White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field
by: Mary Oliver
Coming down
out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel,
or a buddha with wings,
it was beautiful
and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings--
five feet apart--and the grabbing
thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys
of the snow--
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes,
to lurk there,
like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows--
so I thought:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us--
as soft as feathers--
that we are instantly weary
of looking and looking, and shut our eyes,
not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river
that is without the least dapple or shadow--
that is nothing but light--scalding, aortal light--
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
Death is a thief that comes in the night. The Grim Reaper. We kick the bucket. Give up the ghost. Slip away. Cash in our chips. We do no go gentle into that good night. (Thank you, Dylan Thomas.) We go belly up. Buy the farm.
And now Mary Oliver gives us this: death is a white owl, full of so much light, soft as feathers.
Oliver's version of death is the opposite of the Grim Reaper. Instead of a dark thresher of souls, the owl is an angel, a buddha with wings. diving out of a freezing sky to claim and carry us away to a river of aortal light where "we are washed and washed / out of our bones."
I find this image of death comforting. Beautiful even. Certainly, owls have gained a certain reputation in popular culture as creatures associated with darkness--anything gothic, filled with ghosts or vampires or witchcraft. The owl in Oliver's poem is less avenging angel and more Hedwig from Harry Potter: a deliverer of important messages, harbinger of good (or bad) news.
Not to worry, faithful disciples. Nobody in my life has died. I've received no horrible news today. (I also haven't received a phone call from the mechanics working on my car, so this may change.) And, as far as I know, my health is good.
All of that could change very quickly. The one thing that all versions of death have in common: surprise. Nobody knows when death is going to appear, hence the thief in the night, the owl diving out of the heavens. None of use knows when our numbers will be up (another popular death metaphor).
At the beginning of the week, all my loved ones were safe and upright, taking oxygen into their lungs, hearts pumping like furnaces beneath their ribs. It's now Wednesday. My car is at the garage, possibly suffering from some fatal illness, and everyone in my life is still safe and upright. But perhaps the white owl is circling over the car dealership right now, waiting to swoop down and carry my car to the river of light. (It's a Subaru Impreza, so it's possible.)
Metaphors are ways for humans to comprehend the incomprehensible--things like suffering, grief, life, death, life after death, and Donald Trump supporters. So, it's not surprising that so many incarnations of death exist. They help us live in a state of negative capability. We don't have to have all the answers. Instead, we embrace the mystery, let it exist and give thanks for it.
My car may be toast (another death metaphor), or it may not be. Like Schrodinger's cat, it is both alive and dead. Fixable and terminal.
Until Saint Marty hears otherwise, the white owl can stay in the marshes, washing someone or something else out of its bones.
❤️
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