North Country
by: Mary Oliver
In the north country now it is spring and there
is a certain celebration. The thrush
has come home. He is shy and likes the
evening best, also the hour just before
morning, in that blue and gritty light he
climbs to his branch, or smoothly
sails there. It is okay to know only
one song if it is this one. Hear it
rise and fall, the very elements of your soul
shiver nicely. What would spring be
without it? Mostly frogs. But don't worry, he
arrives, year after year, humble and obedient
and gorgeous. You listen and you know
you could live a better life than you do, be
softer, kinder. And maybe this year you will
be able to do it. Hear how his voice
rises and falls. There is no way to be
sufficiently grateful for the gifts we are
given, no way to speak the Lord's name
often enough, though we do try, and
especially now, as that dappled breast
breathes in the pines and heaven's
windows in the north country, now spring has come,
are opened wide.
Most people believe all good things in life must be earned. My father taught me the only way to get ahead in life was through hard work. There was no such thing as a free handout.
Oliver knows this maxim is complete bullshit. The greatest gifts are just that: gifts. Spring follows winter every year, whether or not you've busted your ass during the long cold months of January, February, March, and April. The thrush returns every year to sing his song, humble and obedient and gorgeous. Last night, after a long period of heat and humidity, it rained. A deluge. And now, the world looks scrubbed clean and new. Everything has taken a deep green breath.
I didn't pay for spring. Didn't bribe the birds to return to sing me into summer. And I certainly didn't seed the sky with silver iodide to make it rain. These things just happen of their own accord, and all I can do is sit back and try to remember to give thanks, as Oliver does.
That doesn't mean that everyone should quit their jobs, sit back, and wait for the great Jeff Bezos of Creation to deliver happiness to their front doorsteps. It doesn't work that way. What I'm saying is that every one of us--myself included--takes for granted the great gifts that surround us all the time.
Go outside and take a deep breath. If you can do this without burning your trachea and lungs, offer up thanks.
Go to your kitchen sink, turn on the faucet and collect a cool glass of water, Drink it. If you can do this, offer up thanks.
Go to the banks of a river or shores of a lake or ocean. Listen to the music of the water and waves. Watch the sunlight swim in the tides and currents. If you can do that, offer up thanks.
Go to your fridge and find a fresh apple or piece of leftover pizza. Eat it. Slowly. Savor each mouthful. If you can do that, offer up thanks.
You get the idea. We don't appreciate things like clean air or clean water or rivers or apples until they are gone. We forget to give thanks for these daily gifts.
Today would have been my mother's 92nd birthday. She was part of my life, every day, for over half a century. For me, she was like oxygen or water or the spring. I thought she would always be there. Took her presence for granted. Until she was gone.
I didn't earn my mother's love. She just loved me. Period. Even when I fucked up, which I did frequently. She was one of the greatest gifts in my life, and I didn't do anything to deserve her except be her son.
Today, Saint Marty offers up thanks for his mother, and a poem . . .
Heart to Heart
by: Martin Achatz
Luke says Mary kept every-
thing—angels roaring in
the night, shepherds crawling
through dung and hay, camels,
comets—all these things,
gospels and gospels, stored in
the four chambers of her heart.
I wonder if Einstein’s mother
had room enough in her
ventricles for quanta and
atoms, light’s slow passage
through the eye of the universe.
Or Darwin’s mother enough
space in her atria for
all the creatures of the Galapagos—
tortoises and iguanas, butter-
flies and cormorants. Lincoln’s
mother died before she had
to squeeze Gettysburg and
emancipation under her ribs,
and I believe Shakespeare’s
mother departed this mortal
coil without Romeo or
the Globe nestled beneath
her breast. My mother is
still packing things in
the attic of her chest. Just
yesterday, she asked me if
I still write poems. Yes, I told
her. I’m writing a poem
about you right now,
I said. She nodded, looked away.
I imagined her opening a box
with my name on it, wrapping
this poem in newspaper, placing
it beside the lanyard I made
for her in third grade, closing
the box again, putting it
back on the shelf in her bosom.
When she gets to heaven,
my mother will meet Mary
on a street corner,
and they’ll unpack their
hearts. This, mother will
say, is a poem my son wrote
me for Mother’s Day. Mary
will hold out her hand, show
my mother the first tooth
her son lost, a tiny grain
of enamel in her palm. They
will find a diner to have
coffee together. They will sit
in a booth, brag about how
their kids changed the world.
I miss her too.
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