June 26: "Terns," Trudging Forward, Future

Mary Oliver distracted by terns . . .

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.)

March 30: "Don't Hesitate," Experience Joy, Gorge Yourself

Mary Oliver gives some advice . . . 

Don't Hesitate

by:  Mary Oliver

If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don't hesitate.  Give in to it.  There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be.  We are not wise, and not very often kind.  And much can never be redeemed.  Still, life has some possibility left.  Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that sometimes something happens better than all the riches and power in the world.  It could be anything, but very likely you notice it in the instant when love begins.  Anyway, that's often the case.  Anyway, whatever it is, don't be afraid of its plenty.  Joy is not made to be a crumb.

My favorite line in that whole stunning poem:  "Joy is not made to be a crumb."

I think that most people think of joy as something rare, like seeing the aurora borealis in a midnight sky or an albino skunk.  We don't know what to do when joy descends on us, because it feels alien.  I know that, when I experience any type of happiness, I'm always waiting for mayhem to come knocking on the door.

Maybe it's a matter of not feeling like I've earned the right to be happy or experience joy.  I was brought up by parents who believed in hard work.  From a very young age, I was taught that nothing in life was free.  As a cradle Catholic, I was spoon-fed guilt along with my strained carrots and peas.  Happiness comes after a whole lot of hard work, like planting and tending a garden all summer, waiting for the harvest in autumn.

Yet, I know that joy isn't some kind of divine reward.  God doesn't look down from on high and say, "Wow, Saint Marty worked his ass off this week.  I'm going to send him a little something special today."  That's not the way the universe works.  If it did, we'd all be Pavlov dogs, performing tasks to receive crumbs of joy to drool over.

That isn't joy.  Joy, as Oliver says, comes quickly, unexpectedly.  When it appears, there are two choices:  grab it with both hands and enjoy every moment of it; or shut the door, turn off the lights, and wait for it to disappear.  Too often, I've done the latter.  Because it's hard for me to trust in joy.  Just like there can't be light without dark, there can't be joy without sadness and grief.  They can't be separated.

The question then becomes whether or not joy is worth the sadness and grief.  That's the price you pay.  If you love someone deeply, you accept the 100% probability that you will lose that person eventually (or that person will lose you).  There's no way around that.  

Oliver says that joy happens when love begins, and I agree with her advice:  don't be afraid of joy.  Sit down at the table and eat all you can.  Gorge yourself on it.  Joy isn't about crumbs.  It's about heaping bowls of mashed potatoes, corn on the cob, and slabs of turkey (or beef or chicken or ham).

Here is my joy for today:  I sat on my couch this evening with my dog.  She hunkered down on her blankets, curled into a comma, and fell asleep.  It was the first time I've seen her really relax since she was attacked last weekend.  She grunted and groaned and snored and twitched.  As I watched her, scratched her slumbering back, I thought of how close we came to losing her, and there it was:  joy and despair.  Two sides of the coin.

Saint Marty embraced this plenty and gave thanks.

January 24: "Percy (One)," Simple Things, Still Positive

Mary Oliver's new dog . . . 

Percy (One)

by:  Mary Oliver

Our new dog, named for the beloved poet,

ate a book which unfortunately we had

     left unguarded.

Fortunately it was the Bhagavad Gita,

of which many copies are available.

Every day now, as Percy grows

into the beauty of his life, we touch

his wild, curly head and say,

"Oh, wisest of little dogs."

It's good to trust in the wisdom of simple things like a hardboiled egg or glass of cold water or spring robin or puppy joy.  These kinds of things bring us pleasure.  Fill our stomachs.  Quench our dry tongues.  Remind us that winter is over.

Of course, we don't live in a world that values simplicity very much.  That's because most of our modern challenges are multi-faceted.  Take climate change, for instance.  The human race is destroying the planet.  Polar ice caps are melting.  Extinction occurs daily.  Air becomes unbreathable.  Water, undrinkable.

Now, each person can do simple things to combat climate change.  It's a matter of changing our habits.  We could drive less.  Recycle.  Eliminate fossil fuels.  Focus on renewable energy.  That's just the tip of the iceberg, which itself is disappearing at an alarming rate.  Our ability to embrace these changes depends on what we value:  Clean air or an SUV?  Clean water or an oil pipeline?  Miles of forest or miles of highways?  Take your pick.

Percy gets it.  The beauty of his life is all about living in the moment, focusing on simple pleasures.  Barking at the squirrel in the tree, car driving down the street, snow falling from the sky.  Chewing up that book lying open on the couch.  That's Percy's wisdom.

And that is drastically different from what usually resides in my head most days.  I thought I was going back to work tomorrow after five days of quarantine.  Sure, I still have a cough, but I always get a persistent cough this time of year.  It usually lasts until spring.  After I dropped my son off at school and wife at work this morning, I drove home and decided to take another COVID test, just to prove that I was better.

The first positive COVID test I took last Friday showed just a very, very faint second line.  If I hadn't looked closely, I would have missed it.  Today, there was no mistaking the second purple line.  I am still positive.  Which means, unless I test negative tomorrow morning, I'm probably going to be teaching online and working from home for the rest of the week.

I am not happy at the moment.  This weekend, I'm supposed to play for three church services and host a meeting of my book club on Sunday night.

As I sit on the couch typing this post, my dog is sleeping next to me.  She is fully stretched out, her legs twitching in some kind of dog dream, probably about chasing a rabbit or waves on a beach.  She's not stressed about work or dinner or school.  When she's hungry, she will eat.  When she's tired, she will sleep.  When she's bored, she will nose my hand with her snout until I reach over and rub her ears.

That's her contentment and wisdom.  The beauty of her life.  The future doesn't really exist for her.  She's just concerned about those tempting pages in the Bhagavad Gita--the ones she can put in her mouth and chew right now.  After that, who cares?

Maybe I need to take more naps.  Chase more squirrels.  Jump in more snowdrifts.  Maybe I need to stop thinking about tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing.  It didn't help MacBeth or his wife.  

Instead, at least for the rest of the day, Saint Marty is going to think about now, and now, and now so that tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow will be much brighter.