August 15: "The Country," Worrier, Out Loud

I'm a worrier.  Have been for as long as I can remember.  What do I worry about?  Everything.

I worry about my roof leaking during rainstorms.  My sewer backing up.  My phone crashing.  My doctor diagnosing with cancer.  My kids hating me.  My puppy getting fleas.  My wife going manic.  My boss at the library firing me.  My boss at the university firing me.  My tax return being audited.  My house getting infested by mice.  My house catching fire.

None of these fears are rational in any way.  I know that.  However, it doesn't strop my mind from imagining terrible things.

In today's poem Billy Collins has mouse worries . . . 

The Country

by: Billy Collins

I wondered about you
when you told me never to leave
a box of wooden, strike-anywhere matches
lying around the house because the mice

might get into them and start a fire.
But your face was absolutely straight
when you twisted the lid down on the round tin
where the matches, you said, are always stowed.

Who could sleep that night?
Who could whisk away the thought
of the one unlikely mouse
padding along a cold water pipe

behind the floral wallpaper
gripping a single wooden match
between the needles of his teeth?
Who could not see him rounding a corner,

the blue tip scratching against a rough-hewn beam,
the sudden flare, and the creature
for one bright, shining moment
suddenly thrust ahead of his time—

now a fire-starter, now a torchbearer
in a forgotten ritual, little brown druid
illuminating some ancient night.
Who could fail to notice,

lit up in the blazing insulation,
the tiny looks of wonderment on the faces
of his fellow mice, onetime inhabitants
of what once was your house in the country?

I didn't worry all that much today.  Kept myself too busy to allow my mind to wander into that Forbidden Forest, so to speak.  And, tonight, I hosted a virtual open mic called Out Loud--something that I've been doing since my friend Helen (who started Out Loud) became very ill.  This coming Wednesday will make the two-year anniversary of Helen's passing.

Only one other person beside myself attended Out Loud tonight, and that was okay.  Really okay.  It allowed both of us to be very real for a couple hours.  The theme of the night was messiness--how every single human being on this planet leads a messy life.  We're all flawed, broken people doing the best we can each day.  No matter how "put together" individuals appears, chances are they are really fucked up in some way, including myself.

It was a good night, and when Out Loud was over, I felt better.  Not balanced, but better.  Sharing insecurities, sorrows, joys, hopes, and worries with another person is cathartic and healing.  Like seeing a beautiful sunset after a day of rain and wind and clouds.

Saint Marty's worry now is whether there are any Cosmic Brownies left in the house.

November 8: Wild Dogs, Worrier, Annotated Bibliography

Billy Pilgrim was armed as he snoozed.  It was the first time he had been armed since basic training.  His companions had insisted that he arm himself, since God only knew what sorts of killers might be in burrows on the face of the moon--wild dogs, packs of rats fattened on corpses, escaped maniacs and murderers, soldiers who would never quit killing until they themselves were killed.

Billy had a tremendous cavalry pistol in his belt.  It was a relic of World War One.  It had a ring in its butt.  It was loaded with bullets the size of robins' eggs.  Billy had found it in the bedside table in a house.  That was one of the things about the end of the war.  Absolutely anybody who wanted a weapon could have one.  They were lying all around.  Billy had a saber, too.  it was a Luftwaffe ceremonial saber.  Its hilt was stamped with a screaming eagle.  The eagle was carrying a swastika and looking down.  Billy found it stuck into a telephone pole.  He had pulled it out of the pole as the wagon went by.

Billy is not a good soldier.  He doesn't care whether he's carrying a weapon or not.  Billy was the assistant to a Army chaplain, if my memory is correct.  Going to the battle front was not on his bucket list.  By this time in Slaughterhouse, Billy knows how is life is going to turn out, from the day he's born to the day he dies.  There are no surprises in his life. 

I sort of envy Billy.  I, myself, am not a big fan of surprises.  I'm a planner.  For example, this evening, a colleague of mine is observing my teaching.  This colleague is an incredibly kind and relaxed individual.  He told me on Monday, "I don't want to make this into something that causes you stress."  Like I said, he's a nice guy.

However, I am a worrier.  I like my life to be full of nothing that even smacks of spontaneity in situations like this.  Usually, when I know that I'm being observed, I fall back on a tried and true lesson plan, one that has proved successful on more than one occasion.  The last few years, I have chosen my It's a Wonderful Life lesson from my Intro to Film classes.  It always works.

I am not teaching Intro to Film this semester.  In fact, I'm only teaching one face-to-face class--first year composition.  My other class is an online mythology course.  So, first year comp it is.  And the topic on the syllabus for tonight is . . . annotated bibliography.  Terrible.

My goal for tonight, then, is to teach an interesting lesson on citing and evaluating sources for a research paper.  I have a PowerPoint.  I have four pages of notes.  And I have a lot of anxiety.  I'm not sure my plan is going to work.  I've never done it before.  I'm hoping my students will jump in and participate.  If they don't, I'm sunk.

That's why I want to be Billy Pilgrim this evening.  At least for a little while.  I simply want to know how this evening ends, whether I make an idiot of myself in front of my colleague.

Instead, Saint Marty will hole up in his office, chewing his nails, viewing and reviewing his lesson plan until he's ready to throw up.

June 10: My Whole Life, Dance Recital, Daughter & Son Prayers

Fern nodded.  "I had the best time I have ever had anywhere or any time in all of my whole life."

Mrs. Arable worries about Fern throughout the whole book.  She thinks her daughter is hallucinating or losing touch with reality, even going so far as to consult the local doctor.  In the end, of course, Fern chooses Henry Fussy and the Ferris wheel over her friends in the barn.  She grows up.


Like Mrs. Arable, I worry about my kids.  Both my daughter and son have a dance recital this weekend.  My daughter's foot has been hurting for about a week.  She even had an x-ray last Thursday.  I'm worried she's not going to be able to perform Saturday night.  My son is a little unpredictable.  On a good night, he could be the highlight of his dance.  On a bad night, he could be the highlight of his dance.  I'm hoping for a good night.

Yes, I'm a worrier.  I worry all the time.  I worry about stupid things--ants in my bathroom.  I worry about big things--bankruptcy and homelessness.  My kids have been rehearsing for this recital for almost half a year.  They're going to be great.  I really don't need to worry about the recital.  But I do.

So that's my prayer focus this week:  my dancing children.  I pray that my daughter's foot starts feeling better.  I pray that my son doesn't scratch himself in an embarrassing place in front of 500 plus people, or pick his nose.  And I pray for peace of mind for the next seven days.

By next Monday, Saint Marty will be looking for something else to worry about.

I'm hoping this doesn't happen, either