Author: Dana Henry Martin

Sodden

I dreamed I went to work naked, which was very disturbing because I don’t have a job.

My life is like a prom dress: I don’t know if it works or if it’s a disaster.

My mind used to be sodden. Now it is a sieve.

Today’s activities feel as pointless as setting a corpse’s coif with hairspray.

I am listening to rain and birdsong.

No reality but in the mind.

The inspired create the pseudo-effect of inspiration in the uninspired.

Behind every malady a tragedy.

If too many people start to like what you are doing, you’d better do something else.

The most annoying thing about Buddhism is all the bowing.

Compassion takes over where understanding leaves off.

I am not a writer. I am a transcriptionist for my mental activity.

When cricket chirps are slowed down, they sound like a choir of angels. Don’t let anyone convince you the world isn’t miraculous.

There’s a kind of alone-togetherness that permeates existence.

The measure of intelligence is not the ability to think perfectly but the ability to rethink imperfect thoughts.

I can accept the sound of the neighbor’s Big Wheel obsessively mapping the driveway that lies right outside my writing studio. But I will never accept the incessant tinkling of his little tricycle bell.

The people who think they’ve seen God have really only seen into their own minds.

The desire to achieve Enlightenment is the desire to enter into a controlled psychotic state.

You can’t understand the minds of others until you understand what your own mind is capable of.

My word of the day is “salvage,” not to be confused with “selvage.” Or is it the other way around—something that should be discarded, not saved?

Sometimes I don’t feel like a human being. I feel like a cautionary tale.

Like any truly romantic couple, my dog and I often watch the sunrise together.

The inner dialogue is the outer dialogue, and the outer dialogue is the inner dialogue.

If the only power I have is to make someone’s day worse, I have no power at all.

The mountains know they are turning to silt.

Tonight my therapist said, “You must feel like you’re on a lonely journey.” My response was, “I am Buddhist. We are always on a lonely journey.”

I’ve inspired tens of people in my lifetime.

The more ridiculous language becomes, the more truth it contains.

Let Us Not Be Remembered

Let us not be remembered by one word: ruin.

Tomorrow, I will kiss this ground and sing its praises. I will give it my tears and joy alike. I will thank it for sustaining life and for allowing me to come home.

Outside, children turn the last of the snow into snowballs.

Hayden just tried to eat the baby Jesus ornament that’s hanging on our Buddhist Christmas tree.

It can be hard to tell if something is done with intention or for attention.

I stopped reading poetry, and the world closed. Then I read a single poem, and the world opened again.

My mind is wind.

Change your language and you change everything.

We have no business in the sky, but there we are, imitating birds.

The Quest

My husband plays a lot of video games. That’s not too surprising, since he used to be a video game programmer. One of his favorite types of games has a “quest” theme. In the quest game, the hero is on a mission to accomplish something epic. The entire game is built around the hero’s ability to complete his or her challenge.

But in a capitalistic society, it seems to me that there are many more ways to deal in living beings—ways that might not seem obvious until they are deconstructed.

I realized recently that I am on a quest in real life. My “epic” goal is twofold: 1. I want to heed my calling to help others; and 2. I want to integrate my ethics and values—and the faith from which both stem—into my professional life.

This isn’t as easy as it seems, at least not for me. Part of the Buddhist Noble Eightfold Path addresses “right livelihood.” Dealing in living beings is listed as one way in which people can harm others while earning a living. For this reason, dealing in living beings is to be avoided for those aspiring to live their lives according to the path.

I’ve been sitting with the idea of dealing in living beings as it relates to truly helping others. Raising animals for slaughter and engaging in slave trade and prostitution are examples of dealing in living beings that are called out in the Noble Eightfold Path. These are obvious examples. But in a capitalistic society, it seems to me that there are many more ways to deal in living beings—ways that might not seem obvious until they are deconstructed.

