July 29: My Brother, Poet Sister, Birdlight

Santiago and his brother fish . . . 

I wish I could feed the fish, he thought. He is my brother. But I must kill him and keep strong to do it. Slowly and conscientiously he ate all of the wedge-shaped strips of fish.

He straightened up, wiping his hand on his trousers.

It's not surprising that Santiago feels a certain kinship to the fish.  They are both, in a way, old men of the sea--Santiago above, the fish below.  They are siblings of water and salt.

Today was the birthday of one of my best friends.  A sister in poetry.  In a lot of ways, she's the yin to my yang.  I tend to darkness in my moods and thoughts.  My friend runs to the sun, physically and spiritually and emotionally and artistically.  We text each other new poems frequently.  Her poems are full of sunlight and flowerlight and birdlight.  Mine are . . . not.  Yet, we hold each other up through difficult times.  And we sing each other in joyful times.

Today, I went to an artist/poet reception for a poetry broadside exhibition.  I saw many close poet friends and listened to them read their beautiful words.  My sister in poetry was there.  So, we ate chocolate chip and oatmeal cookies, drank some flavored waters, and soaked in the poetry around us.  It was a perfect way to mark the occasion of the day of her birth.

And I felt uplifted, as I always do when I'm with her.  We know each other so well.  She has seen me through some pretty rough times, and I hope that I've been able to do the same for her.  She is facing some struggles right now, being the child of aging parents with health problems.  Because she works in healthcare (as I did for almost 25 years), she and I have similar reactions to these kinds of situations.  We hold onto hope, but we also deal with the reality.  In our friendship, we allow each other to celebrate and grieve.  Without judgement.

Being with my friend for an hour or so this afternoon was like taking a deep breath.

And that was Saint Marty's blessing today.

March 21: A Toy Gun, Comedy, Kinda Sucks

We established yesterday that Arthur and Ford are trapped in a Vogon airlock . . .

"Well, didn't you think of anything?  I thought you said you were going to think of something.  Perhaps you thought of something and I didn't notice."

"Oh yes, I thought of something," panted Ford.

Arthur looked up expectantly.

"But unfortunately," continued Ford, "it rather involved being on the other side of this airtight hatchway."  He kicked the hatch they'd just been thrown through.

"But it was a good idea, was it?"

"Oh yes, very neat."

"What was it?"

"Well, I hadn't worked out the details yet.  Not much point now, is there?"

"So . . . er, what happens next?" asked Arthur.

"Oh, er, well, the hatchway in front of us will open automatically in a few moments and we will shoot out into deep space I expect and asphyxiate.  If you take a lungful of air with you you can last for up to thirty seconds, of course . . ." said Ford.  He stuck his hands behind his back, raised his eyebrows and started to hum an old Betelgeusian battle hymn.  To Arthur's eyes he suddenly looked very alien.

"So, this is it," said Arthur, "we are going to die."

"Yes," said Ford, "except . . . no!  Wait a minute!"  He suddenly lunged across the chamber at something behind Arthur's line of vision.  "What's this switch?" he cried.

"What?  Where?" cried Arthur, twisting round.

"No, I was only fooling," said Ford, "we are going to die after all."

He slumped against the wall again and carried on the tune from where he left off.

"You know," said Arthur, "it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxiation in deep space, that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young."

"Why, what did she tell you?"

"I don't know, I didn't listen."

"Oh," Ford carried on humming.

"This is terrific," Arthur thought to himself.  "Nelson's Column has gone, McDonald's has gone, all that's left is me and the words Mostly harmless.  Any second now all that will be left is Mostly harmless.  And yesterday the planet seemed to be going so well."

A motor whirred.

A slight hiss built into a deafening roar of rushing air as the outer hatchway opened onto an empty blackness studded with tiny, impossibly bright points of light.  Ford and Arthur popped into outer space like corks from a toy gun.

A pretty bleak ending to this chapter of Hitchhiker's.  Arthur and Ford sucked into the abyss of space, seemingly to their deaths.  Of course, since you are all sophisticated readers, I'm sure you realize that this isn't the end of our heroes.  After all, this book is a comedy, not a tragedy.  Therefore, something utterly preposterous will save their lives in the next chapter.  Or the chapter after that.  Never fear.

I wish life were like that.  I wish I knew that I was living in a comedy.  If I knew that, I wouldn't stress about my job or stacks of bills or dead car batteries.  Because I would know that, just when I have nothing left in my back account, and the police officer is knocking at the door to serve me a subpoena, a quirky lawyer with a bad tie will arrive with the news that my rich fourth cousin, five times removed, has died and left me a 75 million dollar inheritance. 

Of course, I'm not in a comedy.  I'm not in a tragedy, either.  This is simply life, and, sometimes, life is really wonderful, and sometimes it kinda sucks.  Recently, the scales have been tipped to the "it kinda sucks" end.  I'm waiting for the pendulum to swing back in the other direction.  Sorry for the mixed metaphor.

Tonight, I am going to one of my favorite events of the month--an open mic at a place called the Joy Center.  I will be surrounded by friends and poets and writers.  We will tell stories to each other, read poems, eat fruit, and fill the empty cups of our lives until they are spilling over.  At least, that's what always happens for me.

I have been looking forward to this event all week.  If you're in my neck of the woods tonight, stop by the Joy Center.  Eat a kumquat.  Listen to some good writing.  If you're brave, stand up and tell us your story.  There's plenty of oxygen in this space for everyone.

Saint Marty is taking a deep breath.  He's ready . . .

June 13: Taking a Deep Breath, Fight or Flight, Gaining Control

Yesterday, at a therapy appointment with my wife, we talked about deep breathing.  Our therapist told us about the physical act of taking a deep breath as a means of regaining control in a tense situation.  She said that, when we start panicking, it's a throwback to a primeval part of our psyches.  Back in the time of dinosaurs and saber tooth tigers, our reaction to a threat was either to fight (and probably die) or resort to flight (and probably die).  When I allow myself to become overwhelmed by financial worries, I am in the jungle again, wondering when that sound in the trees will jump out and maul me to death. 

Taking a deep breath physically arrests that anxiety.  It allows me to gain control of myself and the situation.  I am not going to die because I got an overdraft notice in the mail (which I did today).  Deep breath.  I am not going to die if my mortgage refinance falls through.  Deep breath.  I'm not even going to die if, for some reason, I lose one of my jobs.  Deep breath.  None of those circumstances will physically end my existence.  Deep breath.

The neanderthal in me has just taken the back seat.  It's no longer driving my actions, and the saber tooth tiger is no longer breathing down my neck.  That's what deep breathing does.  There are also some very physical reactions in the body that deep breathing triggers, and those reactions also help quell panic and anxiety.  I've been practicing deep breathing today.  I've even been practicing it as I type this post.

Saint Marty is just one...Deep breath...Deep...Deep breath...Cleansing...Deep breath...Breath...Deep breath...Away...Deep breath...From.  Deep breath...Sanity...Deep breath...

Run for your life!  The cable bill payment is late!