The next day was rainy and dark. Rain fell on the roof of the barn and dripped steadily from the eaves. Rain fell in the barnyard and ran in crooked courses down into the lane where thistles and pigweed grew. Rain spattered against Mrs. Zuckerman's kitchen windows and came gushing out of the downspouts. Rain fell on the backs of the sheep as they grazed in the meadow. When the sheep tired of standing in the rain, they walked slowly up the lane and into the fold.
E. B. White is fantastic at capturing seasons and weather in his writing. The above paragraph is soaked with rain. You can almost hear it pelting through the sentences, draining down the commas and periods, and puddling in the breaths and pauses. That's White's special brand of authorial alchemy.
I woke to rain this morning. I could hear it drumming the windows. It hasn't rained all day, but it certainly has been gray and wet. The humidity is thick. Stepping outside right now is like a smack in the face with a moist towel. When I went to church, I just sat at the pipe organ and sweated. Even my fingers were perspiring, if that's possible.
I'm going to be by myself again tonight at home. My son decided to spend another night at camp with my brother. My daughter is staying at grandma's house. My plan, once I get this post finished, is to read a lot of
Frog Music by Emma Donoghue. My book club meets this Thursday, and I don't want to be the only person who hasn't finished the book.
So, it will be a quiet night. I think it's supposed to rain again. My whole goal is to stay awake this evening, which is sort of what my final poem from Mary Oliver is about. Staying awake. Or, to be more precise, falling asleep when you're supposed to stay awake. And the poem is about nature. Like E. B. White, Mary Oliver knows how to write about nature. In this case, wind, crickets, a silver tree, and a lake. Somehow, she makes everything seem holy with her words.
Saint Marty bets even Mary Oliver's grocery lists read like psalms.
Gethsemane
by: Mary Oliver
The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.
Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.
The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.
Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.
Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.
Confessions of Saint Marty
