December 31: "We Shake with Joy," Joys and Sorrows, Happy New Year

One last Mary Oliver poem . . . 

We Shake with Joy

by:  Mary Oliver

We shake with joy, we shake with grief.

What a time they have, these two

housed as they are in the same body.

As the year of Mary Oliver draws to a close tonight, I thought it would be appropriate to end with probably one of her most well-known poems.  It holds so much wisdom and perfectly suits this meditation on New Year's Eve, when everyone looks back on the joys and sorrows of the past 365 days and looks to the future.  .

Let's start with grief.  My loyal disciples may recall that I struggled many months at the beginning of 2023 with darkness.  It wasn't until the beginning of summer that a little light started breaking through the cracks.  I think it was due to an accumulation of emotions from the past few years of loss after loss after loss.  For quite a while, I simply went through the motions of my days, my eyes buried in the ground in front of me.  Because looking up required a certain amount of hope on my part, and hope was in such short supply that it was practically nonexistent.  

Eventually, as the days grew longer,  I began to feel something completely foreign and wondrous:  happiness.  Instead of looking down, I raised my head to the heavens and felt sunlight on my face.  Slowly, slowly, the darkness receded, and I began to find small moments of grace each and every day.  Sure, I still experienced sadness,  It's impossible to be a human being on this broken planet without feeling isolated and angry and alone and sad every once in a while.  Yet, I was able to find laughter and enjoyment again--with friends and family and the simple blessings of every day.  Sunrises.  Poetry.  Chocolate.  Music.  Teaching.

Which brings me to joy:  I have so much for which to be thankful in this past year.  Healthy and happy family.  Work that I enjoy a great deal with people I enjoy a great deal.  Being named 2023 Writer of the Year at the City of Marquette Art Awards.  A new, reliable car.  My daughter graduating from college and moving on with the next phase of her life--medical school on the horizon.  A son who is finding his way in the world.  And friends, friends, friends who've lifted me up, given me so much love and support.

Mary Oliver is right.  Joy and grief can and must coexist.  You can't have one without the other.  They define each other, the way shadow defines light.  If you love deeply, you will mourn deeply.  If you dance, eventually, you will weep.  No getting around it.  Oliver embraces the entire messy universe, celebrates each firefly and teardrop.  

If you are in a dark place right now, know that light is coming.  If you are clothed in light right now, throw your arms out and blossom into something beautiful.

Saint Marty wishes you all a Happy New Year!

December 30: "The Summer Day," Smallest of Things, Bigfoot Poems

Mary Oliver learns something from a grasshopper . . . 

The Summer Day

by:  Mary Oliver

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean--

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down--

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

Yes, life really is all about paying attention, even to the smallest of things--like a grasshopper eating sugar from your palm.  A prayer is simply recognizing the universe's gifts.  Taking heed.  And, above all, celebrating the one wild and precious life you are given.

This post is the second-to-last in the Year of Mary Oliver.  I've really enjoyed my time with Mary.  She has taught me so much about poetry and grace.  Leaving her behind will be difficult.  (In case you're wondering, I have picked out a new author and book for 2024, but you will have to wait until Monday to find out.

However, I will carry the lessons of Mary with me for the rest of my life.  Particularly those lessons regarding joy and happiness.  And I have something to celebrate on this second-to-last night of the year.

This morning, I received an email from an editor informing me that he's accepting seven of my poems for publication, including three Bigfoot poems.  It's the first time I've ever sent my Bigfoot out into the world, and the world seems to like him.

No matter how many times I get published, each time I get a letter or (more often these days) an email, my wild and precious life seems filled with butterflies sipping sugar from my hand.  Sweet and blessed.  My whole day has been sun and celebration, right down to the long walks I took with my puppy and the turkey pot pie my sister made for dinner.  

For Saint Marty, 2023 is going out with a bang instead of a whimper.

December 29: "Praying," Pulpits and Pine Forests, Healing and Thanks

Mary Oliver's instructions about talking to God . . .

