July 5: "Lingering in Happiness," Rain, Wormly Stupid

Mary Oliver enjoys the rain . . . 

Lingering in Happiness

by:  Mary Oliver

After rain after many days without rain,

it stays cool, private and cleansed, under the trees,

and the dampness there, married now to gravity,

falls branch to branch, leaf to leaf, down to the ground

where it will disappear--but not, of course, vanish

except to our eyes.  The roots of the oaks will have their share,

and the white threads of the grasses, and the cushion of moss,

a few drops, round as pearls, will enter the mole's tunnel;

and soon so many small stones, buried for a thousand years,

will feel themselves being touched.

It rained this morning.  Pretty hard for a short while.  It was the kind of rain that hits the roof so hard it sounds like the death rattle of a thousand crows.  And then it was over, although the storm clouds lingered all day like a bad hangover.

Oliver uses rain as a metaphor.  It appears after days without moisture, scrubs the world clean, seeps into the soil until it touches everything, right down to the rocks buried so deeply that they haven't been kissed by sunlight for a millennium.

When grief comes to visit, it can linger for a long time, like an out-of-town relative who won't go home after a funeral.  I've been living with grief for quite a while now.  Sometimes, it takes a holiday, and I almost feel like I've gotten my life back.  Then I wake up one morning to find grief sleeping in the guest room again.

The world did look cleansed after it rained this morning.  Scrubbed.  

I walked down the sidewalk after the rain, saw worms sprawled out on the cement.  As a kid, I often wondered why worms appeared in such quantity after a soaking storm.  It always seemed so wormly stupid to me, exposing their fat worm bodies to hungry birds and the sun.  Perhaps the worms were trying to escape some worse underground threat.  Perhaps the rain flooded their dirt kingdom, and it was either escape to the surface or drown in a muddy ocean.  (Imagine the movie Titanic with all the Irish and Italian immigrants played by worms.)  

Just as grief can flood a life, so can happiness.  I think that's Oliver's point with this poem.  You can drown in sadness or joy.  The rain this morning washed away the heat headache of the last few days, and the grass and flowers and stones rejoiced, danced in the torrents.

Saint Marty gives thanks for the happiness of fresh rain.

August 23: Rainy and Dark, Mary Oliver, ""Gethsemane," New Cartoon

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