The Dipper
by: Mary Oliver
Once I saw
in a quick-falling, white-veined stream,
among the leafed islands of the wet rocks,
a small bird, and knew it
from the pages of a book; it was
the dipper, and dipping he was,
as well as, sometimes, on a rock-peak, starting up
the clear, strong pipe of his voice; at this,
there being no words to transcribe, I had to
bend forward, as it were,
into his frame of mind, catching
everything I could in the tone,
cadence, sweetness, and briskness
of his affirmative report.
Though not by words, it was
a more than satisfactory way to the
bridge of understanding. This happened
in Colorado
more than half a century ago--
more, certainly, than half of my lifetime ago--
and, just as certainly, he has been sleeping for decades
in the leaves beside the stream,
his crumble of white bones, his curl of flesh
comfortable even so.
And still I hear him--
and whenever I open the ponderous book of riddles
he sits with his black feet hooked to the page,
his eyes cheerful, still burning with water-love--
and thus the world is full of leaves and feathers,
and comfort, and instruction. I do not even remember
your name, great river,
but since that hour I have lived
simply,
in the joy of the body as full and clear
as falling water; the pleasures of the mind
like a dark bird dipping in and out, tasting and singing.
I wish I was the kind of person who could listen to a birdsong and say, "Why, that's a red-breasted honeysuckle" or "I believe that's a silver-backed swan swallow." This morning, when I was letting my puppy take a stroll in our backyard, I heard a loon chuckling in the morning sun. (Loons aren't too hard to identify if you've seen On Golden Pond enough times. Just imagine a feathered Katherine Hepburn singing "Happy Birthday.")
Looking back over my last few posts, I've realized that what I've been writing has been a little heavy. Actually, a lot heavy, between my father's birthday and my sister's birthday and school mascots. I haven't had a lot of time for levity in the last week or so. That doesn't mean that I've been in bed for seven days with the covers pulled up over my head. That means that the soundtrack of my life has been more "Purple Rain" than "Don't Worry Be Happy."
So, I decided when I woke up this morning that I was going to look on the bright side of life. (You may whistle at this point, if you feel so inclined.) After all, even in the dark times, there's still moments of light--leaves and feathers and comfort and instruction. And birdsong.
It started raining at around 4 p.m. this afternoon, and, just like that, the outdoor concert I had scheduled at the library became an indoor concert. Some things in life are bad. They can really make you mad.
The rain wasn't a surprise. I spent the entire day tracking the weather front pushing into the Upper Peninsula of Michigan, hoping against hope that some divine hand would reach down and push the rain to the north or south of us. It didn't happen. Other things just make you swear and curse.
But I didn't let that get my spirits down. I made a few adjustments, put a couple things on social media, and suddenly everything was fixed--music, musicians, and audience remained dry and warm, and nobody got electrocuted. When you're chewing on life's gristle, don't grumble. Give a whistle. And this'll help things turn out for the best! And . . .
The concert was wonderful, with people dancing and clapping and singing along. Now, I'm home, tired, and watching Close Encounters of the Third Kind, which is one of my favorite Steven Spielberg movies. Nobody ever remembers it. I think it's one of his best. Plus, anything with Richard Dreyfuss is worth a seeing. Always look on the bright side of life. (Whistling.) Always look on the light side of life.
I have used up most of my peopling skills today. I am now in Bigfoot mode. Ready to sit in the dark and just . . . be. Maybe go outside and howl at the trees and clouds. Knock on some trees. And . . .
Always look on the bright side of life.
Saint Marty whistling.
Always look on the light side of life.
