The Sea Mouse
by: Mary Oliver
What lay this morning
on the wet sand
was so ugly
I sighed with a kind of horror as I lifted it
into my hand
and looked under the soaked mat of what was almost fur,
but wasn't, and found
the face that has no eyes, and recognized
the sea mouse--
toothless, legless, earless too,
it had been flung out of the stormy sea
and dropped
into the world's outer weather, and clearly it was
done for. I studied
what was not even a fist
of gray corduroy;
I looked in vain
for elbows and wrists;
I counted
the thirty-segments, with which
it had rippled its mouse-like dance
over the sea's black floor--not on
feet, which it did not have, but on
tiny buds tipped with bristles,
like paintbrushes--
to find and swallow
the least pulse, and so stay alive, and feel--
however a worm feels it--satisfaction.
Before me
the sea still heaved, and the heavens were dark,
the storm unfinished,
and whatever was still alive
stirred in the awful cup of its power,
though it breathe like fire, though it love
the lung of its own life.
Little mat, little blot, little crawler,
it lay in my hand
all delicate and revolting.
With the tip of my finger
I stroked it,
tenderly, little darling, little dancer,
little pilgrim,
gray pouch slowly
filling with death.
Mary Oliver doesn't find much in nature revolting. In fact, I'd say that her fallback position on anything she encounters in the green world is wonder and affection. She loves everything, from the hermit thrush to the sea mouse. She ends up holding the little mat, little blot, little crawler in her palm, stroking the gray pouch of its body as it slowly dies in the killing air.
Tonight at the library, I hosted a book launch event for an anthology of essays about water. There was music, brownies, veggies and dip, La Croix and bottled water. And there were 13 readers. I had the room set up with 50 chairs. People started showing up around 5:30 p.m. And they kept coming. And coming. When all was said and done, close to 120 people attended.
One of the people who attended was a dear, dear friend of mine named Joseph. He showed up a few minutes late, and I saw him standing in the doorway, scoping out seats.
The first time I met Joseph was at a poetry reading I gave at my hometown library just a couple days after my father died. Joseph showed up, sat in the front row, and listened to my words with an intensity usually reserved for saints and extraterrestrials. After the reading, he approached me, talked about my work, remembering entire stanzas, word-for-word. Then he told me how sorry he was to read about my father's passing in the newspaper, spoke as if he knew my father personally. It wasn't just politeness. Joseph showed up three days later at the funeral, in a suit and tie, hugging me, telling me how proud my father was of me. And I believed him.
In the last couple years, since COVID hit, Joseph has been facing health issues. Problems with his heart mostly. He spent some time in the hospital, and then even more time recuperating. For a man who made his living as a lumberjack in Norway (the country--not the city in Michigan), Joseph had a hard time accepting his new limitations.
Tonight, during the intermission of the event, my wife and I sat and talked with Joseph. We asked him how he was doing. "Well," he said, "my organs are shutting down, and the doctors are saying that, in two to four weeks, I'm going to have a stroke that will probably end my life."
Joseph is dying.
When he saw the looks on our faces, he smiled as only he can smile. With his whole body.
"Joseph," I said. "I'm so, so sorry."
He shook his head and laughed. Yes, he laughed. "No, no, my friends," he said, holding my wife's hand. "I've had a good life. I have three beautiful daughters. Wonderful grandchildren. I'm so, so blessed." Like Oliver, Joseph was holding the sea mouse in his palm, stroking it tenderly. Unafraid.
Then Joseph changed the subject, started asking about our kids, celebrating all of their accomplishments.
I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I got a little pissed after speaking with Joseph. I'm tired of people I love getting sick and dying. It seems like God's a bully on the playground, picking on all of my best friends.
At the end of the night, as he was leaving, Joseph wrapped me in his arms, kissed me, and said, "Thank you for being my friend. I'm so lucky." And there it was: grace and gratitude.
Joseph is my miracle today.
Do Saint Marty a favor whenever you read this post: think of his friend Joseph and remember how blessed you really are.