Praying

by:  Mary Oliver

It doesn't have to be

the blue iris, it could be

weeds in a vacant lot, or a few

small stones; just

pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don't try

to make them elaborate, this isn't

a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which

another voice may speak.

Prayer takes many forms--from pulpits to pine forests.  Oliver's advice on how to pray is pretty simple and beautiful:  pay attention and say "thanks."  Because, really, that's what it's all about.  Recognizing blessings, in blue irises or vacant lots.  In the darkest of moments, and in the most joyous.

This morning, I woke to a text from my wife's older sister.  Her husband had a heart attack last night and needed emergency surgery.  He's doing well.  I whispered words of thanks for that this morning.  Both my sister-in-law and her husband have helped my family and me a great deal, through some of the most difficult times of my life.  So, tonight, I asking for any of my disciples to patch together a few words for these two wonderful souls.  Words of healing and thanks.

My son went on a little trip to Mackinaw City today with my sister.  They met up with my niece and her family, and my son got to hang with one of his favorite cousins--my great niece, Abby.  He got home a little while ago, and he was actually a little talkative and--above all else--so, so happy.  Most of the time, he's a stereotypical grunting, surly, fifteen-year-old boy.  Of course, that spirit of talkativeness lasted only a few minutes.  But, I'm still cobbling together a few more words of thanks for his happiness, because he's been struggling these last few months.  (I think he, unfortunately, inherited my penchant for dark moods.)

So, I have a lot to be thankful for tonight:  my sister-in-law, her husband, my son.  For their love and healing and joy.

Saint Marty has walked through the doorway of thanks, and now he's going to stop and listen in the silence for another voice to speak.

December 28: "Some Questions You Might Ask," Small Prayers, Unanswerables

Mary Oliver still has questions . . . 

Some Questions You Might Ask

by:  Mary Oliver

Is the soul solid, like iron?

Or is it tender and breakable, like

the wings of a moth in the beak of the owl?

Who has it, and who doesn't?

I keep looking around me.

The face of the moose is as sad

as the face of Jesus.

The swan opens her white wings slowly.

In the fall, the black bear carries leaves into the darkness.

One question leads to another.

Does it have a shape?  Like an iceberg?

Like the eye of a hummingbird?

Does it have one lung, like the snake and the scallop?

Why should I have it, and not the anteater

who loves her children?

Why should I have it, and not the camel?

Come to think of it, what about the maple tree?

What about the blue iris?

What about all the little stones, sitting alone in the moonlight?

What about roses, and lemons, and their shining leaves?

What about the grass?

Sometimes, questions can be good, even if there is no way you will be able to answer them.  Oliver will never be able discover what the shape of the soul is, or if it has one or two lungs.  She won't ever know if the camel or maple tree or grass has a soul.  Yet, the questions themselves are like small prayers, filled with grace and wonder.

Tonight, my mind is filled with other kinds of questions.  Ones that have no relationship with grace or wonder.  These are the kinds of queries that cause sleepless nights and worry-filled days.  They are exhausting.  I will not get into the details of these questions or their cause.  That's not the point of this post.  Suffice to say, I've had a personally difficult day, filled with lots of old emotions that I try to keep locked away in the dusty corners of my heart.

I tend to obsess over these questions.  Because that's all I can do.  I've been wrestling with them for many, many years.  They will disappear for extended periods of time, but then something occurs that brings them out into the sunlight, where they sit like dark birds in winter branches.

Unanswerable questions tend to be about circumstances or ideas or realities over which you have no control.  Like the soul.  Or suffering.  Or heartbreak.  Intangibles that are beyond human comprehension.  Why does God allow suffering to happen?  What is the purpose of a broken heart?  Why is love as fragile as a spiderweb?

There's simply no way to know any of these things.  The most I can do is open my mouth and give breath to the questions.  That, somehow, gives them a body, makes them manageable, despite the pain they may cause.

Don't worry.  Saint Marty will be fine.  He's been through this before.  And, like Annie sings, the sun will come out tomorrow.