We are all being dealt like cards every day, in one way or another. When a healthcare management company focuses on making its partnering physicians and its own executives wealthy instead of focusing on optimizing healthcare and minimizing costs for its patients, is that not dealing in living beings? When university-administered nutrition education programming is both funded and governed by the USDA—a deeply conflicted organization whose partnership with the dairy and beef industries impedes its ability to promote an optimal diet—is that not dealing in living beings?

In the first scenario, the profits are not possible without moving people through the health system. In the second, the programs cannot operate without the recipients of the programming. In each case, who is benefiting? Who is being exploited and potentially left in a worse state than before the interaction with the system? Who is being traded for profit?

At its core, right livelihood means doing work that is ethical. Since I decided to leave the field of communications, I have been trying to find the right path, one that supports and furthers my ethics. Because I want to live a life of service that is guided by respect—for myself and others—I need to find work that is in alignment with those goals.

Gaia University puts it aptly when they discuss the relationship many of us have with our work:

Most of us think in terms of “getting a job” as the primary way to earn a living—which means, of course, that we’re accepting a livelihood that’s been created by someone else and will be working on projects that meet the goals of other people’s agendas, not necessarily our own.

This is not, however, the only way to work in the world, and it’s certainly not the most fulfilling approach. As Ruth Purtilo, et all, state in Health Professional and Patient Interaction: “ … a life guided by respect depends in part on the ability to identify and shape one’s own life according to personal values and those that help to build a stronger community.”

This is what I’m looking for. This is my quest. And, like my husband’s game characters who get knocked down repeatedly in their efforts to find what they need, I’ll continue to get knocked down—and get back up again—until I become the hero of my own life and rise to this challenge.

Writing: The Measure of a Breath

Two days ago, we learned that Hayden, our beloved chihuahua, has kidney damage. There are things we can do to help her retain enough kidney function to live out the rest of her life before her kidneys fail. This is very encouraging because it means we can do preventive care rather than simply engaging in palliative care. However, there is no guarantee our measures will work. Serious illnesses like this take their own course. Sometimes intervention can’t change that course.

Hayden has done so much for my husband and me since we adopted her just under two years ago. I tell people she saved my life. They think I’m being hyperbolic, but I’m not. We adopted Hayden in part because we knew dogs provide excellent therapy for people with depression, anxiety and other chronic health problems. Now that we have her, I never feel alone. By that I mean I never move into an emotional state in which I am completely inaccessible, one in which I don’t know how to reach out to anyone for support, even myself.

Hayden tethers me to this world—and to her heart, my husband’s heart and my own heart. Each day, she shows me how to be gentle, playful and kind. Because of her, I feel more open. I trust the world more and want to fight for it more passionately. In her eyes, I see the beauty of all living creatures, and I understand the need to protect the environment that supports us all.

I still have so much to learn from Hayden, but right now I need to turn my attention to supporting her to the best of my abilities. I need to remain in the moment so that I don’t impose my own suffering on her. I don’t want my knowledge of her illness to cloud our time together. I need to remember that if, at the end of the day, Hayden has had a good day, that’s all that matters. At the same time, I must think about the future so my husband and I can intervene now on Hayden’s behalf. I can’t just be in the moment or her future could be compromised.

I have a lot of learning and growing to do in order to meet this challenge and be the caretaker and companion Hayden needs me to be. I hope I can do for her a fraction of what she’s done for me. Right now, she’s taking a nap and looks perfectly content. It’s hard to believe there’s anything wrong with her. Earlier, she ran and barked in her sleep. I like to imagine what she might be dreaming about: perhaps a warm day in the park, chasing squirrels up trees; or maybe a scene from her life before we adopted her, a place she only returns to in her sleep.

A train moves through the city; its hollow notes ride the air. This is a dark day, a cold day. Rain pads the windows like fingertips. Even the birds seem to be complaining about the weather in curt and muffled tones.

I’m going to join Hayden now. I will lie by her side and breathe with her. Measured in breaths, even a short span of time feels nearly infinite. I will count every breath and remember that each is a miracle, one we all share.

Sound, Sense, Story, Song

I read poems four ways: as sound, as sense, as story, as song.

As a poet, you can either have a steadfast allegiance to your poetry or to your ego. Please choose wisely.

