Seas Leaves
by: Mary Oliver
I walk beside the ocean, then turn and continue walking just beside the first berm, a few yards from the water which is at half tide. Eventually I find what I'm looking for, a plant green and with the flavor of raw salt, and leaves shaped like arrowheads. But before that, down the long shore, I have seen many things: shells, waves, once a pair whimbrels, gulls and terns over the water, rabbits long-legging it through the thickets above the berm. I kneel and pick among the green leaves, not taking all of any plant but a few leaves from each, until my knapsack is filled. Keep your spinach; I'll have this. Then I stroll home. I'll cook the leaves briefly; M. and I will eat some and put the rest into the freezer, for winter. The only thing I don't know is, should the activity of this day be called labor, or pleasure?
Oliver encounters wonders as she walks--shells, waves, whimbrels, gulls, and rabbits. I'd venture to say that she probably discovered something inspirational everywhere she went, whether a beach or parking lot or college classroom. If you keep your eyes open and your mind focused on beauty and awe, you will find amazement. In the poem, Oliver collects amazement, brings it home, cooks part of it up, freezes the rest for winter. So, when she misses the beach during the cold months, all she has to do is thaw out her little pieces of frozen wonder.
I'd like to say that I'm just like Oliver, walking through my days, collecting mystery, but I'm not. I'm just like everyone else, blinders on, eyes focused only on what's ahead. So oftentimes I miss sunsets and hummingbirds and pussy willows. Because I'm not paying attention. I'm not Mary Oliver.
I'm a husband. Father. Brother. Teacher. Poet. Musician. Sometime performer. I wish I could add Wonder Collector to that list, but I can't. As a poet, I should be on the lookout for wonder all the time, like Ahab searching the horizon for the spout of the white whale. I should be obsessed with wonder.
For example, today was cold and rainy. Didn't see much sun at all. Of course, the sun being visible in the heavens is not a prerequisite for wonder. I work on the second floor of a library, so I can look out the windows on one side of the building and pretty much see the entire city on a clear day. Today was not clear. Yesterday was hazy, too. Because of the wildfires in Canada, my little part of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan has been under Air Quality warnings from the National Weather Service for over a week. Young children, older adults, and individuals with breathing and lung problems are supposed to avoid being outside for extended periods. Two days ago, the air outside smelled like a dumpster fire. All day long.
As I said, there wasn't much about today that filled me with wonder or awe or amazement, and I don't have any pieces of wonder on ice in my freezer, either. However, I did receive what's called a "Contact Us" email from a library patron. Usually, these messages contain suggestions for programs. Or they're from artists or musicians or writers who want to appear at the library. Sometimes, they're complaints. This "Contact Us" was different.
It was from a person who attended a show in which I performed on Monday evening at the library. I read some of my poetry, sang a little, and acted in a skit. The audience member who sent the message was from out of town and, by happenstance, ended up attending the show.
I carried around a printed copy of the email all day today because it was so kind, thanking me for my poems. In fact, "kind" doesn't even begin to describe what this patron said about my writing. You see, I've never been that confident about my writing. (Most writers I know are fairly insecure, in my experience.) This communique was like a lover letter of a review from The New York Times.
So, you really don't always have to go wonder hunting. Sometimes, wonder hunts you down when you least expect it. And it takes your breath away, like a sunset on a lake.
On this gray, soggy night, Saint Marty found light and amazement.
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