Night and the River
by: Mary Oliver
I have seen the great feet
leaping
into the river
and I have seen the body
of something
scaled and wonderful
slumped in the sudden fire of its mouth,
and I could not tell
which fit me
more comfortably, the power,
or the powerlessness;
neither would have me
entirely; I was divided,
consumed,
by sympathy,
pity, admiration.
After a while
it was done,
the fish had vanished, the bear
lumped away
to the green shore
and into the trees. And then there was only
this story.
It followed me home
and entered my house--
a difficult guest
with a single tune
which it hums all day and through the night--
slow or briskly,
it doesn't matter,
it sounds like a river leaping and falling;
it sound like a body
falling apart.
We all have stories to tell. Some of them are easy: I had pizza for dinner tonight. Some of them are harder: I experience moments of severe sadness frequently. Oliver sees a bear catching and eating a fish at a river, and the experience haunts her. It takes up residence in her home and repeats itself over and over, like a scratched record or looping video. River, bear, fish. River, bear, fish. Power and powerlessness. River, leaping and falling. Body, falling apart. Repeat. Repeat again.
Think about stories told at family get-togethers or class reunions. They may be funny or sad or absurd. And people never get tired of telling them or hearing them. Some of these stories are pretty obvious choices: childbirths, weddings, and graduations. Others are more subtle: what I whispered in my sister's ear the night before she died. We repeat these stories because they are important--they define us.
Today, the story that defines me has to do with lawnmowing. I've been avoiding this task for a couple weeks, but this afternoon, I couldn't any longer. Most of my neighbors' lawns have already received their first manicures of the summer. I was beginning to feel like that house--the one where there are old cars propped on bricks in the backyard, and the grass is shin-deep and studded with dandelions.
Now, let me make this clear: I detest lawnmowing. If I lived in Arizona, I would be one of those people with stone gardens for landscaping. If I had the money, I would cement over my front and back yards, and then I would paint the cement green. That way, if things got messy, all I would have to do is hose away any dirt of detritus from trees.
However, a weird part of me enjoys the results of lawnmowing. It's sort of like making my bed in the morning. On the one hand, I hate doing it. On the other hand, I appreciate the sense of order I feel when a bed is made. I experience the same kind of satisfaction when my grass if freshly shorn. My house looks neat and tidy on the outside for a few days. Maybe a week.
So, today I spent a couple hours picking up branches and rocks, pushing a lawnmower, and sweating. Did I mention that it was over 80 degrees today? I hated every minute of it. However, when I was done, I sat on my couch in the living room, and I felt . . . accomplished. In control.
Maybe that's what my story is about tonight: control. In much of my life, I have very little power. I am a fish, swimming in a river, trying to get somewhere (upstream to spawn? downstream to the Atlantic?). Today, however, I was the bear, lumping around with my mower, scooping fish from the water.
My lawn looks great tonight. Nothing else has changed in my life. I'm still a mess--bouts of sadness, free-floating daily moments of panic, difficulty paying my bills. However, any person driving down my street tonight will not think that the cast of Deliverance lives in my home. Instead, they will think: dang, this dude has it all together.
Of course, it's an illusion. I never have my shit together. My mother told me many years ago that, if I made the beds and washed the dishes in the sink, my house would appear clean and orderly. I've followed that advice my whole life, adding lawnmowing into it. As long as the beds are made, dishes are washed, and grass is cut, I am in control of my life.
Until the dandelions start reappearing in about a week. Then I'm back on my front steps, plucking a banjo and looking a little inbred.
The story that defines Saint Marty tonight is this: fresh-cut grass and a brilliant moon.
