August 26: "Whelks," Helen and Mary, Wild Darkness

Mary Oliver has been restless . . .

Whelks

by:  Mary Oliver

Here are the perfect

fans of the scallops,

quahogs, and weedy mussels

still holding their orange fruit--

and here are the whelks--

whirlwinds,

each the size of a fist,

but always cracked and broken--

clearly they have been traveling

under the sky-blue waves

for a long time.

All my life

I have been restless--

I have felt there is something

more wonderful than glass--

than wholeness--

than staying at home.

I have not been sure what it is.

But every morning on the wide shore

I pass what is perfect and shining

to look for the whelks, whose edges

have rubbed so long against the world

they have snapped and crumbled--

they have almost vanished,

with the last relinquishing

of their unrepeatable energy,

back into everything else.

When I find one

I hold it in my hand, 

I look out over that shanking fire,

I shut my eyes.  Not often,

but now and again there's a moment

when the heart cries aloud:

yes, I am willing to be

that wild darkness,

that long, blue body of light.

My friend Helen and Mary Oliver had a lot in common.

Both were ocean gals--in their element when they were walking along a briny beach, finding clams and oysters and quahogs and other weedy mussels.  

Both went for long daily walks, finding wonder along the way.  For Helen, it was raspberries or blueberries or sandhill cranes or mating seagulls.

Both were poets--they understood the world better through words.  That was their medium.  Read one of Oliver's or Helen's poems, and you will taste salt on your lips. 

Both found the world endlessly complex and endlessly simple.  

Both believed in some form of Higher Power.

Both were willing to be that wild darkness, full of mystery.

Both were willing to be that long, blue body of light.

I guess what I'm saying is that every time I read Mary Oliver, I find Helen.  

Today, I hosted a day-long celebration of joy at the library.  It was beautiful, exhausting, and filled with art and words and music and healing and singing bowls.  I texted a friend on Wednesday or Thursday that I'd been experiencing Helen miracles all week long.  Tiny moments of beauty.  Rabbits eating in my backyard.  Clouds shot through with light.  Rain coming down so hard it sounded like the drum solo in Led Zeppelin's "Moby Dick."  This morning, I opened my front door, and a chipmunk was sitting on my top step, staring up at me.  

Just like Oliver, Helen taught me how to slow down and take note.  That's what I did today.

Saint Marty is now going to take note of a bowl of ice cream.  Helen taught him that, too.