Catbird
by: Mary Oliver
He picks his pond, and the soft thicket of his world.
He bids his lady come, and she does,
flirting with her tail.
He begins early, and makes up his song as he goes.
He does not enter a house at night, or when it rains.
He is not afraid of the wind, though he is cautious.
He watches the snake, that stripe of black fire,
until it flows away.
He watches the hawk with her sharpest shins, aloft
in the high tree.
He keeps his prayer under his tongue.
In his whole life he has never missed the rising of the sun.
He dislikes snow.
But a few raisins give him the greatest delight.
He sits in the forelock of the lilac, or he struts
in the shadow.
He is neither the rare plover or the brilliant bunting,
but as common as grass.
His black cap gives him a jaunty look, for which
we humans have learned to tilt our caps, in envy.
When he is not singing, he is listening.
Neither have I ever seen him with his eyes closed.
Though he may be looking at nothing more than a cloud
it brings to his mind a several dozen new remarks.
From one branch to another, or across the path,
he dazzles with flight.
Since I see him every morning, I have rewarded myself
the pleasure of thinking that he knows me.
Yet never, once has he answered my nod.
He seems, in fact, to find in me a kind of humor,
I am so vast, uncertain and strange.
I am the one who comes and goes,
and who knows why.
Will I ever understand him?
Certainly he will never understand me, or the world
I come from.
For he will never sing for the kingdom of dollars.
For he will never grow pockets in his gray wings.
Human beings have spent so much of their time on this planet trying to understand how the universe works. Why is the sky blue? Why is that bird red? Why does the moon grow bigger and smaller? There are so many "whys" to answer that we forget just to enjoy the turquoise sky or cardinal in winter or waxing moon over a lake.
And, worse yet, humans try to put value on everything. Even in the poem, Oliver says that the catbird is common as grass. Ordinary. Nothing to write home about. Unlike the brilliant bunting or rare plover. Anything remarkable and different is worth more--you will never see an engagement ring with a chunk of cement as its centerpiece, or an opera written about a ballpoint pen. The human imagination is like a magpie, attracted to the shiny and flashy.
But poets recognize the value of the non-flashy. They write odes to artichokes, villanelles about ladybugs, sonnets for hot dogs. Oliver, in particular, placed great importance on the unimportant. Elevated the commonplace. Found wonder every day of her life in milkweed and catbirds. And when you encounter the wondrous all the time, it's pretty difficult to have a bad day.
If you are long-time disciple of this blog, you already know that I've been struggling with sadness and depression for close to a year. In the last month or so, I've notice that my days have been filled with more sun and laughter. It wasn't a shift that happened suddenly. I didn't wake up one morning with a bluebird sitting on my shoulder, whistling in my ear. It was more like the appearance of blueberries after a long, hot, dry summer. Little pieces of sweetness and color.
Today, I've noticed a little bit of a backslide for me. All day long, I've been pushing through mud, trying to keep my head above water. I feel tired and overwhelmed. I played two church services this evening, and I did a serviceable job. No Bach or Mozart preludes. Today's only real miracle was the fact that I made it through twelve hours without crawling back into bed and pulling the covers over my head.
I'm hoping tomorrow will be better. That it will be a catbird kind of day where there is little to worry about or fret over. After all, as Oliver points out, a catbird doesn't sing for money or fame or recognition. A catbird sings for joy and happiness and love of small things. Shadow and sun. Dandelions.
Saint Marty doesn't need water changed into wine. He'd be satisfied finding a green M&M on floor.
No comments:
Post a Comment