On Winter's Margin
by: Mary Oliver
On winter's margin, see the small birds now
With half-forged memories come flocking home
To gardens famous for their charity.
The green globe's broken; vines like tangled veins
Hang at the entrance to the silent wood.
With half a loaf, I am the prince of crumbs;
By time snow's down, the birds amassed will sing
Like children for their sire to walk abroad!
But what I love, is the gray stubborn hawk
Who floats alone beyond the frozen vines;
And what I dream of are the patient deer
Who stand on legs like reeds and drink the wind;--
They are what saves the world: who choose to grow
Thin to a starting point beyond this squalor.
Winter's margin--that is where I find myself right now. Oliver, too. For her, the admission price to walk through the entrance to the silent wood is a half loaf of bread to share with the birds amassed in the snow. The birds sing for their feast while the solitary hawk circles above and deer lap up the currents of cold air. Winter's margin is both abundance and starvation.
At this time of the rolling year, as Dickens would say, it's easy to focus on the darkness that is slowly chewing down the day. The winter solstice is fast approaching, and soon light will be as precious and scarce as honeycomb. For many, this squalor of winter brings on times of struggle. Long days of exhaustion and hunger.
The holidays used to bring me only joy and light. I would drive around, gawking at the neighborhoods festooned with glowing decorations. On All Saints' Day, I would unpack my Christmas tree, put a little Bing Crosby or Perry Como on the turntable, and go to town. By the time Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas! aired, I was in full Whoville mode.
Nowadays, I'm a little more like Charlie Brownish, in need of a nickel therapy session. I still love the trappings of the season, but, more and more, exhaustion is my dominant state of being in December. During the height of the pandemic, with churches closed, retailors severely regulated, and holiday gatherings all but illegal, I actually felt the peace on Earth the angels sing about in the Biblical nativity narrative. That December 25, at home with my kids and wife, was one of the best of my whole adult life.
As with most periods of peace, though, it didn't last long. The next year, from Black Friday onward, the Christmas crush was in full swing. Concerts. Plays. Church services. Movies. Sales. Cookie exchanges. It all came roaring back, as if we hadn't learned anything from the previous holiday season. We went from simple as hay to harried as squirrels.
And the darkness and exhaustion returned for me.
On my way home this evening, I was feeling particularly spent. This whole week has been a series of close encounters with individuals and groups frenzied with Christmas needs and wants. Even though it was only Wednesday, and not even December yet, I was ready for a long winter's nap.
And then the sky exploded with light. Gold and orange fire burned the clouds. I stood outside. In wonder. In awe. It reminded me that the universe is always filled with beauty and peace. That yuletide gifts are everywhere, and darkness never gets the final word. Ever.
Saint Marty feasted on the abundance of winter's margin tonight.
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