February 2: "I Go Down to the Shore," Poetry Workshop, Happiness

Mary Oliver has a conversation with the sea . . . 

I Go Down to the Shore

by:  Mary Oliver

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall--

what should I do?  And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.

I led my normal monthly poetry workshop tonight.  Since it's February, the theme was "love."  Not very imaginative, I know.  However, I didn't focus on just romantic love.  My prompts touched on all forms of love--love of nature, God, family, animals, pets, weather, clouds, and self.

As I said in yesterday's post, writing anything has been a struggle for me recently.  I might go down to the shore with Mary Oliver, but ain't gonna be new poems comin' out of that trip.

Life is like that.  All you can do is listen to the wind and waves and crickets sometimes, and practice happiness.  Chase it.  Humans tend to do a lot of hand-wringing and woe-is-me-ing.  Once you get into that particular state of mind, it can be difficult escaping it.

Don't misunderstand me.  I know that it's not just a matter of pulling yourself up and dusting yourself off sometimes.  Depression is a real, physiological thing that can't be fixed with a pat on the back and a piece of chocolate.  (A lot of things can be helped/cured with chocolate, but not mental illness.)  I'm not trying to trivialize that struggle in any way, and I don't think Oliver is, either.

Happiness is hard work.  It doesn't descend on you from above or materialize like a genii from a bottle.  Happiness from a bottle generally leads to addiction and even more misery.  No, happiness requires mindfulness and attention.  In the middle of a hurricane, it's tough to find blue sky, even though it's always up there.

I think that's what Oliver is getting at in today's poem.  I may be wallowing in grief over the anniversary of my sister's death, but the sea is still there, with its songs and prisms and caresses.  It keeps doing it's watery work of being beautiful, satisfying the planet's thirsty needs.

Happiness and beauty are always there, waiting.  We just have to take off our shoes and wade in.

I'm ready to get my feet wet.

Something Saint Marty wrote about love of self (keep your minds out of the gutter, people) in tonight's workshop:

Martin

-- proper noun --

1.  A man who had a dream, marched for that dream, went to jail for that dream, died for that dream.

2.  Another man who nailed a piece of paper to the door of a church to remind everyone that God doesn't take bribes.

3.  An obscure President of the United States who nobody remembers.

4.  A beautiful bird of the swallow family that is not actually the color of Lent.

5.  A soldier who gave his cloak to a freezing beggar and became a saint.

6.  The alcoholic friend of my dad who used to sit in deer camp and drink Wild Turkey all day long.

7.  A poet, father, teacher.  A person who roots through kitchen cupboards a 2 a.m., looking for those damned double-stuffed Oreos that his son already ate.