than this one,

an ordinary night at the kitchen table,

at ease in a box of floral wallpaper,

white cabinets full of glass,

the telephone silent,

a pen tilted back in my hand?

It gives me time to think

about the leaves gathering in corners,

lichen greening the high gray rocks,

and the world sailing on beyond the dunes--

huge, oceangoing, history bubbling it its wake.

Outside of this room

there is nothing that I need,

not a job that would allow me to row to work,

or a coffee-colored Aston Martin DB4

with cracked green leather seats.

No, it is all right here,

the clear ovals of a glass of water,

a small crate of oranges, a book on Stalin,

an odd snarling fish in a frame on the wall,

and these three candles,

each a different height, singing in perfect harmony.

So forgive me

if I lower my head and listen

to the short bass candle as he takes a solo

while my heart

thrums under my shirt--

frog at the edge of a pond--

and my thoughts fly off to a province

composed of one enormous sky

and about a million empty branches.

This poem is about nothing much.  A crate of oranges.  A pen.  Burning candles.  Yet, it's also a poem of profound depth.  One enormous sky filled with a million empty branches.  

I think we've all probably experienced moments like the one Collins is describing.  Static and tranquil, they fill you with a sense of how small you are in a vast and beautiful universe.  The smallness isn't a bad thing.  It simply puts everything into perspective.

Greetings from Calumet, Michigan.  I rolled into town around 7 p.m., checked into my hotel, and immediately went to a rehearsal for the show in which I'm performing tomorrow night--The Red Jacket Jamboree.  When I got back to the hotel, my wife and I took a walk around the downtown area.  

I've been a part of the regular cast of this show for over seven years now.  What started out as a fun diversion in December 2017--an invitation to read some poems on a radio variety show--has become an important part of my life.  The Red Jacket performers and musicians have become family to me.

One of the things Calumet does every summer is hang banners on the light posts of the main thoroughfares.  The banners display pictures of and details about the city's military veterans, from World War I to Afghanistan.  I find the displays incredibly moving.  These individuals from a tiny hamlet in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan changed the world.  Some came home.  Some did not.

On our walk this evening, my wife and I stopped under each banner, read them, studied the young faces (most of them look like babies).  I'm sure none of these people considered themselves special or heroic.  They were simply Johnny and Jane from the Keweenaw Peninsula.  Yet, they put themselves in harm's way to fight for a cause in which they believed.  

Something small (a frog at the edge of a pond) becoming something large (an enormous sky filled with a million branches).

Saint Marty is so thankful for the sacrifices of all of the veterans from all the Calumets across the planet.  

November 8: Perspective, Mary Oliver, "Messenger"

If you haven't noticed, I'm a little neurotic today.  It could be the snowy weather blowing in from Canada.  It could be my class observation this evening.  It could be my exhaustion.  It could be Donald Trump being in China.

Whatever the reason, Saint Marty needs a little Mary Oliver to put his life and stress into perspective.

Messenger

by:  Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird--
     equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old?  Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?  Let me
     keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
     astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
     and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
     to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
     that we live forever.

September 25: Tiny Little Tumor, Perspective, Worries

"It isn't very serious.  I have this tiny little tumor on the brain."

This is just one of Holden's little lies.  He's flirting with a woman on the train to Manhattan who happens to be the mother of one of his classmates, and Holden tells her about the "little tumor" in his head.  It's not the only lie he tells in Catcher, but it's the only lie which is about a terminal disease.

I read the passage above, and I thought about all the worries I've had about my son these last few weeks.  We received another phone call from his teacher this afternoon.  It seems my son was hitting and pushing his classmates on the playground, in the classroom, and at the water fountain.  His teacher had the school counselor talk to him.

I need to put things into perspective.  My son does not have a tiny little tumor in his head.  He has an attitude.  A big attitude.  It's not going to kill him, unless he pushes some kid with his baseball bat.  He's going to be fine.  I know that.

God doesn't ever give you anything He doesn't think you can handle.  I've always hated that saying.  It's the kind of thing you hear in Steel Magnolias.   At the moment, it feels like my son is going to drive me to an early grave.  If I get one more phone call from his teacher, I think a vein in my head is going to explode.

For some reason, God has given me a son who likes to hit people.  I guess He thinks I can handle that.  I don't know how I'm supposed to handle it.  Maybe with a Xanax, a glass of red wine, and some chocolate.  My son will survive kindergarten.  He may have to survive kindergarten twice, but he'll survive it.

Saint Marty thinks it's going to be a really long school year.

Let's hope we only have to do this two or three times

December 3: Christmas Tree

I'm sitting in my living room after a really long day.  Yes, I'm still a little preoccupied with the events of the last few days, but, for the first time in a while, I'm finding a little peace of mind.  My daughter just got back from religion class a little while ago, and the living room smells like crescent hot dogs, which we had for dinner tonight.  On the TV is an episode of Extreme Home Makeover, my daughter's favorite show.

