Mockingbirds
by: Mary Oliver
This morning and blessed them.
two mockingbirds When the gods rose
in the green field out of their mortal bodies.
were spinning and tossing like a million particles of water
the white ribbons from a fountain,
of their songs the light
into the air. swept into all the corners
I had nothing of the cottage,
better to do and the old couple,
than listen. shaken with understanding,
I mean this bowed down--
seriously. but still they asked for nothing
In Greece, beyond the difficult life
a long time ago, which they had already.
an old couple And the gods smiled as they vanished,
opened their door clapping their great wings.
to two strangers Wherever it was
who were, I was supposed to be
it soon appeared, this morning--
not men at all, whatever it was I said
but gods. I would be doing--
It is my favorite story-- I was standing
how the old couple at the edge of the field--
had almost nothing to give I was hurrying
but their willingness through my own soul,
to be attentive-- opening its dark doors--
and for this alone I was leaning out,
the gods loved them I was listening.
Mary Oliver has opened up the doors and windows of her soul in this poem, listening to the mockingbirds singing in the green fields, perhaps thinking they may be angels or gods. And maybe they are. If there's one thing the stories of the Bible and mythologies teach us, it's that divinity comes in many shapes and sizes, with wings and without.
It has been kind of a crazy day, full of divine encounters for me.
My morning started with writing on the library roof with one of my best friends, who is also a hell of a poet. It was gorgeously warm, with a slight breeze. For a little less than an hour, we sat up there, scribbling in our journals, admiring the distant waves of Lake Superior.
Then, as I was settling into my office for the rest of the day, there was a knock on the door. In came three friends from the Marquette Arts and Culture Center. One of them was carrying a box from Babycakes, my favorite baker to buy muffins in the morning. Another friend was carrying an award with a sticky note on it that read "Writer of the Year 2023 Marty Achatz."
I was completely gobsmacked. I hugged them. Thanked them. Hugged them all again. I may have said something like "You're kidding me!" a few times. I couldn't believe it. After they left my office, I sat down in my desk chair and cried a little bit. Okay, cried a lot.
Then, after I had finally regained control of myself, I started to work again. The library's PA sounded: "Attention patrons. If you happen to see Marty today, please congratulate him. Marty was been chosen to receive the 2023 Marquette Art Award for Writer of the Year." And I started crying again.
The entire day was blessing after blessing after blessing after blessing. So many friends and family members reaching out with love and well wishes. One of my favorites: "Duh! All-around Human of the Year, I'd say."
So, the doors and windows of my heart were blown wide open today, and an angel or God stepped right in and got comfortable.
Maybe Saint Marty should have shared his blueberry muffin, but he didn't.
A poem from this morning:
Being Mary
by: Martin Achatz
Last night, I lay on my couch,
listened to my neighbors gathered
around their firepit with friends
and Martha, their Great Dane.
I couldn't hear their words,
the stories they were telling each
other, only their laughter, the knuckle
snaps of the fire, and Martha's loud,
insistent barks rising into the night
like sparks. And I thought of all
the things I should have been doing.
Laundry to fold. Dishes to wash. Papers
to grade. Poems to write. But I didn't
move. Instead, I took in those gentle
sounds of happiness outside my window,
knew that I was being Mary,
sitting at the feet of Jesus
as he told jokes, gave advice, while
my sister Martha made dinner,
swept the table of crumbs, maybe
poured more wine into everyone's mugs.
I didn't feel guilty. I just sat
there, amazed at Jesus' toes
flashing under the stars.
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