Goldenrod, Late Fall
by: Mary Oliver
This morning the goldenrod are all wearing
their golden shirts
fresh from heaven's soft wash in the chill night.
So it must be a celebration.
And here comes the wind, so many swinging wings!
Has he been invited, or is he the intruder?
Invited, whisper the goldenrod pebbles of the weeds,
as they begin to fall
over the ground. Well, you would think the little murmurs
of the broken blossoms would have said
otherwise, but no. So I sit down among them to
think about it while all around me the crumbling
goes on. The weeds let down their seedy faces
cheerfully, which is the part I like best, and certainly
it is as good as a book for learning from. You would think
they were just going for a small sleep. You would think
they couldn't wait, it was going to be
that snug and even, as all their lives were, full of
excitation. You would think
it was a voyage just beginning, and no darkness anywhere,
but tinged with all necessary instruction, and light,
and all were shriven, as all the round world is,
and so it wasn't anything but easy to fall, to whisper
Good Night.
I'm not sure if Oliver is grieving or celebrating the goldenrod letting go. Certainly, she knows the cycles of the seasons, has watched the golden pebbles of the weeds come and depart every year. Yet she still seems astonished by their nonchalant exit into winter's darkness.
For me, her poem sort of echoes a passage from Ecclesiastes, one that I'm sure Oliver was well-acquainted with: "To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heavens: A time to be born, and a time to die, a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted . . . " Basically, it's all about accepting the beautiful ugliness of the world. Saying "hello" means that, eventually, you will have to say "goodbye." That's the way the universe works.
These last few days, I've found myself reflecting a lot on my life and the choices I've made. I'm not collecting an inventory of regrets, just sort of taking stock of how I cam to be the person I am. Each choice I've made has led me to this night, sitting on my couch in my home in a little mining town in the middle of the Upper Peninsula of Michigan in the United States, reading Mary Oliver and writing this blog post. I'm not claiming that all of my life choices have been good. I'm saying that we learn just as much from our struggles as we do from our triumphs. In fact, we may learn more from our struggles.
Growing up, I was convinced I was going to be the next Steven Spielberg or Stephen King. I even kicked around the idea of attending film school in New York. Obviously, I didn't follow through on that plan. Instead, I studied computer science, math, and English at a local university. After many, many years, I realized that I wasn't Steven Spielberg or Stephen King or John Grisham or Seamus Heaney or Cormac McCarthy. All I could be was the best version of myself, despite my flaws and weaknesses.
Dreams and ambitions are not bad things. They can motivate and guide your decisions. Living every day of your life like Walter Mitty, however, won't lead to fulfillment and happiness. More like disappointment and a constant hunger for something different, better. Dreams change as you get older, fall in love (or not), have kids (or not), and settle into a career and life. Because life is all about changing seasons.
I still hope and dream, for myself and everyone I know. For my kids, I want health and happiness and love, whatever form that may take. For my wife, I want mental wellness and love. For my other family members and friends, I want music and laughter and love. Love, you will notice, is the common denominator. Without it, winter will come a lot sooner for everyone.
By the way, Saint Marty still wouldn't mind a bestselling book of poems and the Nobel Prize in Literature. Just sayin'.
