August 6: "At Round Pond," the Immediate, Wendell Berry

Mary Oliver meditates on death and owls . . . 

At Round Pond

by:  Mary Oliver

owl

make your little appearance now

owl dark bird bird of gloom

messenger reminder

of death

that can't be stopped

argued with leashed put out

like a red fire but

burns as it will

owl

I have not seen you now for

too long a time don't

hide away but come flowing and clacking

the slap of your wings

your death's head oh rise

out of the thick and shaggy pines when you

look down with your

golden eyes how everything 

trembles

then settles

from mere incidence into

the lush of meaning

I've never really thought of an owl as a harbinger of death.  Dark bird.  Bird of gloom.  Of course, Oliver doesn't dread the appearance of the owl.  Nope.  In fact, she seems to be missing the owl's presence in her life.  She summons the owl out of the thick and shaggy pines to transform the world into something beyond the immediate.  Into extravagant meaning.

So much of my days are taken up by the immediate, as with most adults.  It's difficult to think deeply about anything when there's laundry to fold, grocery shopping to do, papers to grade, or dogs to walk.  Most of my serious philosophizing about the meaning of life comes either early morning when I haven't yet dipped my toes into the pool of the day or late night when all I can think about is cold pillows and bad television.  I honestly believe that, if Plato were alive today, he'd probably be working at McDonald's without a whole lot of people caring about his stupid cave.

Tonight, I led a virtual poetry workshop in celebration of poet Wendell Berry's 89th birthday.  Now, if there's one thing I've learned it's that Berry despises the immediacy of the modern world.  Facebook.  Instagram.  Twitter/X.  All of these things are anathema to him.  If I'm not mistaken, Berry still works on a manual typewriter and lives on a 50-acre Kentucky farm that he purchased in 1965.  He's never owned a computer or cell phone, and he's become a kind of prophet of environmental stewardship.

Preparing for my Wendell Berry workshop, I spent a lot of time reading his poems and essays.  Living with him, in a way.  I admire the integrity of his existence.  His refusal to compromise with the 21st century's technology and life.  I don't think I could ever follow his example, but I celebrate that people like him exist.  He's like John the Baptist calling out from the desert for everyone to prepare ye the way.  

It's late now.  I'm tired and trying to keep at bay the worries of the coming week.  The owl is stalking my thoughts, ready to swoop down and pounce on them like field mice.  Of course, I'm typing this blog post on my laptop, and, as soon as I'm done editing, I will publish it on the internet.  There's immediacy for you.  Instant gratification.  Wendell Berry would hate it.

Mary Oliver and Wendell Berry have a lot in common.  They both embrace the peace of wild things.  As far as I can tell, they didn't really know each other or meet.  But, in my mind, I see them wandering through a field at night, listening to the great bird of gloom hooting from the shaggy pines.

Mary turns to Wendell and says, "Tell me what it is you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

Wendell answers, "Love is what carries you, for it is always there, even in the dark, or most in the dark, but shining out at times like gold stitches in a piece of embroidery."

And the owl adds, "Who, who, who is hoping his one wild and precious life is stitched with gold tomorrow?"

Saint Marty, that's who.

Image courtesy of felt artist Jody Trost

June 14: So Much Suffering, Difficult Weekend, Walt Whitman

Thomas Merton on suffering . . .

What could I make of so much suffering?  There was no way for me, or for anyone else in the family, to get anything out of it.  It was a raw wound for which there was no adequate relief.  You had to take it, like an animal.  We were in the condition of most of the world, the condition of men without faith in the presence of war, disease, pain, starvation, suffering, plague, bombardment, death.  You just had to take it, like a dumb animal.  Try to avoid it, if you could.  But you must eventually reach the point where you can't avoid it any more.  Take it.  Try to stupefy yourself, if you like, so that it won't hurt so much.  But you will always have to take some of it.  And it will all devour you in the end.

Indeed, the truth that many people never understand, until it is too late, is that the more you try to avoid suffering, the more you suffer, because smaller and more insignificant things begin to torture you, in proportion to your fear of being hurt.  The one who does most to avoid suffering is, in the end, the one who suffers most:  and his suffering comes to him from things so little and trivial that one can say that it is no longer objective at all.  It is his own existence, his own being, that is at once the subject and source of his pain, and his very existence and consciousness is his greatest torture.  This is another of the great perversions by which the devil uses our philosophies to turn our whole nature inside out, and eviscerate all our capacities for good, turning them against ourselves.

Yes, Merton hits it right on the head:  there is no way to avoid suffering.  Ignore that thing (or things) that causes you pain, and you will simply experience more pain.  Little things that nag at you, build up, and, eventually, eviscerate your capacity for any happiness.

Pretty heady stuff to start the week off with.  This weekend, however, has sort of forced me to confront some stuff in my life that I really didn't want to confront.  Stuff that's been simmering on the back burner and sort of boiled over last night.  I spent most of last night cleaning up the emotional mess it made on my stove.

Tomorrow is a new day, with new possibilities.  New chances for joy.  New chances for pain.  That's what living is all about, I guess.  You can't have one without the other.  They're opposite sides of the same coin.  (Sorry, I'm tired and can't think of a more original analogy.)  As Queen Elizabeth II said, "Grief is the price we pay for love."  If you open yourself up to loving someone, you open yourself up to the pain of losing them, as well.

So, you have a choice to make then.  Either you accept the cost of love, and therefore accept the pain of loss.  Or you avoid the possibility of love, and thereby avoid the possibility of pain.  Both options are valid for their own reasons.  I guess, for myself, I will always side with love, and all the tears and suffering that go along with it.  I would rather have the chance of experiencing joy than live the rest of my life with regrets.

None of what I have just said is deeply earth-shattering.  Philosophers and theologians have been writing and talking about this subject for centuries.  Tonight, however, I am making a declaration:  I will always choose love, and all the shit that accompanies it. 

I taught a virtual poetry workshop this evening.  A celebration of Walt Whitman's life and work.  It was all about embracing the universe and everything in it--good, bad, beautiful, ugly, and all that exists in between.  That includes pain and suffering.  Grief.  It was a perfect way to end this difficult weekend.  A embrace of life, as only Whitman can embrace it.  I was able to laugh and feel things, difficult things, deeply.  It was a miracle.

And for that, Saint Marty gives thanks.