Things feel normal right now.  I'm almost able to forget the troubles of lost jobs and lost income.  The Christmas tree is on, and I don't have to be back at the office for another nine hours.  I'm tired, ready to climb under the covers and go to sleep.  The last week or so, we haven't been using a nightlight.  We've been leaving on the Christmas tree instead.  So when the alarm goes off at 4 a.m., I wake up to this:

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree...

For some reason, the Christmas tree puts things into perspective for me.  Yes, I've been stressed all day.  I put together medical charts.  Wrote letters to patients.  Made up the final exam for my Intro to Film class.  Created my lesson plan.  However, all those things seem distant and unimportant at the moment.

All that matters are the lights in the branches.  The tinsel swaying silver and orange and red and green.  The ornaments--Santas and candy canes and angels and crosses.  All these things tell the story of my life, my wife's life..  The story of our family.  And our home,

Saint Marty is a lucky guy.

August 10: Aught to Teach Me, One Hundred Thousand, Perspective

"Spirit," said Scrooge submissively, "conduct me where you will.  I went forth last night on compulsion, and I learnt a lesson which is working now.  To-night, if you have aught to teach me, let me profit by it."

Scrooge is speaking to the Ghost of Christmas Present.  The Ghost of Christmas Past has already taught him a few things, and now Scrooge says he will accompany the Second Spirit, ready to accept any lesson coming his way.  Scrooge is already a mighty humbled literary character.

I learned a lesson last night while I was looking for my lost keys.  I learned that some of the things that preoccupy my thoughts on a daily basis are pretty silly.  When I found my keys last night, I experienced a kind of happiness and relief I haven't felt in a long time.  I know it seems stupid to get that upset about a set of keys, but I did.  And it put things into perspective for me in a way.

Most of the stuff I worry about day-to-day is pretty small.  I've been obsessing about the poetry contest I entered.  Money is in my thoughts constantly.  In the past week, I've been thinking about my daughter's dance lessons this fall.  I still have to put together a syllabus for my film class, and I haven't even finished reading my textbook.

Life is full of worries.  Worry has been the guiding force of my life recently.  Small worries and big worries.  But worry doesn't do any good.  It doesn't solve problems.  It doesn't stave off fear.  It doesn't make me feel any safer or more prepared for challenges.  Worry is just a waste of energy.

I let small things, like keys, run my life.  If I have my keys, then everything will be great, all the time.  The sun will shine.  I will have plenty of money in my bank account.  I will win that poetry contest.  President Obama will be elected to a second term.  The Swedish Academy will award me the Nobel Prize in Literature.  World peace will be established. 

Of course, all that's just a load of horse crap.

Keys will not solve the problems of the world.  Neither will worry.  Worry just opens up doors to more worries.  Worry makes life miserable.  I just need to do my work, take care of my family, and recognize the blessings of my life.  That's my job.

In that spirit, I will acknowledge a blessing this morning:  Saint Marty just passed 100,000 page views.  That's an amazing blessing.  One hundred thousand people have looked at or stumbled upon my blog.  I hope that I have done some good with my posts.  Provided some laughs or comfort or wisdom.  Maybe alleviated some worries.

Saint Marty celebrates one hundred thousand blessings today.

July 19: Perspective, Being a Loser, Harry Potter

Well, after several hours of mulling over the fact that I didn't win that poetry contest, I have taken stock of my life, reevaluated my goals, focused on the really important things in my life, and come to a conclusion.  Losing sucks.

I know that rejection goes hand-in-hand with being a writer.  I know some of the greatest writers never really gained recognition during their lifetimes.  If I don't want to experience rejection, I should probably make chocolate chip cookies for a living.  Poetry, and judging poetry, is so subjective.  The poet who judged the contest which I just lost abysmally did not like my work.  That does not make my poetry bad.  That just means his aesthetic and my aesthetic do not coincide.  (That's a very nice way of saying his taste in poetry is for shit.  Not that I'm bitter.)

I did find out the name of the person who won the contest.  I googled him and read some of his work.  He writes the kind of poems I dislike reading, full of imagery that doesn't come together into something organic and whole.  (That's also a very nice way of saying his poems are for shit.  Not that I'm bitter.)

Gaining some perspective?  Not.

I guess I don't have as much perspective as I thought I did.  Give me a few days, maybe a few shots of tequila.  I'm going to see the new Harry Potter movie tonight.  That will divert my attention from my disappointment and despair for a few hours, anyhow.  Well, that and the garbage can of buttered popcorn I plan to consume.

I think Voldemort judged the poetry contest

Right after I found out about my loss, a friend called to tell me her daughter is in the hospital, dealing with addiction and mental health problems.  I felt like a schmuck for sitting in front of my computer, feeling sorry for myself.  In the grand scheme of things, one little chapbook contest doesn't really amount to a whole lot.  My wife is well.  My kids are healthy.  I have jobs that pay the bills.  Yadda, yadda, yadda.  I get it.

But that thousand dollars in prize money would have really come in handy this summer.

Saint Marty is going to wallow a little while longer.

My schedule tonight