What could be a better tribute to a poet than to snuggle into a chair wrap up in a shawl, and browse lazily through her poems?
Mary Oliver, whom I think of as the unofficial poet laureate of the United States, not just for one year, but for one year after another, died last week at the age of 83. More than 20 volumes of poetry by this Pulitzer Prize winning poet have been published. I own eight of those volumes, all stacked together on a shelf behind my desk where I can easily grab one for a quick poetry fix. How pretty they all look together. How smooth they feel in my hand.
Reading her poems I feel as if I am walking with her, not quite beside her, but just a pace or two behind her. I strain to hear what she says, and I note where she points or pauses.
I started reading Oliver's poems when we lived in Ohio on Sweetwater Farm. I was a city girl who wanted to be more at home with the gifts of nature, and Mary was one of my guides. She encouraged me --not that she knew it, of course--to pay attention, to lean into the precious world around me, even when the lessons offered were sometime painful. And then she helped me grieve.
Behind our barn was a small pond, which wasn't visible from the house. One had to be deliberate about going to the pond, and, in fact, after my cancer surgery I measured my healing by the number of times I walked around that pond before needing to rest. The pond was often a resting place for a Great Blue Heron. I was only aware of it when I walked from the back door of our house to the garage or into the garden. My movement, my presence, even at a distance, bothered her, and before I saw her, I heard her lift off, her wings flapping like sheets on a clothesline, and then I saw her in the sky above me.
I was always in awe of that unwieldy bird's ability to lift its top heavy body and take off, especially since the small pond didn't give her much space to make a running start.
According to Animal-Speak by Ted Andrews, the heron is a symbol of self-determination and self-reliance. The heron's long legs are symbols of balance, and they represent an ability to progress and evolve and to explore life deeply. "But you must be able to stand on your own."
The heron was a messenger for me during our Sweetwater Farm years, as was Mary Oliver's poem "Heron Rises from the Dark Summer Pond" in the book, What Do We Know, Poems and Prose Poems. Here's an excerpt:
So heavy
is the long-necked, long-bodied heron,
always it is a surprise
when her smoke-colored wings
open
and she turns
from the thick water,
from the black sticks
of the summer pond,
and slowly
rises into the air
and is gone.
...
And especially it is wonderful
that the summers are long
and the ponds so dark and so many,
and therefore it isn't a miracle
but the common thing,
this decision,
this trailing of the long legs in the water,
this opening up of the heavy body
into a new life: see how the sudden
gray-blue sheets of her wings
strive toward the wind; see how the clasp of nothing
takes her in.
I wonder about the last poem Mary Oliver wrote. Did she write about a heron opening up to a new life? I like to think she did.
An Invitation
Do you have a favorite Mary Oliver poem? I would love to know.
I settled into my comfortable chair in my office garret, ready to read the morning's devotion, ready to meditate, but I was overwhelmed by sounds. Bird song. The mourning dove's one note set the beat for the chorus of other birds, which I couldn't identify, but I loved the melody. Occasionally, a lone crow's ca-a-a-a could be heard. There is always one in the crowd who can't carry a tune. They sang a second verse and a third, a hymn for the new day.
In the meantime I heard sounds of a new day inside the house. My husband emptying the dishwasher and then raising the window shades. I heard him open and close his closet and later, walking through the dining room and unzipping his laptop case. Zip shut. He called out goodbye as he left for the coffee shop where he takes his work. The click of the lock in the front door.
I heard him greet a neighbor and then he was back. "Forgot my phone." Once more the click of the lock.
Sirens. Garbage trucks. Someone's horn. The bark of a dog. Beep, beep, beep of road work trucks. Even the rumble of traffic from the freeway many blocks from us.
Last night when I got up briefly I heard the swish of gentle rain, and I could almost hear the newly scattered grass seed say "thank you." The house was quiet then, but now it is full of the sounds of being alive. The ding on my computer signals a new email or two or three or more, and I think how easy it would be right now to tune into thoughts waiting for my attention--the list of what I hope to do today and how I am going to respond to phone calls and emails.
