November 16: "Snow Moon--Black Bear Gives Birth," Sameness, Out Loud

Mary Oliver writes about motherhood . . .

Snow Moon--Black Bear Gives Birth

by:  Mary Oliver

It was not quite spring, it was

the gray flux before.

Out of the black wave of sleep she turned,

enormous beast,

and welcomed the little ones, blind pink islands

no bigger than shoes.  She washed them;

she nibbled them with teeth like white tusks;

     she curled down

beside them like a horizon.

They snuggled.  Each knew what it was:

an original, formed

in the whirlwind, with no recognition between

itself and the first steams

of creation.  Together they nuzzled

her huge flank until she spilled over,

and they pummeled and pulled her tough nipples, and she

     gave them

the rich river.

It's a tender scene that Oliver paints here:  the mother giving birth in the torpor of hibernation, the tiny, pink cubs hungrily gulping the rich river of her love.  It's ancient and wholly new--draped in the steams of creation.  An old story revised into new story.  That's how the universe works, through constant reinvention.

Any faithful disciple of this blog already knows how I feel about change.  As the husband of one of my best friends once said, "There's nothing wrong with sameness."  I agree with that maxim.  Every time I got out to eat, if it's at a restaurant I know, I will order the exact same entree.  Every.  Time.  Perhaps it's a matter of comfort:  I don't want to be surprised and/or disappointed.  If I like the poutine, why would I order shrimp bisque that I've never tried instead?

I have the same belief about life.  I prefer routine to adventure.  Even though each day is rife with unique challenges of one kind or another, I cling to habit as much as possible.  Variety isn't the spice of life.  A more accurate statement would be:  variety is the ghost pepper of life.  It gives me heartburn and diarrhea.

Tonight, I hosted an event that has been happening every third Thursday of every month for around 20+ years.  It's called Out Loud, and my beloved friend, Helen, started it.  Before the pandemic and Helen's passing, Out Loud always occurred at Joy Center, Helen's fairy cottage of art and poetry and music and creativity in the middle of the woods.  But, changed happened.

Now, Out Loud has morphed, for the time being, into a virtual gathering of Helen's friends and admirers (and everyone--I mean EVERYONE--admired Helen).  I have tried to carry on the tradition.  Helen entrusted Out Loud to me.  In one of the last conversations I had with her, Helen thanked me for keeping her streak going.

During Out Loud tonight, Helen was with us.  I read two of her poems.  The other people present also invoked the spirits of  cherished memories and lost and living loved ones--siblings and mothers and fathers and friends.  One attendee was fresh with grief--his brother was killed in a terrible accident this morning.  In this sacred space Helen created,, we held each other up.  Expressed love and compassion and support. As we always do.

While the venue may have changed, Out Loud is still a safe space.  A healing space.  Every month.

And Saint Marty is so grateful for its routine.  Its sacred sameness.