December 8, 2024: "American Airlines #371," Crazy Day, Advent Service

It has been a crazy day.  Let me give you a brief rundown:

• Played two church services this morning--one at 9 a.m., the second at 10:45 a.m.
• Livestreamed a TubaChristmas concert at the local regional history center.  (Yes, that is EXACTLY what it sounds like--31 tubas and euphoniums playing Christmas carols for an hour.)
• Went grocery shopping.
• Took my puppy for a long walk.
• Read Christmas essays and poems for an Advent celebration at one of the Lutheran churches for which I play keyboard.

The good thing about staying so busy is that I had no time to feel overwhelmed or sad.  I simply moved from event to event, taking it one step at a time.  Of course, I'm kind of exhausted now.

Billy Collins finds things for which to be thankful . . .

American Airlines #371

by: Billy Collins

Pardon my benevolence,
but given the illusion that my fellow passengers and I
are now on our way to glory,
rising over this kingdom of clouds
(airy citadels! unnamable goings-on within!)
and at well over 500 miles per hour,
which would get you to work in under one second,

I wish to forgive the man next to me
who so annoyed me before the wine started arriving
by turning each page of his newspaper
with a kind of crisp, military snap,
and the same goes for that howling infant,
and for the child in the row begin me
who persisted in hitting that F above high C
that all of her kind know perfectly how to hit
while rhythmically kicking the back of my seat.

Yes, I have softened and been rendered
even grateful by the ministrations of Eva,
uniformed wine bearer in the sky,
and if we are not exactly being conveyed to Paradise,
at least we are vectoring across the continent
to Los Angeles–orange tree in the backyard,
girl on a motorcycle roaring down Venice Boulevard.

And eventually we will begin our final descent
(final descent! I want to shout to Eva)
into the city of a million angels,
where the world might terminate or begin afresh again,
which is how I tend to feel almost every day–

life’s end just around another corner or two,
yet out of the morning window
the thrust of a new blossom from that bush

whose colorful name I can never remember.

Now that the flight of this day has landed for me, and I have a few moments to reflect before I go to sleep, I want to focus on gratitude for a moment.  

You see, despite my current state of sadness, I know that I'm an incredibly blessed person.  Blessed with family and friends.  It's easy, when I'm struggling with darkness, to lose sight of how much I am loved.  These last few weeks, I've had so many people reach out with words and embraces and kindnesses.  I have been saturated with compassion, empathy, and goodness.

Tonight, after the Advent program, we celebrated with Christmas cookies and treats.  I sat at a table with some of my closest friends and companions from the church.  As I was about to dig into my plate of goodies, I was handed a gift bag.

Inside was a card inscribed with personal messages from so many of the people I care about and who care about me.  I almost started crying.  Then I removed the colorful tissue paper from the bag, and I pulled about some Bigfoot swag--a keychain/multi-purpose tool and a towel.  It was another amazing reminder that, even though I feel as hugely unlovable as Bigfoot at the moment, my life if full of graces.  

If you are part of my family at Faith Lutheran, I thank you for accepting me with so much generosity of heart and spirit.  

You've made this broken saint a little more whole.

December 7, 2024: "Lines Written in a Garden by a Cottage in Herefordshire," Final Reading, Sabe

Here are some lines written on my couch in my living room.  The Christmas tree is glowing in the corner, and my wife and son are in bed, asleep.  I can hear my puppy snoring in her cage, and there's a wind rattling tree branches outside the window.  

Billy Collins writes some lines about an impatient bee . . .

Lines Written in a Garden by a 

Cottage in Herefordshire

by: Billy Collins

No, this time I'm not kidding around.
There's some half-shattered outdoor furniture,
then crowds of dianthus and pink hydrangeas,
honeysuckle going wild over the bright blue door,
and zinc buckets and coal carriers overflowing
with pansies, lavender, and some kind of soft fern—
just the right combination of growth and neglect.

And you don't have to wish for a brick wall,
a gravel path or a leaning disused shed
to complete the picture because they're all right here
as well as a concrete statue of a maiden
holding a jug, one breast exposed, overgrown with ivy.
The only thing you might not think of,
being in another place so far away,

is this one bee who just refused to wait
for all the morning glories to unfurl in the early sun,
and instead, pushed her way into the white flute
of a blossom, disappearing for a moment
before she flew off in her distinctive gold
and black uniform like a player on a team,
heading over the hedge toward a core of honey.

This evening was the final reading for the book tour I'm doing with a poet friend this December.  It was at a local kombucha bar, and quite a few of our close friends showed up to support us.  I wasn't expecting such a large crowd on a Saturday night in December.

I've been humbled over and over since my new book was released.  So many people have told me how much they love it.  (I'm not writing this to brag.  Bragging simply isn't in my nature.  Bitching sarcastically, yes.  Bragging, no.)  I was not brought up to accept praise easily.  Rather, my parents taught me to work hard and not expect pats on the back or words of encouragement.  That's what was expected.

Thus, I believe Bigfoot or my poet friend were the ones who attracted the big crowd, not me.  Nevertheless, I had a good time, reading and visiting and eating.  One person at the open mic was another friend who played the wood flute and told a story about Sabe, the Indigenous version of Bigfoot.  Sabe is a symbol of honesty in the Seven Grandfather teachings.  

