At the River Clarion
by: Mary Oliver
1.
I don't know who God is exactly.
But I'll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a
water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices
of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck the stone it had
something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing
under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me
what they were saying.
Said the river: I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered
the moss beneath the water.
I'd been to the river before, a few times.
Don't blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don't hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don't hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it's difficult to hear anything anyway, through
all the traffic, and ambition.
2.
If God exists he isn't just butter and good luck.
He's also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then
keep on going.
Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God)
would sing to you if it could sing, if
you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn't sing?
If God exists he isn't just churches and mathematics.
He's the forest, He's the desert.
He's the ice caps, that are dying.
He's the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.
He's van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert
Motherwell.
He's the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing
their weapons.
He's every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician,
the poet.
And if this is true, isn't it something very important?
Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and
each of you too, or at least
of his intention and his hope.
Which is a delight beyond measure.
I don't know how you get to suspect such an idea.
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn't a persuasion, it was all the river's own
constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was
comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.
3.
Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.
4.
There was someone I loved who grew old and ill.
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do
except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.
5.
My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest,
she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows
from wherever it comes from
to where it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn't much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.
6.
Along its shores were, may I say, very intense
cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them,
for heaven's sakes--
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.
7.
And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.
This poem celebrates the tiny pieces of divinity that exist in everything--the rivers, birds, rocks, mosses, people. God is everywhere, Oliver says, from the greatest works of art to a fatal tick embedded in the flesh of a beloved pet. The Lord gives, and the Lord takes back.
I spent most of today with one of my best friends, working on a creative project. I don't often have the opportunity to immerse myself that fully in friendship and art. It was a gift, like sitting on a wet stone in the middle of the Clarion, listening to the water, rock, and moss sing.
Then, in the evening, we played games with the same friend and his family. There was pizza, chicken wings, chips, salsa, bean dip, and chocolate. And there was laughter. A lot of laughter. By the time the games were done and food put away, my cup was overflowing.
It was one of those days where I felt abundantly blessed. (Don't get me wrong: I'm always abundantly blessed. But, like every other person on this planet, I'm not always aware of the riot of goodness that surrounds me. It's so easy to be distracted by the aches and pains of daily life.)
I'm not a wise person in a lot of ways. I need to be clubbed over the head often with reminders of all the little pieces of God singing around me--from the flowers growing in a neighbor's yard to the gummi bears my friend brought to game night. Even Oliver admits to getting distracted--by books, ideas, doubts, and hesitations. It isn't until I'm stunned stupid by blessings that I remember to give thanks for all the holiness in my life. The stones and branches, sparrows and dandelions, friends and laughter, poetry and music.
Saint Marty listened today and heard all the voices of God.
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