Terns
by: Mary Oliver
Don't think just now of the trudging forward of thought,
but of the wing-drive of unquestioning affirmation.
It's summer, you never saw such a blue sky,
and here they are, those white birds with quick wings,
sweeping over the waves,
chattering and plunging,
their thin beaks snapping, their hard eyes
happy as little nails.
The years to come--this is a promise--
will grant you ample time
to try the difficult steps in the empire of thought
where you seek for the shining proofs you think you must have.
But nothing you ever understand will be sweeter, or more binding,
than this deepest affinity between your eyes and the world.
The flock thickens
over the roiling, salt brightness. Listen,
maybe such devotion, in which one holds the world
in the clasp of attention, isn't the perfect prayer,
but it must be close, for the sorrow, whose name is doubt,
is thus subdued, and not through the weaponry of reason,
but of pure submission. Tell me, what else
could beauty be for? And now the tide
is at its very crown,
the white birds sprinkle down,
gathering up the loose silver, rising
as if weightless. It isn't instruction, or a parable.
It isn't for any vanity or ambition
except for the one allowed, to stay alive.
It's only a nimble frolic
over the waves. And you find, for hours,
you cannot even remember the questions
that weigh so in your mind.
I spend most of my days in the trudging forward of thought, distracted by all of the details of life, as Oliver describes. And I don't think I'm alone in this. My life sort of requires me to think ahead, plan ahead, worry ahead. Unless something stops me dead cold, because of its beauty or mystery or weirdness, I am always one or two or three steps/hours/days/weeks/months ahead in thought.
I know this practice isn't healthy. In fact, it causes me a great deal of stress. Because none of us really knows what the future holds. We don't know if we are even going to wake up tomorrow morning or be spirited away in the middle of the night by some little comet of blood in our heads. (Sorry. This is the way my brain works. I'm constantly distracted by these kinds of thoughts.)
Today, for example, was filled with planning ahead. This morning, I took my puppy for a physical therapy appointment for her injured leg. For an hour, I worked with the therapist, helping her stretch, ultrasound, and exercise my dog. I'm doing this so that my dog will have the most mobility possible for the rest of her life. Planning ahead.
I had an event this evening at the library, and I was a performer in the show. So, I spent the bulk of my time setting up mics and chairs, printing out sketches and set lists, selecting poems and essays to read. Basically, doing everything within my power to make sure that the show went smoothly. Planning ahead again.
You see what I mean. I didn't have a chance to walk down to Lake Superior and watch the ducks or geese. (I've never seen a tern in my little corner of Lake Superior, but I'm terrible at identifying birds.) The only time I lived in the present today were the two hours I was performing. You sort of have to be in the moment when you're onstage. Other than that, I was physically here, but my mind was planning for Halloween, Thanksgiving, and Christmas.
The only creature in my life that lives in the moment is my dog. She doesn't worry about the future. Pretty much, she lives from meal to walk to meal, with occasional trots around the backyard to relieve herself. That's her life. She gets hungry, food is given to her. She has a full bladder, out to the lawn she goes. She gets tired, her pillow is right next to her for a nap. In. The. Moment.
I think all our lives would be so much simpler and better if we lived like my dog. Pay attention to what is in front of your face, be it terns, the moon, or a hot fudge sundae. Let the future take care of itself until it becomes the present.
Now, Saint Marty needs to go for a walk around the backyard. His bladder is full. (Just kidding.)
