January 31: "The Poetry Teacher," Wisdom from My Dog, Nap

Mary Oliver's dog teaches her students about happiness . . .

The Poetry Teacher

by:  Mary Oliver

The university gave me a new, elegant

classroom to teach in.  Only one thing, 

they said.  You can't bring your dog.

It's in my contract, I said.  (I had

made sure of that.)

We bargained and I moved to an old

classroom in an old building.  Propped

the door open.  Kept a bowl of water

in the room.  I could hear Ben among

other voices barking, howling in the

distance.  Then they would all arrive--

Ben, his pals, maybe an unknown dog

or two, all of them thirsty and happy.

They drank, they flung themselves down

among the students.  The students loved

it.  They all wrote thirsty, happy poems.

Like Mary Oliver, I've learned a lot of things from my dog.

First, always greet people you love as if you haven't seen them for 20 years, even if they're just coming back from peeing in the bathroom

Second, bark, jump, shout, leap when you encounter something that excites you--a poem, a Christmas tree, a squirrel.

Third, when you're tired, nap.

Fourth, eat every meal like it's your last--wolfing, making so much noise that you drown out the TV, traffic, negative thoughts.

Fifth, always share your pizza crusts and Ritz crackers.

Sixth, love unconditionally, trust unconditionally, and kill any and all rodents unconditionally.

Seventh, go for walks any time you get the chance, but do NOT pee on everything you see.

Eighth, scratch where it itches, even in mixed company.

Ninth, everything smells as good as Thanksgiving turkey and pancakes.

Tenth, if you bark loud and long enough, people may think you're a little crazy.  Or rabid.

Eleventh, it's not considered polite to sniff people's crotches.

Twelfth, sometimes just sitting by someone you love makes the world a better place.

That's just a few life lessons from Saint Marty's puppy.

January 30: "Her Grave," Eulogize and Memorialize, Helen Pentecost

Mary Oliver finds love and life in grief . . . 

Her Grave

by:  Mary Oliver

She would come back, dripping thick water, from the green bog.

She would fall at my feet, she would draw the black skin

from her gums, in a hideous and wonderful smile--

and I would rub my hands over her pricked ears and her

     cunning elbows,

and I would hug the barrel of her body, amazed at the unassuming

     perfect arch of her neck.

ꟷꟷꟷ

It took four of us to carry her into the woods.

We did not think of music,

but, anyway, it began to rain

slowly.

ꟷꟷꟷ

Her wolfish, invitational, half-pounce.

Her great and lordly satisfaction at having chased something.

My great and lordly satisfaction at her splash

of happiness as she charged

through the pitch pines swiping my face with her 

wild, slightly mossy tongue.

ꟷꟷꟷ

Does the hummingbird think he himself invented his crimson throat?

He is wiser than that, I think.

A dog lives fifteen years, if you're lucky.

Do the cranes crying out in the high clouds

think it is all their own music?

A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house, but you

do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the

trees, or the laws which pertain to them.

Does the bear wandering in the autumn up the side of the hill

think all by herself she has imagined the refuge and the refreshment

of her long slumber?

A dog can never tell you what she knows from the

smells of the world, but you know, watching her, that you know

almost nothing.

Does the water snake with his backbone of diamonds think

the black tunnel on the bank of the pond is a palace

of his making?

ꟷꟷꟷ

She roved ahead of me through the fields, yet would come back, or

wait for me, or be somewhere.

Now she is buried under the pines.

Nor will I argue it, or pray for anything but modesty, and

not to be angry.

Through the trees there is the sound of the wind, palavering.

The smell of the pine needles, what is it but a taste

of the infallible energies?

How strong was her dark body!

How apt is her grave place.

How beautiful is her unshakeable sleep.

ꟷꟷꟷ

Finally,

the slick mountains of love break

over us.

This is how anyone recovers from loss.  Slowly.  Second by second.  Hour by hour.  Day by day.  

I always find funerals strange affairs.  For a little while, everyone gathers to pray and eulogize and memorialize.  Then everybody goes to another place (usually) to eat and visit and laugh.  I find that transition from sorrow to fellowship jarring.  But perhaps that's the way it should be.  Like a drink of ice cold water after being in the desert for a week or so.  It's a turning back to life.

