Morning at Blackwater
by: Mary Oliver
It's almost dawn
and the usual half-miracles begin
within my own personal body as the light
enters the gates of the east and climbs
into the fields of the sky, and the birds lift
their very unimportant heads from the branches
and begin to sing; and the insects too,
and the rustling leaves, and even
that most common of earthly things, the grass,
can't let it begin--another morning--without
making some comments of gladness, respiring softly
with the honey of their green bodies, and the white
blossoms of the swamp honeysuckle, hovering just where
the path and the pond almost meet,
shake from the folds of their bodies
such happiness it enters the air as fragrance,
the day's first pale and elegant affirmation.
And the old gods liked so well, they say,
the sweet odor of prayer.
For Oliver, morning is the time when the whole world and everything in it wakes up, stretches, yawns, and says one of the simplest affirmations/prayers that exists: thanks. One little syllable that holds so much power. Gratitude can literally transform a shitty day into a party. Because you can't be sincerely grateful and sad or pissed or disappointed at the same time. Only one of those emotions can exist at the same time.
Last night, I received a text from a poet friend. As most of my faithful disciples know, one of my dearest friends, Helen, passed away at the end of last summer. The text gave me details about a memorial service for Helen that took place yesterday, I believe. On a rock ledge in Maine, overlooking the Atlantic, Helen's husband, children, grandkids, friends, and family met. They read poems, told stories, and threw Helen's ashes into the waves where they rainbowed the foam and surf for a few seconds.
I can say this with 100 percent certainty: Helen would have loved that celebration.
All morning today, I kept thinking of Helen. How she met the world with joy and gratitude in her heart every day. How she took nothing for granted, from the wild raspberries growing along a hiking trail to seagulls having sex on a picnic table. Everything was holy to Helen. Each tiny piece of this universe was important.
I met with my poet friend who sent me that text about Helen. We wrote together this morning for a little while, and I found myself, without planning to, composing a psalm of praise for Helen. It came unbidden, like a blush of bee balm blooming where it has never bloomed before. And it sang with the voices of birds and insects and grass.
Tonight, I give thanks for my friend Helen, who is probably hiking the mountains of eternity right now with Mary Oliver.
Saint Marty's psalm of praise:
Hard Work
by: Martin Achatz
I think of you, dear friend, how
everything seemed so effortless
for you. Even though I know you
struggled, that struggle remained
below the surface, submerged
like the largest part of an iceberg,
a city beneath the waves.
Your daily 20-mile hikes.
Your trips full of mountain
climbing, searching for holy
sites of poetry and shrines
of stones piled into altars
by ancient peoples. It all seemed
so easy for you. You embraced
the daily habits of your life
with the energy of a hummingbird
drunk on flowers. Being your friend
was like riding on a comet
sometimes, you pointing out
all the passing stars and moons
and satellites. You made me
want to be Mary Oliver, scribbling
poems in homemade journals.
You even made the work of grief
easy because tears were not
your thing. You are now wind
and ocean and seal and salt.
I saw a crow in my backyard
this morning, and that was
you, too, scratching the back
of the sun with your rusty caws.
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