First Snow
by: Mary Oliver
The snow
began here
this morning and all day
continued, its white
rhetoric everywhere
calling us back to why, how,
whence such beauty and what
the meaning; such
an oracular fever! flowing
past windows, an energy it seemed
would never ebb, never settle
less than lovely! and only now,
deep into night,
it has finally ended.
The silence
is immense,
and the heavens still hold
a million candles; nowhere
the familiar things:
stars, the moon,
the darkness we expect
and nightly turn from. Trees
glitter like castles
of ribbons, the broad fields
smolder with light, a passing
creekbed lies
heaped with shining hills;
and though the questions
that have assailed us all day
remain--not a single
answer has been found--
walking out now
into the silence and the light
under the trees,
and through the fields,
feels like one.
It is difficult to find answers. The world doesn't make a whole lot of sense to me at times. War doesn't make sense. World hunger doesn't make sense when there are people on this planet who have more money than small, third-world nations. Trump supporters don't make sense to me when their leader has tried to overthrow democracy in the United States, causing the deaths of police officers in the process.
For Oliver, in the face of great beauty (first snows, glacial lakes, herds of deer), she has no answers to questions like why, how, whence, and what. The answer, for her, is in the experience of walking out into the snow, wading into freezing waves, observing hungry whitetails feeding on reindeer moss. All that is enough. No need for quantifiable, verifiable solutions. Beauty can't be added up in columns or dissected and anatomized.
I have been away from blogging for the past few days. Where have you been? you might ask. Here is my answer: final grading for the semester at the university. Piles of papers and assignments. Sleepless nights. Frantic student emails. I feel as though I've been running an ultramarathon for the past three days and just crossed the finish line. And the best I can say is that I survived.
This morning, I met a person who knows a little bit about crossing finish lines. I was on a morning TV program with Olympic gold medalist Nick Baumgartner. I was there to talk about Truman Capote's novella "A Christmas Memory." Nick was there to talk about the upcoming release of his new memoir, Gold from Iron. It was inspiring to hear his stories about chasing his dreams no matter what. His gold medal in 2022 in Beijing was the culmination of 17 years of hard, hard work.
After meeting and speaking with Nick, I went back to the library to work. Then, I finished and printed my Christmas letter, bought Christmas stamps, and picked up from Walgreens the Christmas pictures of my kids. Now, all I have to do is stuff the envelopes and mail my Christmas cards tomorrow. Tonight, I practiced music for a Christmas Eve church service--two songs with two wonderful singers. It was lovely to play for them without a stack of ungraded essays waiting for me when I got back home.
Now, I'm sitting in my home office, thinking about all the hard work I've accomplished in the last few days and all the hard work I've yet to complete before Christmas day. By the time I'm done this weekend, I will have attended and/or played four church services, mailed over 80 Christmas cards, and wrapped . . . well, A LOT of presents. (I also hope to make some Christmas cookies.)
Yet, I'm not feeling stressed or overwhelmed. I feel almost ready for this final race toward the beauty of December 25th. No unanswered questions.
Maybe Saint Marty will win a Christmas gold medal.
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