Mussels
by: Mary Oliver
In the riprap,
in the cool caves,
in the dim and salt-refreshed
recesses, they cling
in dark clusters,
in barnacled fistfuls,
in the dampness that never
leaves, in the deeps
of high tide, in the slow
washing away of the water
in which they feed,
in which the blue shells
open a little, and the orange bodies
make a sound,
not loud,
not unmusical, as they take
nourishment, as the ocean
enters their bodies. At low tide
I am on the riprap, clattering
with boots and a pail,
rock over rock; I choose
the crevice, I reach
forward into the dampness,
my hands feeling everywhere
for the best, the biggest. Even before
I decide which to take,
which to twist from the wet rocks,
which to devour,
they, who have no eyes to see with,
see me, like a shadow,
bending forward. Together
they make a sound,
not loud,
not unmusical, as they lean
into the rocks, away
from my grasping fingers.
There's a certain part of this poem that rails against human intrusion. The mussels exist in the cool caves of the riprap, clinging together in fistfuls as the tides roll in and out, their shelled bodies opening just enough to make a not unmusical sound. Oliver, with her boots and pail, wades in, reaches down, and tears the mussels away from their salty beds.
Human beings excel at being human. We have an uncanny knack of messing the universe up--oil spills, strip mining, droughts, dustbowls, and climate change. We are gifted fuckups. We are unkind to the world and each other. It is who we are--fallible and clumsy and cruel at times.
I grew up in a tight-knit family. We did everything together. Vacations, Holidays. Birthdays. Every Independence Day, we had barbecues. Every Thanksgiving, while the turkey was filling the house with hunger, we put up the Christmas tree and decorations, including my mother's manger scene which was elaborate and beautiful. New Year's Eve, we decorated with streamers and balloons, played board games, and ate and ate and ate. These are the celebrations and traditions that defined our lives.
Now, my family is much diminished and scattered. My sister, Sally, who was the true guardian of our traditions, has been gone for eight years. My sister, Rose, who believed in Santa Claus until her last breath, walked into eternity almost two years ago. Between the deaths of Sally and Rose, both of my parents passed on, as well.
Believe it or not, I'm a pretty sentimental person. When I hear Bing Crosby singing, "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas, just like the ones I used to know," I think of my mom playing that on her record player, one of those huge, wooden monstrosities that could double as a casket if you emptied out its guts. As the holidays approach this year, I do find myself dreaming of the ones I used to know, and I'm grieving.
The world changes all the time. I know this. Human beings discover new and improved methods of intruding. messing things up. Families change all the time, too. People enter, people exit. Decades-old practices are forgotten. or they're swept up and thrown away.
In the past, I've fought like a cornered wolverine to continue my family traditions. However, I'm tired of being a one-person army. I won't be pulling on my boots, grabbing a pail, and heading out into the riprap to pry those mussels out of the dim, salty caves of people's hearts this year.
Last night, I hosted a concert by a Native American band called Waawiyeyaa. The name is an Anishinaabe term meaning "it is a circle." The leader of the band, a friend of mine named Marty, talked about the importance of community and family and traditions. Belonging, honoring, and continuing that circle. The Indigenous community gets it.
This holiday season, it seems, my circle will be much smaller. Traditions, at one point or another, weren't traditions. They were simply events that were repeated over and over until they became traditions. I intend to keep my family traditions burning bright. Next Thursday, I will sit down with my wife and son for a dinner with all the traditional foods--turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing, corn, rolls, and pie. I will invite the spirits of all my absent family members who were a part of and loved those traditions: my mother and father, my sisters Sally and Rose. I will keep them alive.
Saint Marty isn't going to be the one who breaks the circle.
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