I need a larger mind today, and a larger heart.

I watch three deer run back and forth across the seam that separates trees from meadow. This is what the human heart and mind do at their best: move between states as if they were landscapes, tracing a crooked line for others to follow.

I am seeing more and more kindness and generosity in those around me. And more and more, that kindness and generosity make my heart and mind sing.

Metadata is my nemesis.

I am a typo.

I think we should stop eating meat and start eating vegans.

I keep reading “Three Days in Austin” as “Three Days in Autism” and thinking, “Actually, it’s been a lot longer than three days.”

Conversation I had today: Person I Was Talking With: “You’re in your late 20s, right?” Me: “Yes, that’s right.”

The Ability to See

Reading poetry is less about the ability to read than the ability to see.

You can’t burn a bridge that was never there to begin with.

Sometimes, going back is moving forward.

Tonight in Sandpoint, Idaho, I saw a little girl with cancer toss a penny into a fountain. She stood by the fountain for a long time, lacing and unlacing her fingers as she prayed.

There is fire between us and where we want to go.

In Spokane, I feel like depleted soil.

There are birds with pretty songs and birds with ugly songs. I may have an ugly song, but it’s mine, and I am going to sing it.

I’ve been walking the alleys of Walla Walla. I want to see what secrets this town is hiding, given what it puts in plain sight.

In Hiroshima, not of Hiroshima. What I mean is, there weren’t victims of Hiroshima. There were victims in Hiroshima: victims of America in Hiroshima.

People appreciate a polite rejection more than a hesitant acceptance.

The love comes through the suffering, and neither belongs to us.

Jon is in the kitchen singing Zappa’s “The Dangerous Kitchen.”

Our atrocities live in the land, and the land speaks to us of those atrocities.

Sometimes consequence takes its own sweet time.

Living with awe is not the same thing as living in ignorance.

I love us in our frailty, in our confusion, in our stumbling, in our stupidity.

I love us when we try and fail, when we do something good despite our efforts to do otherwise, when I glimpse something inside each of us that is of worth.

I love the man who carries his nineteen-year-old German Shepherd into Lake Superior each night so the dog’s arthritic joints can be supported by the water.

I love the Army Reservist holding a sign roadside for hours that says “I support gays” because he felt compelled to speak out.

I love our calls to help one another and to support one another. I love our cries for solidarity, even if solidarity is impossible.

I love us. For a long time, I was lost from that truth. Now, that truth shapes and guides my life. I love us, despite what we can be, have been, and will be. I love us because of what we can be, have been, and will be.

The deep atrocities need to be ferreted out and addressed, no doubt. But that work must be couched in love, guided by love, and informed our deep love for one another, for all living beings, and for the world we share.

Without love, the tragedy is just a tragedy. Without love, we live in hate, are guided by hate and consumed by hate. Once we lose love and cultivate hate, we are made weak, not strong, and the wrongs we seek to right will never be righted.

When I stopped knowing how to love myself, I turned to us and learned from us. What we do—what we are capable of—breaks my heart every day. At the same time, our beauty and grace astound me.

I am learning to live in service to us, not in service to myself, just as I have learned to love us when I cannot love myself. I am here for us—as voice, as witness. I am bound to us—a slack, invisible rope all that tethers “me” to and separates “me” from “us.” And that is not just as it should be but as it is.

No Self in Other

A walk along Mill Creek this morning revealed chokeberries, elderberries, blackberries, cherries and apples.

Nothing like getting a free cremation offer in the mail.

I used to think the whole of my life was about writing. Now I know the whole of my writing is about life.

There is no self in other.

My advice to women: Worry about the size of your heart, not the size of your ass.

I was all exclamation points. He was all commas.

Having a state poet laureate is like having a politician in office who actually cares about her work and the constituents she represents.

I hate the fact that the erosion of our privacy is both embodied in and concealed by the innocuous and mildly aspirational term “sharing.” It isn’t sharing; it’s taking. We haven’t given; we’ve been taken. What we had we no longer have; we’ve been had.

Today I braid the garlic.