Instead, I try to listen to the invisible sound of the petals falling from the flowering crabtree next door. If I am still enough and open my heart even more, will I be able to hear, though they are blocks away in their own home, our grandson still sleeping and our granddaughter brushing her teeth? Will I be able to hear my father using his walker to move carefully through his apartment?
I think I can still hear the firm tick of the wall clock I bought in Paris before it fell off my wall and lost all speech and sense of time. I hear the chimes of the church bells in our neighborhood even though they have not yet begun to mark the passage of the day. Soon I will hear the sounds of children walking to school. They are always louder, more boisterous on the return trip in the afternoon, however.
And I hear the memory of being in this space with a spiritual directee. I hear her being, along with her words and then mine. I hear us listening to each other. Listening for wisdom and clarity and understanding and guidance. Listening for appreciation and vision and new possibilities. Listening for connection.
As I listen, I become still, for I don't want to miss anything. I don't want to miss the movement of God in my life. Listening begins here in the stillness of my heart. As we listen, we meet ourselves. And we meet each other.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
Mary Oliver
An Invitation
What do you hear today? I would love to know.
I've always loved starting a new week. Sundays have not been a time of dread for me, worrying about what the week will be or how much needs to be accomplished in the coming week. Instead Sundays have been times of preparation.
Attending a church service, when that has been our routine, which it is now, helps set a tone, reminding me to give thanks, to let go, to renew and refresh. Mary Oliver, the poet, says religion reminds her that she is not sufficient, but that more is needed. Needed for what, she doesn't say, but what it means for me is that I am not ALL there is. In order to more fully be myself, I need to be connected to the greater whole. Being part of a community with all our individual quirks and needs and stories and hopes and fears and doubts and questions and joys and loves reminds me of that greater whole. Mary Oliver in her poem, "I Happened to Be Standing" in which she wonders if cats and opossum and sunflowers and the old black oak pray, says,
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
if it isn't prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.
The wren's singing, which sometimes takes the form of the opening hymn as the cross is carried to the front of the church or of laughter during the "Let the children come" part of the service or the silence as we approach the bread and the wine, reminds me I am both whole and part of the whole.
Monday mornings, the beginning of the week, can make me feel that way, too, especially when I enter the week clear about what is on my list and when I have activities that energize and inspire me. When I have had time on Sunday to make the week's list and to clear the top of my desk and perhaps even do a quick dust and fluff in my office space, the garret, I am even more primed to enter the week.
I felt that way Sunday night. I had even read the Sunday New York Times, something that often doesn't happen till Monday or Tuesday or maybe not at all. We had taken a good old-fashioned hot dish over to my Dad's apartment and shared a pleasant time with him. On our way home we oohed and aahed at the rows of Hollywood starlet fuchsia and bride white flowering trees. It had been a good day, and I slept well, ready for the week.
Monday morning, the house flowed with cool, refreshing air, the curtain on my garret window swayed slightly, drawing my eyes to the sunlight. I sat and read the morning's devotion and then did the next thing on my list: took my car to the garage, only blocks away, for an overdue oil change and walked home, enjoying every step.
And then our house was taken over by worker men. Men in the garret making a change to the newly installed air conditioning system. Men in the lower level doing a final repair, thanks to a leak we had a week ago. Don't ask me to explain--I am just grateful for these workers in their little red trucks. However, my plans for Monday morning are of no consequence when there are workers in the house. Cleaning the house, which was Plan A, makes no sense until the work is done, and Plan B, writing a blog post and working on my book is not viable, either. I am in the way at my desk in the garret as men come and go, taking clothes out of my closet and setting up some sort of machine that makes noise.
I turn back to Mary Oliver for inspiration and find it in her poem "I Go Down to the Shore."
I go down to the shore in the morning
and depending on the hour the waves
are rolling in or moving out,
and I say, oh, I am miserable,
what shall--
what should I do? And the sea says
in its lovely voice:
Excuse me, I have work to do.
Is that not perfect? So what if there is noise in the garret and men come and go. I can squeeze my chair closer to the desk and they can get by. I can work with a little noise and disruption. Maybe it will be inspirational even!
