January 14: "Stebbin's Gulch," Ordinary Saturday, Beauty

Mary Oliver, beauty, and perfection . . . 

Stebbin's Gulch

by:  Mary Oliver

by the randomness

of the way

the rocks tumbled

ages ago

the water pours 

it pours 

it pours

ever along the slant

of downgrade

dashing its silver thumbs

against the rocks

or pausing to carve

a sudden curled space

where the flashing fish

splash or drowse

while the kingfisher overhead

rattles and stares

and so it continues for miles

this bolt of light,

its only industry

to descend 

and to be beautiful

while it does so,

as for purpose

there is none,

it is simply

one of those gorgeous things

that was made

to do what it does perfectly

and to last,

as almost nothing does,

almost forever.

One thing, among many, that Mary Oliver is good at is recognizing everyday beautiful things.  Like pouring water and silver fish in silver pools and a kingfisher gliding and diving in a blue sky, being as perfect as it can be for as long as it can.

I had a pretty ordinary Saturday.  I practiced music at three churches.  Ran a few errands.  Picked up some prescriptions at the pharmacy.  Read some poetry.  Went to the 4 p.m. Mass and made some noise on the pipe organ.  Then had pizza and a game night with my family.  Like I said, completely ordinary.  Almost perfect.

The sun made an appearance today, and the world sort of turned to water a little.  Icicles dripped and got shorter and flashed with light.  And it was beautiful.  I just stood in my backyard this afternoon, listened to snow melt.  Most people don't realize that melting snow makes noise.  Probably because most people don't or won't take the time to notice.  Snow snaps and sort of sighs when it melts, like it's tired of being so cold all the time and is letting its defenses down.  You know how, when you sit in one place for a long time and finally get up and move, your body cracks and groans?  That's the best way I can describe it.

And that noise was beautiful this afternoon, along with all the tree branches shifting and dropping clumps of white.  There were birds.  I'm not sure what kind of birds they were, but they sat up high in a pine and keened at me with high piccolo notes.  And that was beautiful, too.

As I said, every day is filled with moments like this.  It's just a matter of slowing down long enough to let the world catch up with you.  Of course, as Mary Oliver notes, beauty and perfection can't last forever, not matter how much you want them to.  And there is no purpose in beauty.  It simply is . . . beautiful.  

So, I hold on to this afternoon, with its melting snow and snapping light.  Eating pizza and playing silly games with my family.  And then writing this blog post to try to make it all last forever.

Saint Marty had a beautiful, ordinary, perfect day.