So many times, living in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, the change from winter to spring is very sudden.  Not a slow melting over days or weeks.  It can happen overnight.  I've gone to bed, layered under quilts and blankets, and woken up into a morning where the sun is shining and birds are singing in the pines.  It's a beautiful shock to the system.

Tonight, I hosted a book launch event at the library where I work.  The book was a manuscript written by my friend, Helen.  A collection of poems she'd been working on for over a year, right up until the last weeks of her life last August.  After she died, I worked with another poet friend to usher those 39 poems into book form.

The event tonight was packed with Helen's friends and admirers.  People who've been missing her terribly these past six months.  There were tears shed.  Lots of hugs exchanged.  But the overall emotion I felt in the room was joy.  It was a celebration, and, with each poem that was read and story shared, Helen was there with us.  Her breath, captured on the page, blew around us like some kind of Helen Pentecost, anointing each person, blessing us all.

I had expected to feel Helen's absence a lot tonight.  Instead, I felt her presence, pushing us, willing us to embrace the wonder that is this world.  That's what Helen did each and every day she lived.

Saint Marty is wonder-filled tonight.

January 29: "Bazougey," Joy, Forever Gifts

Mary Oliver writes about the deepest sting . . . 

Bazougey

by:  Mary Oliver

Where goes he now, that dark little dog

     who used to come down the road barking and shining?

He's gone now, from the world of particulars,

     the singular, the visible.

So, that deepest sting:  sorrow.  Still,

     is he gone from us entirely, or is he

a part of that other world, everywhere?

Come with me into the woods where spring is

     advancing, as it does, no matter what,

not being singular or particular, but one

     of the forever gifts, and certainly visible.

See how the violets are opening, and the leaves

      unfolding, the streams gleaming and the birds

     singing.  What does it make you think of?

His shining curls, his honest eyes, his

     beautiful barking.

Sorrow is a part of life.  That's what Oliver is getting at.  If you have happiness, you will eventually have sorrow.  Now, you can go around, trying to avoid sorrow.  Stay home.  Don't take any chances.  Of course, that means that you may never experience true joy.  Never find true happiness.

I know I've said all this in previous posts.  Joy and sorrow are two sides of the same coin, like light and dark, fear and courage, Donald Trump and sanity.  You can't have one without the other.  They sort of define each other.  (Okay, I think we could have all done without Donald Trump, but you get the idea.)

I know what you're thinking right now:  "Oh, no, Saint Marty's going to get all maudlin and depressing again about losing his sisters and brother and parents."  Sure, I could go down that road.  That's what you're expecting.

I'm not going to do that.  I'm going to focus on the other side of the coin:  joy.  I've just recovered from COVID.  My children are healthy and happy.  I have a partner I love and who loves me.  My dog is the cutest dog in the world.  I'm working a job I love.  Actually, several jobs that I love.  There's no snowstorm or blizzard on the horizon.  And, tomorrow night, I get to celebrate the life and poetry of one of my best friends.

This evening, my book club was supposed to meet at my house for our monthly dinner and discussion.  Because I have just recovered from COVID, we met via Zoom instead.  One member has described our book club as "the strangest book club in the world."  We have been going strong for close to 20 years.  Members have come.  Members have gone.  My mother was one of the inaugural members.  My sister, Sally, was a member, too.  (She never read the books.  She came to babysit my daughter, and then my son, while the rest of us talked and ate.)

Every time we get together now, I think of the people who aren't there any more.  At the moment, we are a small group.  But we love each other deeply.  We are family,  (Cue the disco music.)  So, tonight was joy.  Sally was there.  My mother was there.  All of our friends who've moved away were there.  Another of the current members once told a friend of hers, "I'm not allowed to leave book club.  Ever."  

Tonight, Saint Marty celebrates the forever gifts of his life--poetry, friends, family, and books that bring that bring us all together.

January 28: "The Dog Has Run Off Again," Obedience, Shoulds

Mary Oliver tries to tame something wild . . . 

