December 5: "Lingering in Happiness," Most Amazing Thing, Daughter's Birthday

Mary Oliver meditates on happiness . . . 

Lingering in Happiness

by: Mary Oliver

After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,

and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss,
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.

Yes, Oliver describes a gentle moment of happiness, lingering after a rain.  The land soaks up the storm, its waters touching the roots of oaks and grasses, cushions of moss, and small stones buried for an eon deep in the earth.  Everything and everyone in the world deserves moments like this, to break up the brokenness of life and the world.  

I've had a couple of days.  Didn't have to assemble any more Christmas trees at the library.  Listened to student presentations in class.  Yesterday, I spent a few hours in the evening with one of my oldest and bestest best friends who was teaching a needle felting workshop.

But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days.  On Saturday, I received an envelope in the mail from a local publication, Marquette Monthly.  The editors published one of my Christmas essays in their December issue.  Inside that envelope was a check for the essay.  I've been a working poet/writer for over three decades.  This was only the second time I've been paid in cash for something I'd written.  That felt pretty amazing.

But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days.  Today, with the help of one of my best poet friends, I put together a manuscript and sent it off to be printed.  That's right:  I will have a new book in my hands in less than a couple weeks.  That's pretty amazing.

But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened in the past seven days.  For several months now, I've been trying to write my annual Christmas essay for the local Public Radio station.  I've started and abandoned a forest of ideas and drafts.  This afternoon, I finally hit upon the right idea and opening paragraphs.  That was pretty amazing.  

But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days.  Here is the most amazing thing:  my beautiful daughter turned 23 years old today.  That's right:  8,395 days ago--on a bitterly cold December morning after a snowstorm--my daughter made me a father.  That was, is, and always will be one of the most amazing things that's ever happened to me.

She came over this evening for cake and ice cream and presents, and it was one of those gentle moments of happiness Oliver talks about.  All of us together, eating and talking and laughing while a gentle snow fell outside.  It was . . . perfect.

Marty is a very, very lucky saint.

July 5: "Lingering in Happiness," Rain, Wormly Stupid

Mary Oliver enjoys the rain . . . 

Lingering in Happiness

by:  Mary Oliver

After rain after many days without rain,

it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,

and the dampness there, married now to gravity,

falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish

except to our eyes.  The roots of the oaks will have their share,

and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss,

a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,

will feel themselves being touched.

It rained this morning.  Pretty hard for a short while.  It was the kind of rain that hits the roof so hard it sounds like the death rattle of a thousand crows.  And then it was over, although the storm clouds lingered all day like a bad hangover.

Oliver uses rain as a metaphor.  It appears after days without moisture, scrubs the world clean, seeps into the soil until it touches everything, right down to the rocks buried so deeply that they haven't been kissed by sunlight for a millennium.

When grief comes to visit, it can linger for a long time, like an out-of-town relative who won't go home after a funeral.  I've been living with grief for quite a while now.  Sometimes, it takes a holiday, and I almost feel like I've gotten my life back.  Then I wake up one morning to find grief sleeping in the guest room again.

The world did look cleansed after it rained this morning.  Scrubbed.  

I walked down the sidewalk after the rain, saw worms sprawled out on the cement.  As a kid, I often wondered why worms appeared in such quantity after a soaking storm.  It always seemed so wormly stupid to me, exposing their fat worm bodies to hungry birds and the sun.  Perhaps the worms were trying to escape some worse underground threat.  Perhaps the rain flooded their dirt kingdom, and it was either escape to the surface or drown in a muddy ocean.  (Imagine the movie Titanic with all the Irish and Italian immigrants played by worms.)  

Just as grief can flood a life, so can happiness.  I think that's Oliver's point with this poem.  You can drown in sadness or joy.  The rain this morning washed away the heat headache of the last few days, and the grass and flowers and stones rejoiced, danced in the torrents.

Saint Marty gives thanks for the happiness of fresh rain.