With the Blackest of Inks
by: Mary Oliver
At night
the panther,
who is lean
and quick,
is only
a pair of eyes
and, with a yawn,
momentarily,
a long, pink tongue.
Mostly
he listens
as he walks
on the puffs
of his feet
as if
on a carpet
from Persia,
or leaps
into the branches
of a tree,
or swims
across the river,
or simply
stands in the grass
and waits.
Because, Sir,
you have given him,
for your own reasons,
everything that he needs:
leaves, food, shelter;
a conscience
that never blinks.
Oliver writes a praise psalm to the panther--lean and quick, a pair of eyes with a long, pink tongue. Creatures like this were manifestations of the divine for Oliver. Although she often refers to God and prayer in her poems, Oliver did not officially belong to any specific denomination or church. She identified most closely with the Episcopal Church, although she had issues with the Christian concept of the Resurrection. She found holiness elsewhere--in her daily walks in forests or along beaches. She felt most connected to the universe when she was out in it, kicking up piles of leaves, observing bears, listening to coyotes.
Except for a brief rebellious phase when I was a teenager, I've attended church services all of my life (mostly Catholic, but also Methodist, Lutheran, and Episcopalian). I was brought up believing in concepts like original sin, the Virgin birth, and the Resurrection. I don't have a problem with maybes and mysteries. It's not up to me to prove or disprove anything. That's what faith is all about.
However, things happen in life that can shake faith in any kind of Higher Power. For a long time, I struggled with belief after my sister, Sally, died of lymphoma of the brain. I didn't stop going to church or anything, but I was not on a first name basis with God. I was pissed. Confused. Disappointed. Sad. I felt a lot of things, but devotion did not enter into the equation.
We all struggle like this. That's human nature. The world can be a shitty, broken place. Ergo, you will feel shitty and broken at some point during your time on this planet. As any faithful disciple of Saint Marty knows, I've dealt with addiction and mental health issues, personally and with family members. In the last six or seven years, I've lost quite a few people in my life (by last count, two sisters, one brother, both of my parents, and a best friend). Like I said, shitty and broken.
Mary Oliver came from an abusive family background. Her father sexually assaulted her when she was a child. In her poetry, she addressed this trauma in only three or four poems. Other than that, she chose to be a "bride married to amazement . . . the bridegroom taking the world into my arms" ("When Death Comes"). She embraced wonder and mystery in her quest to overcome all that was shitty and broken in her young life.
Her whole life, Mary Oliver remained devoted to the divine creations of the world--the trees and rivers and lakes and birds and animals and fish. That was where she found God. Even though she served on the altar guild of St. Mary of the Harbor Episcopal Church later in her life, she had a complicated relationship with organized religion. She just didn't buy into some Christian dogma, including the idea of Christ's Resurrection, as I said earlier.
Yet, Oliver and God were friends. Good friends. They hiked together in the mornings. She met God as a bear gulping honey from a tree. As her dog chasing a stick on a beach. As an egret climbing into the sky. As a panther walking on the puffs of his feet. These were all signs of the creator, that "Sir" who created the panther like a poet, with "the blackest of inks."
I try to see the world the way Mary Oliver did. I'm looking at my 14-year-old son right now. He's sprawled on the floor, enthralled with his iPhone. It's astounding to me that I had something to do with the creation of him. Last night, I stood in my backyard for a few minutes, watching sunlight leach from the sky as birdsong rattled the dusk. This morning, I heard a rooster crowing in my neighbor's backyard. This world. This alive world. It's full of amazements.
Whatever name you use--Sir, Yahweh, Jesus Christ, Muhammad, science, Lord, Flying Spaghetti Monster--the wonders of God are everywhere, waiting to be noticed, greeted, embraced. Yes, the world is shitty and broken and hard. But there are also things in this world like beavers and birds and music and poetry and long shadows at sunset. Gifts. Miracles.
Saint Marty may write a poem about this tonight, with the ink the color of a panther.
