October 30: "Music Lessons," Flesh and Bone of Home, Wife's 50th Birthday

Mary Oliver takes . . .

Music Lessons

by:  Mary Oliver

Sometimes, in the middle of the lesson,

we exchanged places.  She would gaze a moment at her

     hands

spread over the keys; then the small house with its knick-

     knacks,

its shut windows,

its photographs of her sons and the serious husband,

vanished as new shapes formed.  Sound

became music, and music a white

scarp for the listener to climb

alone.  I leaped rock over rock to the top

and found myself waiting, transformed,

and still she played, her eyes luminous and willful,

her pinned hair falling down--

forgetting me, the house, the neat green yard,

she fled in that lick of flame all tedious bonds:

supper, the duties of flesh and home,

the knife at the throat, the death in the metronome.

I took music lessons for almost 12 or 15 years when I was young, and I remember those times when my piano teacher would take control of the bench and play something.  It was always a thrill for me, watching her flee, in that lick of musical flame, all the tedious bonds of the world and life.  Children.  Husband.  The flesh and bone of home.  

Cue the opening piano chords to "The Rose."

Speaking of the flesh and bone of home, today was my wife's 50th birthday.  Of those 50 years, we have been together for 34 of them, married for 28 of them.  That's a long time.  It hasn't always been easy.  Some of those years have been filled with growing pains--loss, grief, estrangement.  Some of those years have been marked by celebration--weddings, births, graduations.  As I've said in previous posts, you can't have light without darkness, joy without sadness  

My wife inspires me daily to be a better person--a better partner, husband, father, teacher, poet, friend.  She's done that for me since the day we first met.  After being together for almost 35 years, you would think that I'd be damn near perfect by now.  I'm not, of course.  But that's the other part of love--accepting a person's flaws and failures, as well.

I went out to Red Lobster for dinner with my wife and son tonight.  Her choice.  We had a great meal (accompanied by a few great drinks) and capped it off with some kind of molten lava brownie ice cream dessert.  My son, as a birthday present for my wife, didn't complain about being tired or bored the entire time we were eating.  That's pretty good for a 15-year-old boy.

It takes a lot of practice to become proficient at the piano, as Mary Oliver hints.  Anything you want to do well requires hard work, and marriage is hard work.  After almost 30 years, I still need practice, because I fuck up frequently.  

My wife knows that, and she still loves me.  

Saint Marty wishes his beautiful bride a joyous fiftieth birthday.  Hopefully, she'll share a few leftover Cheddar Bay Biscuits with him tomorrow.

September 7: Feeling Prepared, Classic Saint Marty, New Cartoon

For me, Sundays are always about getting prepared.  For teaching.  For work.  For the week.  I just finished my lesson plan for tomorrow.  I entered some grades and recorded last week's attendance.  Then I came up with an agenda for a meeting I'm having tomorrow afternoon.  After I'm done typing this post, I'm going to have dinner, and then I'm going to eventually go practice on the pipe organ at church for my niece's wedding.  When I get home, I'll pick out my work clothes for tomorrow and make my lunch and dinner.  Then I'll be prepared, at about 9 p.m.  Just in time to relax for an hour or so before I go to bed.

But, before my head hits the pillow, I will feel prepared for the upcoming week.  That gives me a sense of security.  It may be a false sense of security, but I don't care.

Today's Classic Saint Marty originally aired around four years ago.  I don't think it ever got the attention it deserved.  So, I'm repeating it.

Saint Marty can do that, because his name is on the blog.

September 15, 2010:  Our Lady of Sorrows

Having a person you love be diagnosed with a mental illness sucks.  Having that same person suffer from addiction (alcohol, drugs, sex, pornography, whatever) doubly sucks.  I can vouch for that.  It all becomes a vicious cycle:  my loved one is out of control; my loved one is sucking down bottles of tequila (substitute your addiction of choice); my loved one is in the hospital; my loved one is getting help; my loved one is starting to do better; my loved one is great; my loved one is having problems; my loved one is out of control ... You get the idea.

One of the hardest parts is not knowing which came first--the illness or the addiction.  Is the addiction a symptom of the illness?  Or is it a matter of the two coexisting like Palestine and Israel, constantly at war, both claiming ownership of the same piece of real estate.  I don't know if my wife's struggle with sexual addiction is a result of mania or if it's an independent entity, a scoop of chocolate on top of the scoop of vanilla that is my wife's bipolar.

The thing that I find most exhausting about my wife's illness/addiction is pretending.  In the morning, when I leave the house for work, I have to put on a mask:  the happy worker.  I deal with patients and coworkers, listen to complaints and concerns, and struggle to silence the voice in my head that's screaming, "You think YOU got it bad?1?  Let me tell you something!!"  Then I have to go teach my writing classes at the university, and I put on another mask:  the concerned teacher.  I listen to mostly teenagers moan about the B's they've received on their papers, since they've always gotten A's in all of their English classes before this.  I fight the urge to let my eyes roll toward my forehead as I listen to their worries, and I entertain the idea of simply saying, "I'm sorry.  You must be mistaking me for someone who gives a shit."  Then I go back to my happy worker mask for a little while longer.  And then, at 5 p.m., I go home and put on another mask:  the daddy.  This mask is more comfortable to wear as I feed, bathe, dress, pack lunches, and march my son and daughter off to bed.  Only after my children are snoring in their respective sleep spaces do I take off my last mask and let myself just be me.  Frazzled.  Sad.  Worried.  Angry.  Hungry.  Bone tired.  Me.

It's tiring being so many people during the day.  It's especially tiring when all you really want to do when the alarm clock goes off is roll over and hang a huge "Do Not Disturb" sign across your ass.  I understand why Greta Garbo said, "I vant to be alone."  If I'm alone, I don't have to act like a phony, to quote Holden Caufield.  I can be my authentic, true self.

And that authentic, true self sometimes feels a little lost.

Today is the feast of Our Lady of Sorrows.  It's a day that commemorates the seven events of great sorrow and loss in the life of the Virgin Mary:
1)  Prophecy of Simeon
2)  Flight into Egypt
3)  Three Days' Loss of Jesus

4)  Meeting Jesus on the Way to Calvary

5)  Mary at the Foot of the Cross

6)  Jesus Taken Down from the Cross

7)  Burial of Jesus

 Mary had a lot to grieve over.  However, in that list of seven items, right between numbers 3 and 4, sits about 30 years in which she had Jesus to herself.  They sat down like any Jewish family in Nazareth and had lamb omelets for breakfast.  Jesus built chairs and entertainment centers (or whatever carpenters made) in His dad's workshop.  And He was devoted to Mary, probably told her He loved her every day.  Probably several times a day.  And they were happy.

That's what I cling to in my life:  those small, happy moments at breakfast or supper when I love and feel loved.  I'm sure Mary did that.  It's what brings you through the sorrow.  It's what helps you see through mental illness and addiction to something true.  Something full of hope.  Something normal, like apple cider or a hot bowl of oatmeal.

Confessions of Saint Marty