My version of Bigfoot aligns, I think, with Sabe.  Bigfoot is emotionally smarter than me and doesn't put up with bullshit.  He has no patience for niceties and small talk.  Neither do I.  For Bigfoot/Sabe, life is all about being authentic and true.  I wish I could be more like him, not caring about others' opinions or ideas.  Just being me is enough.

Those are Saint Marty's lines for tonight

 

December 6, 2024: "Lines Written at Flying Point Beach," the Soo, Ace

A good portion of today, I was traveling for Sault Ste. Marie, Michigan, to do a poetry workshop and reading at Bayliss Library.  I didn't have to drive at all.  One of my best poet friends drove the entire way there and back.  He co-led the workshop and co-read with me.

I'm not particularly fond of long car rides, especially during the winter in the Upper Peninsula.  In the past couple weeks, the "Soo," as Yoopers affectionally call Sault Ste. Marie, got over three feet of snow.  That might seem like a lot to non-Yoopers, but a lot of snow doesn't slow us down for very long.

Billy Collins writes about a favorite place . . . 

Lines Written at Flying Point Beach

by: Martin Achatz

or at least in the general vicinity
of Flying Point Beach,
certainly closer than I normally am

to that beach where the ocean
crests the dunes at high tide
spilling tons of new salt water into Mecox Bay,

and probably closer to Flying Point Beach
than you are right now
or I happen to be as you are reading this.

but how close do I really need to be
to Flying Point Beach
or to any beach in order to write these lines?

Oh, Flying Point Beach,
I love all three words in your name,
not to mention the deep, white sand

and the shorebirds on their thin legs
facing into the wind
along that low stretch between the ocean and the bay.

How satisfying it is to be
even within bicycling distance of you,
though it's dangerous to ride at the edge of these roads.

Thoreau had a cabin near his pond.
Virginia Woolf stood on the shore of the River Ouse,
and here I am writing all this down

not very far at all--maybe 20 minutes by taxi
if the driver ever manages to find this place--
from the many natural wonders of Flying Point Beach.

The Soo is a beautiful town, even when it's buried under 36+ inches of white stuff.  When I visited close to ten years ago, I remember watching ships pass through the locks on the St. Mary's River.  I can't say it's one of my favorite places, but Yoopers are a hardy lot, but, to be honest, I wasn't sure if poetry was enough to lure people to brave the elements.  My gut told me that we were going to have a very small audience.  But you know that old saying from the Bible, where two or three are gathered, there shall be poetry.  (Okay, I made that last bit up.)

For our reading, I was convinced nobody was going to show up.  (Ronnie and I led a poetry workshop earlier, and only one person attended--and he worked for the library.)  Two people came to the reading:  a young woman and her third-grade son whose name was Ace.  Neither were very interested in poetry.  They came to get a selfie with Bigfoot.

Ace was an amazing little guy.  Full of energy and kindness, he got his picture with Bigfoot, but he also sat and listened to me read poems and Ronnie sing songs.  After I read one particular poem, Ace said to me, "That was the best poem I've ever heard.  And I'm not just saying that."  You don't often encounter that kind of emotional intelligence in a young person.

Speaking with Ace's mother, I learned of his struggles in a schoolroom with inattentive teachers and bullies.  He hasn't had an easy time of things, and his story reminded me so much of my own son's issues in elementary and middle school.  At the end of the reading, I told Ace how awesome he was, and I encouraged him to continue to be kind and curious.

On the drive home from the Soo, Ronnie said to me, "Ace made this whole trip worth it."

Ace gave Saint Marty hope for the future today.

December 5, 2024: "Villanelle," Daughter's Birthday, Card from a Friend

It was my daughter's 24th birthday today.  

Even after typing that sentence, I still can't believe it's true.  It seems like just yesterday that I was handed this screaming little pink thing, wrapped in a blanket.  Now, that squirming bundle will be heading off to medical school in August.

Billy Collins writes a villanelle that makes me smile . . . 

Villanelle

by: Billy Collins

This first line will not go away,
though the middle ones will disappear,
and the third, like the first, is bound to get more play.

Examples of the type are written every day,
and whether uplifting or drear,
that first line just won’t go away.

It seems some lines have the right of way.
It’s their job to reappear,
for example, the third, designed to get more play.

Whether you squawk like an African Grey
or sing sweetly to the inner ear,
the line you wrote first will just not go away.

You may compose all night and day
under a bare lightbulb or a crystal chandelier,
but line number three must get more play.

How can a poet hope to go wildly astray
or sing out like a romantic gondolier
when the first line will not go away,
and the third always has the final say?

Right now, I cherish things that lighten my mood.  This poems did that.  So did having a birthday dinner with my daughter tonight, seeing the caring young woman she's become.  (She also loves her filet mignon.)  I'd like to take credit for how smart and compassionate she is, but I can't.  My daughter has always had a strong sense of herself from a very young age.

The other things that made me smile tonight was a gift from a close, close friend.  She stopped by my office today and left it on my table.  It was a beautiful card with a medicine man on the front, a handwritten message inside, and a beautiful heart-shaped ornament.  My friend knows of my recent struggles, and she was simply reaching out to check on me.  

I'm am such a blessed person.  I'm surrounded by people I care about and who care about me.  That is something I hold onto tonight.  My daughter reminds me that I did something very, very right in my life, and the card/gift from my friend reminds me that I am very, very loved.

Saint Marty can't ask for much more than that.