July 14: "Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?", Father's 96th Birthday, Bardo

Mary Oliver on things you can and and can't reach . . .

Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End?

by:  Mary Oliver

There are things you can't reach.  But

you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away.  The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,

out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing

    from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking, I mean not just standing around, but standing around

     as though with your arms open.

And thinking:  maybe something will come, some

     shining coil of wind,

     or a few leaves from any old tree--

          they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.

Everything in the world

comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.

Like goldfinches, little dolls of gold

fluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

Oliver says you can reach out to things that are completely unreachable.  Like wind or birds in flight or the idea of God.  That may seem a ridiculous statement to make, but it really isn't.  Oliver isn't claiming that you can actually grab a handful of wind or put your finger on God's forehead.  No, she's saying that you can attempt to reach out.  Attempting is different from achieving.

Today would have been my father's 96th birthday.  He's been gone since 2018, but that didn't stop me from reaching out to him today.  I woke thinking about him, and he's been pretty present for me all day long.  Like a goldfinch in a tree or the wind rucking the surface of Lake Superior.  He was there, just out of reach.

As most disciples of my blog know, my relationship with my dad was a complicated one.  I loved him, and he loved me.  I know this.  However, we were very different people, with different beliefs and values.  Yet, I respected him and inherited a lot of my work ethic and devotion to family from him.  There was nothing my father wouldn't do for his wife and kids.  

My father lived long enough to see me graduate from college three times.  He read my first collection of poems and attended some of my readings.  When I was named U.P. Poet Laureate the first time, he was my biggest cheerleader.  When Donald Hall announced my name, he literally jumped out of his chair with excitement.

And when my father was dying in the hospital, I stood by his bed, watching him struggle for breath.  I couldn't make his journey easier.  Instead, I reached out, touched his hand, and let him know that I was there.  That gesture didn't bring him back.  I'm not even sure he knew I was there at that point.  Yet, it was all I could do.  A reaching out.

Today, I think my dad was reaching out to me.  All day.

I'm in Calumet, Michigan, tonight to do a show.  When my father died six years ago, I was scheduled to leave for Calumet the next day to do a show.  I thought about canceling my trip, but I didn't.  Because my dad wouldn't have wanted me to.  I'd made a commitment, and people were counting on me.  So, I made the trip and did the show.

Oliver, at the end of her poem, says, "Everything in the world / comes."  Even the things that are out of reach.  

I think my dad came to me.  He's been hovering around me like a cloud of hungry mosquitoes all day.  He's reaching out, and I'm reaching out.

In some bardo between this world and what comes next, Saint Marty and his dad are together, like two kites flying in tandem up, up into the sunshine and blue, blue air.