The Dog Has Run Off Again

by:  Mary Oliver

and I should start shouting his name

and clapping my hands,

but it has been raining all night

and the narrow creek has risen

is a tawny turbulence is rushing along

over the mossy stones

is surging forward

with a sweet loopy music

and therefore I don't want to entangle it

with my own voice

calling summoning

my little dog to hurry back

look the sunlight and the shadows are chasing each other

listen how the wind swirls and leaps and dives up and down

who am I to summon his hard and happy body

his four white feet that love to wheel and pedal

through the dark leaves

to come back to walk by my side, obedient.

I'm tired tonight.  Really tired.  Like Mary Oliver's dog, it feels like I've been running for a long time.  In the poem, Oliver isn't frantic in her efforts to find her missing canine companion.  She knows he is doing what he loves to do--chasing sunlight and shadows, pedaling his white paws through piles of dark leaves.  She doesn't want to deprive him of these moments of wild abandon in which he indulges his wolf nature.

In life, I think everyone learns to succumb to obedience.  Listen to parents.  Go to bed on time.  Eat vegetables.  Go to school.  Do what's expected.  Homework.  Tests.  Papers.  Due dates.  Obey teachers' directions.  Follow the rules.  Receive good grades.  Graduate from high school with a bunch of scholarships.  Follow the rules at college, listen to the professors' directions.  Graduate summa cum laude.  Apply for a good job.  Get hired.  Work hard.  Listen to the boss.  Get promoted.  Follow the company's business plan.  Get promoted again.  Work 30 or 40 years.  Retire.  Enjoy the few years remaining, doing whatever the heart desires.  Die.

That's life on a leash.

I'm not saying that this is necessarily the best way to live.  It's certainly the safest way.  The end, however, will always be the same.

I haven't lived an obedient life.  Like Oliver's dog, I've run off toward the rushing, rain-swollen stream.  If I had lived a life on a leash, I would now be working as a computer programmer somewhere, probably making a lot more money than I have ever made in my entire life.  Or I would have a PhD and tenure-track position at a university, making a lot more money than I have ever made in my entire life.  Or I would be running my father's plumbing business, spending my days fixing water heaters and furnaces, unclogging sewers, probably making a lot more money than I have ever made in my entire life.

However, I would be absolutely miserable, despite making a lot more money than I have ever made in my entire life.  (If you can't tell, lack of money has always been a part of my adult life.)

Rules are good.  Rules should be followed, to avoid things like insurrections and deaths during a global pandemic, among other things.  Sometimes, however, people misconstrue rules with shoulds.  As in, I really should make the bed.  Or I really should study something practical in college like computer programming or nursing.  Or I really should balance my checkbook.  (Do people still have checkbooks?)  Or I really should eat salad for dinner tonight.  You get the idea.

I've learned to avoid "should" thinking.  "Should" thinking is all about social expectations.  If everyone in the world stayed under the heavy thumb of "should" thinking, things like art and poetry and music and wonder wouldn't exist.  Think about it.  When was the last time someone told you that you should go out into the woods to see the snow in the branches?  Or you should go down to the beach to watch the sunrise?  Or you should write a poem or listen to a song?  People don't say things like that.

Instead, it's "you should do the dishes" or "you should eat grapefruit for breakfast" or "you should lose some weight."  These are expectations based on what is "normal."

And I'm here to tell you that I'd rather live an abnormal life and be happy than a normal life and be bored or, even worse, miserably lost.  Everyone has to be obedient sometimes.  Follow the rules of decorum and etiquette, at home or school or in the workplace.  However, it's not a bad thing to get a little . . . freaky every once in a while, as long as it does no harm to yourself or anybody else.

Today, I was pretty obedient.  I had a lot to get done, for work and school.  And all of that obedience left me exhausted.  In a little while, I'm going to get a little freaky.  I'm Zooming with a friend to record an episode of my podcast Lit for Christmas.  The format of that podcast can be summed up as follows:  I get drunk (lit), discuss Christmas literature, and write some poetry with my cohost.  

So, if you see me tomorrow, I may look a little rough.  Don't worry about me.

Saint Marty is just recovering from a night of not being on a leash.