June 23: "The Poet with His Face in His Hands," Regrets, Delusional

Mary Oliver doesn't want to hear lamentation . . .

The Poet with His Face in His Hands

by:  Mary Oliver

You want to cry aloud for your

mistakes.  But to tell the truth the world

doesn't need any more of that sound.

So if you're going to do it and can't

stop yourself, if your pretty mouth can't

hold it in, at least go by yourself across

the forty fields and the forty dark inclines

of tocks and water to the place where

the falls are flinging out their white sheets

like crazy, and there is a cave behind all that

jubilation and water fun and you can

stand there, under it, and roar all you

want and nothing will be disturbed; you can

drip with despair all afternoon and still,

on a green branch, its wings just lightly touched

by the passing foil of water, the thrush,

puffing out its spotted breast, will sing

of the perfect, stone-hard beauty of everything.

This is an unusual Mary Oliver poem, I think.  Usually, she takes all human experience and finds something beautiful in it.  Even grief and despair.  It seems as though Oliver has no patience for regret, however.  Regret adds no voice to the music of the universe.  Joy is the jubilation of waterfalls.  Sadness is the thrush singing of the stone-hard beauty of everything.  Regret?  That's a noise that needs to be drowned out, a dissonant grace note in the overall composition of creation.

Everyone has regrets over missed opportunities.  Things not said.  Passions not followed.  Unrequited loves.  Requited loves.  Soured relationships.  Me?  I'm the patron saint of regrets.  For instance, I am one class away from having an undergraduate degree in computer science.  Right now, I could be designing computer games in Silicon Valley and making a six-figure salary.  Maybe hobnobbing with Bill Gates or running Apple after the death of Steve Jobs.

If you think I'm delusional, you're right.  I am.  But that's what regrets are:  delusions.  They are those "if only" moments that lead to fantasies about money and fame and happiness.  If only I'd gotten that computer science degree, I could afford to send my kids to the best schools.  Get a second car for my wife to drive.  Purchase a nice, four-bedroom, three-bathroom house with a heated driveway and wrap-around porch.  Of course, all my faithful disciples will recognize this "if only" as complete bullshit.

I have a good life.  A beautiful wife, two smart, funny kids, a house, a car, and jobs that help my pay my bills and usually bring me joy.  Plus, I have published a collection of poems, and people seem to dig what I write.

Is my life ideal?  No.  But whose life is?  I have family and friends who love me and whom I love.  Roof over my head.  Ice cream in the fridge.  And a blue-eyed puppy who melts my heart by just reaching out and putting a paw on my arm.

So, I'm with Mary Oliver on this one.  (I usually agree with her, if you haven't noticed.)  Regrets are useless.  They belong in the recesses of a cave behind sheets of joyful dancing water.  Because life is too short to spend any time lamenting over what could have been.

Saint Marty prefers to spend his time celebrating what is.

September 27: Second Birthday Party, Contentment, Classic Saint Marty, Confessions of Saint Marty

The last day of Pope Francis' visit to the United States.  Also the day of my son's second birthday party, with my wife's family.

I find myself very reflective this afternoon.  My son is in second grade, my daughter in high school.  The days of being the parent of a young child are behind me.  I am at an age where people start seriously thinking about their retirement plans and 401Ks.  I have not been able to set aside money for a trip to Green Bay, let alone my kids' college educations.  That makes me feel a little bit like a failure.

Of course, I know that I've been successful in a lot of other ways.  I'm a published poet.  I'm a college professor (part-time, so I guess that means I'm really happy with my work life part-time).  I have a great family.  I married into a great family.  My kids are loved greatly.  I have a home with a new roof, two cars, and leftover pizza in the refrigerator.  Success, success, success. 

Yet, I'm not feeling very successful today.  I'm feeling a little disappointed, and I don't know why.  I want to feel happier, more content.  I think I'm basing my contentment on pretty superficial things.  Like, if only I had a full-time teaching job at the university, I'd be perfectly content.  Or, if only I could publish that new collection of poems I've finished, I'd be perfectly content.  How about, if only I had a ten-thousand dollar nest egg in the bank, I'd be perfectly content.

Contentment is really not a matter of money or professional success.  It's a matter of looking around and realizing that you have a pretty good life, just as it is.  It's an attitude more than anything else.  So, I'm going to try to practice that attitude for the rest of the day.  I'm going to be content if it kills me.

Today's episode of Classic Saint Marty first aired a year ago, on my son's sixth birthday.

September 26, 2014:  My Son Again, Terry Godbey, "Eight Years Old"

I promise this will be the last post about my son.  You're all probably getting tired of my sentimental musings.  When birthdays and weddings and anniversaries come around, it gets me all maudlin and reflective.  Can't help it.

I'm also pretty darn tired.  It's been a very long week.  And, when I'm this tired, I'm prone to watching movies like It's a Wonderful Life or Stand By Me and crying like a schoolgirl.  I'll snap out of it in a day or so.  But, for tonight, I'm going to wallow a little bit.

Terry Godbey knows what I'm talking about.  The poems she writes about her son are full of the surprise and ache of parenting.  One day, your child is small, weak, and beautiful.  Before you know it, your child is tall, independent, and beautiful.  It happens so fast.

Saint Marty just wants things to slow down a little.

Eight Years Old

by:  Terry Godbey

Even in winter, my son refuses to wear
a pajama top.  When he comes near,
I lean close and brush his skin
or stroke it outright
like bolts of wedding satin,
and something catches in my throat
like undissolved chocolate
in a cup of cocoa.  He is lush,
toes pink and curled
as the pearly hearts of seashells,
voice lifting and plunging,
a heron diving for fish,
his pogo-stick stride,
arms like clock hands gone wild,
the balloons of his cheeks when he grins,
and on his restless legs, faint hairs
pointing in all directions
as if ruffled by wind,
a great storm on the way.

Confessions of Saint Marty