July 30: "The Roses," Less Complicated Life, Lighthouses

Mary Oliver takes time to smell and listen to the roses . . . 

The Roses

by:  Mary Oliver

All afternoon I have been walking over the dunes, hurrying from one thick raft of the wrinkled, salt roses to another, leaning down close to their dark or pale petals, red as blood or white as snow.  And now I am beginning to breathe slowly and evenly--the way a hunted animal breathes, finally, when it has galloped, and galloped--when it is wrung dry, but, at last, is far away, so the panic begins to drain from the chest, from the wonderful legs, and the exhausted mind.

Oh sweetness pure and simple, may I join you?

I lie down next to them, on the sand.  But to tell about what happens next, truly I need help.

Will somebody or something please start to sing?

Roses have come to symbolize a lot of things, most commonly love and devotion.  Even each color of rose means something a little different.  Red roses, passion or romantic love.  Pink, admiration or friendship.  White, innocence and purity.  Yellow, joy or platonic friendship.  Orange, enthusiasm or desire, and purple, enchantment.  I'm not sure that Oliver is attaching any kind of specific meaning to the sea roses she encounters, aside from wonder and gratitude.

It has been a slow day.  Keep in mind, "slow" is a relative term.  Perhaps I should have used the word "slower" instead, because none of my days are actually slow.  But, today, I only had to play keyboard for two church services this morning and then take care of some computer stuff for school.  Took my puppy for a couple long walks.  About mid-afternoon, I napped.  That's right, I slept with the sun high in the sky, which I never do.  I had to today.  Because I couldn't even keep my eyes open.  My body didn't give me a choice.

I wonder sometimes if I'd be a happier person living a less complicated life.  A Mary Oliver life.  Or at least the life I imagine Mary Oliver had, full of long solitary hikes followed by extended periods of writing followed by a plain, healthy meal.  Now, I'm sure this vision of Oliver's life is far from reality, but it's the one I've created after reading and writing about her poems for going on eight months.  This is my version of Mary Oliver.  Sort of like the version of Thoreau everyone clings to--him carving out a life on Walden Pond by himself with just an ax, pen, ink, and paper.  Never mind that Thoreau was actually living in Emerson's backyard and often had dinners with the Emerson family while living his deliberate life in the woods.  (Hate to burst anyone's Thoreau bubble.)

Maybe people like Oliver and Thoreau are lighthouses, beacons guiding us across frothy waves and winds to an existence of deliberate happiness.  This is how things should be is what they are telling us, even if they didn't always follow their own advice.  I mean, Thoreau was an industrial innovator, inventing new ways to make pencils, and Oliver taught writing at universities.  Translation:  their lives weren't wild blueberries and birdwatching all the time.

But Oliver inspires me to look for blueberries and birds every day.  Reminds me that there are things more important than money and work and success.  There are sea roses, red as blood, white as snow, and they make the world sing.

That is the harbor Saint Marty is anchored in tonight.  Pure and simple.