Excuse me, I have work to do.
An Invitation
What happens to you when what you planned becomes derailed by the plans of others or events that take precedence over yours? I would love to know.
NOTE: The poems by Mary Oliver are from her book A Thousand Mornings. http://maryoliver.beacon.org
You can listen to a wonderful and rare interview with Oliver here.
so much depends
upon
a red wheel
barrow
glazed with rain
water
beside the white
chickens
I wonder if this poem written in 1923 is still studied in high school English classes. Maybe its simplicity of language and image aren't viewed as remarkable today as it once was, but I do hope young poets continue to wonder what depends on a red wheelbarrow.
On the sidewalk in front of our house I see a red wheelbarrow. A child's wheelbarrow. Slung over the top is a jacket, which is now wet, because it rained for a few minutes this morning. I am sure it belongs to one of the children a few doors away and in the flurry of coming in for baths and bedtime routine it was forgotten. I suspect that is a busy household, scattered with every manner of kid gear.
Yesterday as I sat at my desk in the afternoon I could hear through my open window a young child crying, an angry cry, a cry of defiance, an expression of "No, I won't." Perhaps that's when the child was carried kicking and screaming back to her house and the wheelbarrow was left behind and poor Mom or poor Dad gave no more thought to it.
Sometimes, instead of the wheelbarrow, a pink trike is left behind. Or I may find chalk art drawings--a smiling face, a dog, squiggles and swirls. I love this evidence of young life.
I suppose I could return the wheelbarrow to its home, but I would prefer to see one of those children come to retrieve it. I could smile and wave from our window or if I am outside we might have a little chat. I would like that.
When I was in elementary school, I was afraid of one of our neighbors, George Olson. He had a perfectly groomed corner yard with a white fence around it. Unfortunately, it was not tall enough or solid enough to prevent a softball from landing in his yard by mistake. We kids would be so scared every time we had to hop the fence and retrieve a ball. I don't know for a fact that he would have been upset, but we thought he would be. He was not only tall and imposing looking, but in my mind he also seemed quite old. A figure not to be reckoned with.
I prefer not to be a "Georgette" on our block, but instead I hope the children on our block feel safe and secure as they run and play and yes, leave red wheelbarrows. That is my wish for all children, even though I know so many face dangers in their own homes, let alone in the world around them.
Another poem. This one by Mary Oliver, "I Happened To Be Standing" in A Thousand Mornings. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mary_Oliver
I don't know where prayers go,
or what they do.
Do cats pray, while they sleep
half-asleep in the sun?
Does the opossum pray as it
crosses the street?
The sunflowers? The old black oak
growing older every year?
I know I can walk through the world,
along the shore or under the trees,
with my mind filled with things
of little importance, in full
self-attendance. A condition I can't really
call being alive.
Is a prayer a gift, or a petition,
or does it matter?
The sunflowers blaze, maybe that's their way.
Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
While I was thinking this I happened to be standing
just outside my door, with my notebook open,
which is the way I begin every morning.
Then a wren in the privet began to sing.
He was positively drenched in enthusiasm,
I don't know why. And yet, why not.
I wouldn't persuade you from whatever you believe
or whatever you don't. That's your business.
But I thought, of the wren's singing, what could this be
if it isn't prayer?
So I just listened, my pen in the air.
And I just gazed at the red wheelbarrow. For so much depends on it.
An Invitation
What do you see as you look out your front window? Or what do you hear as you stand in your doorway? What prayer is lifted from you as you look, as you listen? I would love to know.
"What will I see today," I wondered as I set out on a midday walk. I thought about poet Mary Oliver's words:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.
Good words for a walker who happens to write a blog and a blogger who loves to walk, but good advice for all of us.
I have noticed that people walk in our neighborhood. In our previous neighborhood, where there were sidewalks making walking safe and convenient, as in this urban neighborhood, the only people who walked were people walking their dogs. Certainly, there are dog walkers here, and having a dog is an excellent excuse for taking a walk, but I see people here just walking. Walking alone or with a partner. Young walkers and old, older, oldest walkers. Walkers pushing babes in strollers. How charming is it to see those pudgy legs bouncing to the rhythm of the uneven sidewalk.
