August 30: "White Flowers," First Week, Super Blue Moon

Mary Oliver blossoms in a field . . . 

White Flowers

by:  Mary Oliver

Last night

in the fields

I lay down in the darkness

to think about death,

but instead I fell asleep,

as if in a vast and sloping room

filled with those white flowers

that open all summer,

sticky and untidy,

in the warm fields.

When I woke

the morning light was just slipping

in front of the stars,

and I was covered

with blossoms.

I don't know

how it happened--

I don't know

if my body went diving down

under the sugary vines

in some sleep-sharpened affinity

with the depths, or whether

that green energy

rose like a wave

and curled over me, claiming me

in its husky arms.

I pushed them away, but I didn't rise.

Never in my life had I felt so plush,

or so slippery,

or so resplendently empty.

Never in my life

had I felt myself so near

that porous line

where my own body was done with

and the roots and the stems and the flowers

began.

I totally understand Oliver lying down in a dark field to meditate on death.  In case you haven't noticed, thinking about mortality is something I do frequently.  I excel at it.  However, when Oliver wakes up, she finds herself covered in white blossoms, as if her body has either taken root or the green world has risen up and claimed her.  Either way, she's transformed.

It is mid-week.  Hump day, as they say.  I've taught three classes so far, with one left to teach tomorrow morning.  I haven't made a fool of myself.  Yet.  The students seem to like me, although maybe I should substitute the verb "tolerate" for "like."  In any case, Friday is fast approaching, and I've survived the first week of the semester.

Tonight, a Super Blue Moon rises in the heavens.  Now, a blue moon usually refers to a second full moon appearing within a calendar month, and a supermoon means that the moon is closer to the Earth, making it appear slightly larger in the sky.  The next time a Super Blue Moon will appear, according to astronomers, is the year 2037.  

So, what do all these things have to do with each other--death, teaching, little white flowers, and Super Blue Moons?  I'll tell you . . . I don't really know.  It's a confluence of happenings, perhaps related, perhaps unrelated.  I often look for meaning in simply random events that occur simultaneously, and I rarely discover that meaning.

One of my best friends texted me this evening.  She sent a beautiful photo of the moon rising over Lake Superior.  It's huge, with a finger of light stretching across the waves to the shore.  She sent it to me because she knows that I've been struggling for a while with darkness.  She sent it to me because we're both Mary Oliver fans, and Oliver would have loved the image.  And she sent it because she's my friend and wanted to share something beautiful with me.

And maybe that's all the meaning I need tonight.  The fact that there are amazing things happening in the world, even with all the darkness.  That fact that my friend and I love the same poet who falls asleep in a dark field and wakes to white summer flowers blossoming from her body.  The fact that, no matter what I say to my students, they have to discover their own paths to light and meaning.  And the fact that someone in this world loves me enough to send me a Super Blue Moon to carry around in my pocket, in case I stumble in the night.

And Saint Marty is transformed by all this.

Photo by Gala Mahlerbe

October 11: Shreds of Creation, Ophthalmologist, Meaning

What I am to do is not so much learn the names of the shreds of creation that flourish in this valley, but to keep myself open to their meanings, which is to try to impress myself at all times with the fullest possible force of their very reality . . .

What Dillard is talking about here is what all writers do.  Yes, we like being concrete, specific.  Instead of saying "flower," we prefer "amaryllis."  Names are important.  But, more than names, we search out meaning.  Yes, the amaryllis is beautiful.  But so what?  We may write about the pink star of its petals, or we may write about our classmate named Amaryllis in second grade, how she wore the same torn pair of jeans every day for a full year.  There's name, and then there's meaning.

I just found out that a friend of mine died today.  He'd been diagnosed with stage four lung cancer over a year ago.  Never smoked a day in his life.  Was trim and athletic, a former Navy man.  Funny and accomplished.  He was an ophthalmologist, spent his days trying to make people's lives easier, better.  Went to church.  Loved his family.  Gone.

I guess that I'm looking for meaning in loss.  That's something I've been struggling with for quite some time.  In books, loss generally isn't a random thing.  The man dying of lung cancer smoked three packs of cigarettes a day and beat his wife.  There's a sense of justice in books.  Usually.  In real life, loss is random.  The illness doesn't always match up with the person, if you get my meaning.  In fact, most of the time it doesn't match up.

So, the word for tonight is "loss."

Can anybody explain to Saint Marty the meaning behind it?

Gone too soon . . .

September 29: Writing Blog Posts, Meaning, "Web" Dip

Sometimes, when I sit down to blog, I find myself staring at a blank computer screen for a very long time.  It's as if every interesting or useful thought in my head has decided to go out for pizza.  What I'm left with are observations about the weather ("It's cold and rainy today") or my physical state ("I'm so tired I can barely depress the space bar on my keyboard") or work ("Tedious and tiring--see previous observation about my physical state").  Basically, what I'm trying to say is that I'm a dry writing well this evening.

I usually have a game plan when I sit down to write a blog post.  I kind of have an idea about my subject, and I kind of have a basic structure for what I'm going to say.  If I don't have these two elements in place, I tend to ramble aimlessly, and I hate that.  I don't like writing that doesn't have meaning and purpose.  Whether that purpose is to make people laugh, think, or get pissed off, I usually have a method to my insanity.

When I find myself without any compelling subject matter, I write about it. Thus, I am blogging about not having anything to write about tonight.  It's an interesting exercise.  Short story writer Flannery O'Connor would sit at her desk in front of her typewriter every day for three or four hours.  Sometimes she wrote five thousand words.  Sometimes she didn't write anything.  The point was to be at the desk, ready for the Misfit to appear on the page.  (Those of you familiar with Flannery will understand that reference.)

That is my job this dreary evening.  To write, even if it's not very good.  Because, when I sit down to write/post tomorrow, something decent may appear.  The start of an essay or short story.  A rough draft of a poem.  This I know for sure:  if I'm not at my desk, with pen and journal or laptop at the ready, I will miss the chance of shaking hands with my next writing project.  Flannery knew that, as well.

My Web dip question this evening is:

Will I write something tomorrow with purpose and meaning?  Something good?

And E. B. White's answer is:

"Oh, it's coming all right," [Charlotte] said, lightly.  "The plan is still in its early stages and hasn't completely shaped up yet, but I'm working on it."

Hmmmmm.  Even Charlotte has to sit in her web and wait for her plans to take shape.  She's got to put in the time, just like Flannery O'Connor.

And Saint Marty.

Flannery's desk