The Hermit Crab
by: Mary Oliver
Once I looked inside
the darkness
of a shell folded like a pastry,
and there was a fancy face--
or almost a face--
it turned away
and frisked up its brawny forearms
so quickly
against the light
and my looking in
I scarcely had time to see it,
gleaming
under the pure white roof
of old calcium.
When I set it down, it hurried
along the tideline
of the sea,
which was slashing along as usual,
shouting and hissing
toward the future,
turning its back
with every tide on the past,
leaving the shore littered
every morning
with more ornaments of death--
what a pearly rubble
from which to choose a house
like a white flower--
and what a rebellion
to leap into it
and hold on,
connecting everything,
the past to the future--
which is of course the miracle--
which is the only argument there is
against the sea.
To live somewhere a long time is an act of desperation and hope, especially a place that defies hospitality sometimes.
That's what the hermit crab does in this poem. As Oliver peers into the front window of the hermit crab's shell, she sees a creature that is both past and future. defying the tides and wrack and ruin of the sea. It crawls into an ornament of death and scuttles away, carrying on its back what was into what is and what will be.
It has been a very long and stressful week. When I woke up this past Monday morning, I had no idea that, five days later, a brand new car would be sitting in my driveway. Of course, I'm enjoying all the bells and whistles of this vehicle. Touch screen. Backup cameras. Lane departure warnings. And that new car smell. It's the same make and model as the car I drove to work five days ago, so it's not like I've traded up for bigger and better. My foot is still firmly planted in the past as I move through the present into the future.
What was into what is and will be.
I'm not a person who deals with change easily, as most of my faithful disciples know. I'm a creature of habit, enjoying routine and predictability. Except for around four years in Kalamazoo, I've lived the majority of my adult life in the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. In that time, I've worked in healthcare for over twenty years, and I've been teaching at the local university for going on thirty years (through six English Department Heads and seven university presidents). Three years ago, I started a new career at a library, and I have no plans of movin' on up any time soon (cue The Jeffersons theme song).
The hermit crab is an introvert. Tries to avoid Oliver's prying stare. Leave me alone, it seems to say as it retreats further into the pearly recesses of its chosen home. Yes, the sea is constantly revising itself and its shoreline. From day to day, nothing remains exactly the same. Yet, the hermit crab thrives in this ever-changing environment, stubbornly surviving.
My life has sort of been the same--an act of stubborn survival. I've clung to my marriage and family like the hermit crab clings to its pastry shell, through winter and summer, hurricane and nor'easter. There have been times when I've been battered by well-intentioned advice about what I should or shouldn't do, from divorce to parenting to new car purchases. Some of my choices have confounded my loved ones. And that's okay. Sometimes the only argument against the sea is just to hang on and wait out the waves and winds and tides.
I do it for moments like tonight. After picking my son up in my new car and driving him home, I stood outside and wondered at the blaze of sunset in the sky. In the distance, I could hear the high school marching band playing at the football field, followed by the muted roar of the crowd and the announcer. It was a miracle moment--reminding me of where I started, where I am, and where I'm going.
And Saint Marty has a new car to get there.
❤️
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