August 5: "Seven White Butterflies," Happiness, Anthology

Mary Oliver chases . . . 

Seven White Butterflies

by:  Mary Oliver

Seven white butterflies

delicate in a hurry look

how they bang the pages

     of their wings as they fly

to the fields of mustard yellow

and orange and plain

gold all eternity

     is in the moment this is what

Blake said Whitman said such

wisdom in the agitated

motions of the mind seven

     dancers floating

even as worms toward

paradise see how they banter

and riot and rise

     to the trees flutter

lob their white bodies into

the invisible wind weightless

lacy willing

     to deliver themselves unto

the universe now each settles

down on a yellow thumb on a

brassy stem now

     all seven are rapidly sipping

from the golden towers who

would have thought it could be so easy?

I think this poem is about happiness, or the pursuit of it.  The butterflies banging the pages of their wings as they dance and float toward paradise where they sip greedily from golden towers.  Butterfly heaven.

Happiness can be that easy, as long as you're willing to accept and celebrate all the blessings available to you.  I drive a Subaru Impreza.  It's a good, reliable car.  I could spend my days lamenting the fact that I don't own a flashier, more expensive vehicle.  Say an Escalade or Mercedes.  Or I can just be happy that I have a mode of transportation sitting in my driveway that gets me where I need to go quickly and easily and efficiently (when it comes to miles per gallon).  I choose happiness.

I worked at the library all day.  After having yesterday off, I will admit that I wasn't exactly excited to be on the job on a Saturday for over seven hours.  Plus, the cloud of sadness that's been hanging over my head recently was still with me, fogging my vision.

I followed my normal routine when I arrived at my office.  I checked my email and phone messages.  Made a list of tasks to complete.  Then, I walked downstairs to check my mailbox.

When you're a writer/poet, there's a special thrill that I really can't describe.  It comes when you see something you've written in print.  Your name in the table of contents alongside other writers whom you know and admire.  Your words spilling down the page.  Nothing compares to this.

Granted, I publish blog posts every day.  Sometimes those posts contain poems I've written.  But blogging is not the same as holding a book or literary journal in your hands, knowing that someone liked your work enough to pay to have it printed.

In my library mailbox this morning was my copy of a new anthology of essays about water.  On page 77 of the anthology is my essay "The Language of Water."  When I had the book in my hands, flipped thought its thick, rich pages to my contribution, I actually felt that cloud of sadness lift a little.  I was happy.  Very happy.  And that happiness has stayed with me most of the day.

It was what other people might describe as a tiny joy.  A butterfly heaven.

For Saint Marty, it was a wide, blue blessing.

Lake Superior on a clear August morning.