May 15: "Almost a Conversation," Sister's Birthday, Simplicity

Mary Oliver learns something from an otter . . . 

Almost a Conversation 

by:  Mary Oliver 

I have not really, not yet, talked with otter

      about his life.

He has so many teeth, he has trouble

     with vowels.

Wherefore our understanding

     is all body expression--

he swims like the sleekest fish,

he dives and exhales and lifts a trail of bubbles.

Little by little he trusts my eyes

and my curious body sitting on the shore.

Sometimes he comes close.

I admire his whiskers

and his dark fur which I would rather die than wear.

He has no words, still what he tells about his life 

     is clear.

He does not own a computer.

He imagines the river will last forever.

He does not envy the dry house I live in.

He does not wonder who or what it is that I worship.

He wonders, morning after morning, that the river

is so cold and fresh and alive, and still

I don't jump in.

Really, what Mary Oliver is getting at here is simplicity.  

The otter's life is simple.  He doesn't have a car that needs new brakes.  Or a house with a leaky roof.  (And if the otter's roof leaks, that's okay.  Nothing to worry about.)  When the otter wakes in the morning, he lets his body's needs tell him what to do.  If he's hungry, he finds a fat frog to eat.  If he's still tired, he probably goes back to sleep.  And if he hears the river slapping and singing, the otter goes for a swim and feels cold, fresh, and alive.

Human beings embrace complexity.  Thrive on it, actually.  After her otter conversation, Oliver doesn't jump into the river.  Nope.  She stays on the shore and eventually returns to her nice dry house.  Her computer.  And she writes a poem.

Today would have been my sister Rose's 58th birthday.  I barely remember my own kids' birthdates, but I will never forget Rose's.  Because she reminded everyone constantly about it for months.  It was a magic day for her, when she got cake and ice cream and her favorite dinner.  Usually, Kentucky Fried Chicken, if she was given a choice.  And people sang to her and gave presents.

Rose knew about simplicity and happiness.  A can of Diet Coke could make her smile for hours, or at least until it was empty.  She could watch the same movie, over and over, and experience the same intense pleasure each time.  Everything was always cold and fresh and alive for her.

She's been gone a little over a year now.  Long enough that her voice has started to fade from my memory a little bit.  I wish I had learned to enjoy each day the way Rose did--as if it was the first and best day ever.

Saint Marty's sister was grace and blessing.  He misses her a great deal.

Two Evenings after the Day You Died

by: Martin Achatz

I stand in my backyard, my dog
on the end of her leash, pulling,
digging in the snow. The wind
in the lilac branches, limbs of maple
scratches and moans. It’s a sound
that makes the cold seem colder,
the stars, fragile as frost. I don't
move. My dog stops, as well.
The moment lasts only 20 or 30
seconds, but it stretches out
like piano keys of darkness
on the winter solstice. I listen
to the world sing, sigh, and sob
like cantors at vespers, and I think
of you. How your last breath came
and went so softly that morning that I am
still waiting, two days later, for you
to wake.