December 9: Arthur Slept, Heck of a Day, Ghost of Christmas Present

Arthur slept:  he was terribly tired.

Arthur Dent is exhausted after having been saved from the destruction of the Planet Earth, thrown into outer space by a Vogon, and rescued by the two-headed President of the Galaxy.  That would make anyone tired.

This is going to be a quick post to let all three of my faithful disciples know that I am still alive.  I'm not necessarily kicking, but I'm alive.  Like Arthur, I'm exhausted.

It has been a heck of a day.  I got up at 3 a.m. to do some grading before I headed into work.  Then a 20-mile drive through icy rain.  Nine hours of work at the medical office.  Two hours of giving a final exam to my students.  An hour of driving around in a snow storm to pick up prescriptions and push some people out of snowbanks.  Then a half hour drive home through more snow and wind.

When I see all of that in glowing black-and-white on my computer screen, I want to take a nap.  However, I have more grading and writing to do tonight.  And snow shoveling.  No rest for this English professor/poet/masochist until around next Wednesday.  Maybe Tuesday, if I'm lucky.

I'm beat right now.  Going a little stir crazy, as well.  I'm not even close to being done with schoolwork yet.  And I have to finish writing my Christmas essay, which I have been struggling with for many weeks.  And I have to order Christmas presents.  And I have to write my Christmas poem. 

December is moving way too fast for my taste.  That is not an original complaint.  I would wager money that everyone is feeling the holiday crunch about now.  No matter how much I prepare for it during the rest of the year (and I do that quite a bit--the 25th of every month during the year I do something for Christmas), I find myself in a panic about now.  Too much to do, too little time to do it in.

So, if you see me tomorrow, looking crazed and exhausted and a little unstable, hopefully you will understand.  I am in full end-of-semester-beginning-of-Yuletide insanity.

Now, Saint Marty must return to what he does best this time of year:  turning off the lights in his house, sitting in the dark, pretending that the Ghost of Christmas Present isn't knocking on his front door.

October 15: Chicken Pot Pie and Tapioca, Classic Saint Marty, "Age of Miracles"

Tonight, my family is throwing me a birthday party.  Chicken pot pie.  Tapioca pudding.  Presents.  It has been a long afternoon of schoolwork.  Lesson planning.  Answering e-mails.  I'm looking forward to some good food and good celebration.  I may even take the rest of the night off.  Or work on a new poem.

A year ago, I was in the Wisconsin Dells, watching my daughter dance . . .

October 15, 2016:  Beauty and Grace, Amusement Park, Forever Young

The answer must be, I think, that beauty and grace are performed whether or not we will or sense them. The least we can do is try to be there.

Dillard is speaking about God's beauty and grace in the world, and human beings have a tendency not to see them.  Sometimes we ignore them.  Sometimes we're blinded by our own fears and worries.  And sometimes, on good days, when the stars align properly and the car keys aren't lost or the paycheck is larger then anticipated, we notice the goodness that God sends our way.

Over and over this weekend, I have been reminded of the beauty and grace of my daughter.  Last night, at the water park, an older gentleman who was a manager there told me that she was beautiful.  As she was dancing in her classes today, I was amazed by her poise and ease, how comfortable she is in her own skin.  Tonight, at the Kalahari's indoor amusement park, a young male attendant on the ropes obstacle course had the balls to actually flirt with her in front of me.  I felt like cutting his safety line and tossing him over the side.

Yes, my daughter has graduated from gawky, awkward tween to beautiful, graceful teenager.  I don't know how or when it happened.  I still think of her as that little girl calling for me in the middle of the night because she had a bad dream.  It's difficult for me to accept that she has secrets.  That boys are paying attention to her.  That she's growing up, and part of that growing up is being her own person, making her own mistakes, allowing her heart to be broken.  I can't protect her from any of that. 

Saint Marty turns once more to the 2016 Nobel literature laureate Bob Dylan to end this post, something he wrote about growing up:  "May you always be courageous, stand upright and be strong.  May you stay--forever young."

And a poem for my daughter this evening.  I know it's a Christmas poem, but I'm feeling a little nostalgic this evening . . .

Age of Miracles

by:  Martin Achatz

My daughter has reached that age

when her body unfurls

gospels of growth all night,

psalms filled with arm, leg, hair, sweat,

breath staled by the tilt

from girl to woman.  She will soon

inherit gifts.  Blood.  Ovum.  Creation.

Then she will be lost to me.  Gone

on a long journey across desert, mountain,

to a distant Bethlehem.

This December, she tells my wife

she doesn’t believe in caribou

flying over glacier, tundra.  Questions

things like seraphim choirs,

kingdoms at the North Pole,

donkeys that sing “Dona nobis pacem”

on the winter solstice.  I know,

she says, nods as if she’s accomplice

to some divine conspiracy theory.

So I write her this poem

about last Friday, when twenty inches

of snow fell in Cairo, Alexandria,

Jerusalem.  Brought the entire Middle East

a silence it hadn’t heard in 112 years.

Children in refugee camps danced

in the blizzard, made rosefinches

with ice bodies, palm frond wings.

No bombs.  No bullets.  Just white.

Everywhere.  White upon white.

From the Mediterranean to the Mount of Olives.

It’s a miracle, little girl,

like the smell of baked ham and cloves

on Christmas Eve, or the sound

of your first breath

the morning you were born.