Many are walking as part of an exercise routine, I am sure, but I suspect many are walking to go some place, such as the school playground or community center or the local burger and ice cream shop or perhaps the large Catholic church up the block. The other morning I saw a neighbor walking home with her Bible in hand, perhaps, after attending a Bible study. I liked thinking about a group of neighbors gathering to reflect on the works and wonders of God.
I imagine many walk just for the pure pleasure of it.
One of my favorite children's books is Eric Carle's Brown Bear, Brown Bear, What Do You See? Here's what I saw today. I saw two teenage girls carrying bags from a fun gift shop not far away, and I wondered what treats they had purchased. For themselves or a present for a friend?
I peeked in at one of the little free library boxes perched like a birdhouse for readers. It was jammed full, and I hoped someone would stroll by soon and find exactly what they want to read and go home on this warm day for an afternoon of lazy reading on the porch.
I heard the slap-slapping of someone in flip flops running down the sidewalk. She rang a doorbell and asked if Mary could come out and play. The mom said she was walking the dog, but would be home soon and would be so happy to know her friend was home. I heard construction workers laughing as they took a coffee break. I saw a little girl in princess regalia--tiara, wand, pink cape. She was ready to rule her subjects, but no one was there.
I wondered about the number of Spanish style homes in this very midwest neighborhood of homes built in the 20's, 30's and 40's. Much to my surprise, they appeal to me, and I wonder what they are like inside. I admired the second floor terrace at a corner home and hoped the owners sat there often. I'll be checking on them!
As always, I enjoyed seeing the wide variety of ways people have landscaped and gardened their front yards. I envied the large stand of birch trees in one yard and also the way others have used every inch for plants and foliage, eliminating all need for mowing. Last week I spotted a house with a patio on the side of their house and thought how we could do that, giving us both privacy and yet allow us to enjoy the neighborhood comings and goings. Bruce likes the idea--stay tuned to ongoing developments.
I enjoy making up stories about the people I see, based on a brief glimpse into a fraction of their lives. Yesterday I saw two women, obviously sisters, emerge from a front door and walk to a car that had just parked. "Hi, Mom. How are you?" An elderly woman opened the door on the passenger side of the car and in a bird-like voice, responded, "This is a good day." Of course, I would love to know more of her story, but I can create my own plot, my own characterizations as I continue my walk. With people in my life I try hard not to fill in the blanks and guess or suppose what I am not privileged to know, at least not yet. I try to receive what is offered and to wait until a time when more may be shared. I can support without needing to know everything, but on my walks I let my imagination soar. I submerge myself in fiction and fantasy and enjoy the unknown.
Currently, I am reading a book called On Looking, Eleven Walks with Expert Eyes by Alexandra Horowitz, and I like what she says about walking mindfully, "aiming to bring active attention to our daily lives by noticing new things." She says, "We miss the possibility of being surprised by what is hidden in plain sight right in front of us," and "We all have the capacity to really see what is in front of us…we just forget how to turn it on."
Walking the neighborhood challenges me to "turn it on."
An Invitation
What do you see when you go for a walk? How attentive are you when you walk? Challenge yourself to go on the same walk five days in a row and to see something new each time. I would love to know what you discover.
Pay attention.
Be amazed.
Tell about it.
Mary Oliver
What could be a better tribute to a poet than to snuggle into a chair wrap up in a shawl, and browse lazily through her poems? 
Behind our barn was a small pond, which wasn't visible from the house. One had to be deliberate about going to the pond, and, in fact, after my cancer surgery I measured my healing by the number of times I walked around that pond before needing to rest. The pond was often a resting place for a Great Blue Heron. I was only aware of it when I walked from the back door of our house to the garage or into the garden. My movement, my presence, even at a distance, bothered her, and before I saw her, I heard her lift off, her wings flapping like sheets on a clothesline, and then I saw her in the sky above me. 
