by: Mary Oliver
After rain after many days without rain,
it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,
and the dampness there, married now to gravity,
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss,
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground
where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish
except to our eyes. The roots of the oaks will have their share,
and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss,
a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;
and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,
will feel themselves being touched.
Yes, Oliver describes a gentle moment of happiness, lingering after a rain. The land soaks up the storm, its waters touching the roots of oaks and grasses, cushions of moss, and small stones buried for an eon deep in the earth. Everything and everyone in the world deserves moments like this, to break up the brokenness of life and the world.
I've had a couple of days. Didn't have to assemble any more Christmas trees at the library. Listened to student presentations in class. Yesterday, I spent a few hours in the evening with one of my oldest and bestest best friends who was teaching a needle felting workshop.
But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days. On Saturday, I received an envelope in the mail from a local publication, Marquette Monthly. The editors published one of my Christmas essays in their December issue. Inside that envelope was a check for the essay. I've been a working poet/writer for over three decades. This was only the second time I've been paid in cash for something I'd written. That felt pretty amazing.
But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days. Today, with the help of one of my best poet friends, I put together a manuscript and sent it off to be printed. That's right: I will have a new book in my hands in less than a couple weeks. That's pretty amazing.
But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened in the past seven days. For several months now, I've been trying to write my annual Christmas essay for the local Public Radio station. I've started and abandoned a forest of ideas and drafts. This afternoon, I finally hit upon the right idea and opening paragraphs. That was pretty amazing.
But that's not the most amazing thing that's happened to me in the past seven days. Here is the most amazing thing: my beautiful daughter turned 23 years old today. That's right: 8,395 days ago--on a bitterly cold December morning after a snowstorm--my daughter made me a father. That was, is, and always will be one of the most amazing things that's ever happened to me.
She came over this evening for cake and ice cream and presents, and it was one of those gentle moments of happiness Oliver talks about. All of us together, eating and talking and laughing while a gentle snow fell outside. It was . . . perfect.
Marty is a very, very lucky saint.
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