This Morning
by: Mary Oliver
This morning the redbirds' eggs
have hatched and already the chicks
are chirping for food. They don't
know where it's coming from, they
just keep shouting, "More! More!"
As for anything else, they haven't
had a single thought. Their eyes
haven't yet opened, they know nothing
about the sky that's waiting. Or
the thousands, the millions of trees.
They don't even know they have wings.
And just like that, like a simple
neighborhood event, a miracle is
taking place.
It has been a tough day for reasons I will not get into. Just tough. I woke up in a good mood and got through most of the morning before things went to shit. Again, I'm not going to explain what went wrong. Suffice to say, by about 5 p.m., I was ready for a massage or nap or strong drink. Or all three.
Mary Oliver is really good at looking around and finding miracles in marsh and mud, pine tree and stones. In today's poem, it's newly hatched redbirds, their insistent cries for more and more food, the promise of trees and flight in their fragile bodies. Their newness is a miracle. Their hunger and need--miracles.
In the Christian calendar, we are about one week into the Advent season, that time in the church year that is defined by waiting and anticipation. Preparing for the miracle of Christmas Day. I almost prefer the buildup to the big day--these four weeks to focus on tiny, almost imperceptible moments of grace. Miracle moments, if you will. It could be the cheerful "thank you" of a bell ringer at Walmart, when you drop some coins in the bucket. It could be watching your Secret Santa person at work opening her anonymous presents. Or it could be throwing a ball for your puppy to catch, how she looks at you with the anticipation of a kindergartner on Christmas morning.
Tonight was one of those miracle moments for me. My wife and I performed in an Advent program at the Catholic church I've been attending since I was a kid. (I graduated from passive pew-sitter to active pipe organist when I was about 17-years-old.) Lots of beautiful music. Inspiring readings. I read one of my Christmas poems, and my wife sang "Stille Nacht." And, possibly for the first time this year, I felt that old excitement for the holidays. That joyful anticipation.
I love the Christmas season. Always have. I host a podcast called Lit for Christmas. I usually put my tree up right around Halloween every year. My fondest memories of childhood revolve around Thanksgivings and Christmases. My sister, Rose, staring at the beautiful lights strung up in the house, the ornaments in the branches of the tree, my mother's manger scene. My sister, Sally, was the same way. She went full-on Santa at this time of the year, shopping and wrapping and baking and planning.
While reciting my poem tonight at church, listening to my wife sing, I experienced, for a few minutes, all of those feelings again. It was a miracle.
And Saint Marty was blessed.
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