Alexandersmap

    Tag: Mary Oliver

    • The Wave

      We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we
      change.
      Congratulations, if
      you have changed.
      — Mary Oliver, To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

      Anyone who survives a day at the beach learns quickly that waves are meant to be faced one at a time—fully present with the one we’re in, but aware of what’s coming next. The one that has just washed over us is has already receded as undertow as the next rises to meet us. We learn not to dwell on what has come and gone when there’s another wave rising before us. To dwell on the undertow of what’s already receding serves no purpose but to fill our bottom with grit.

      We are nothing more than the routine with which we wrap our days in, and we become nothing more than the changes we embrace for ourselves. We know that change is constant. We accept that it’s often unpredictable. And we grow at the pace with which we adapt to it and learn to seek it for ourselves.

      Indeed, we’re grittier than we once were, and built to face what’s coming next. Life is always the next wave, and if we survive it, the one after that. Learn from all that is receding, but focus on what’s rising to meet us. We are changed, and we are changing more still.

    • The Master

      The reaper’s story is the story
      of endless work of
      work careful and heavy but the
      reaper cannot
      separate them out there they
      are in the story of his life
      bright random useless
      year after year
      taken with the serious tons
      weeds without value humorous
      beautiful weeds.
      — Mary Oliver, Morning Glories

      The garden begins to fade, and really, who has the time to manage it all, what with so much going on these last few weeks of summer? Life washes over us, and we look up and the crab grass and clover and bittersweet have all gained a foothold once again. And the irritatingly cheerful morning glories, relentless in their persistence, rise seemingly out of nowhere to mock the overwhelmed gardener. We all suffer the same fate: Thinking we’re in control and finding out we were merely apprentices. The master was always time.

      I write every morning, that’s my moment of glory. The payoff isn’t in views or likes or shares, it’s in doing what I promised myself I’d do day-after-day. I forget sometimes that people do read this blog, because I don’t want to think about people reading it while I’m writing it. That kind of thinking makes a mess of us. Flow happens when we forget what happens when we eventually click publish.

      I write that knowing this all could have been anonymous, but ego had its way, and now the secret is out. Ego is its own master, if we let it be. But things like gardening and writing make a mockery of ego eventually. We learn we’re not all that important in the big scheme of things. We just do what we can with the time we have. That in itself is glorious.

    • Our Quiet Proximity

      Oh good scholar,
      I say to myself,
      how can you help

      but grow wise
      with such teachings
      as these—
      the untrimmable light

      of the world,
      the ocean’s shine,
      the prayers that are made
      out of grass?
      — Mary Oliver, Mindful

      Yesterday I watched a skunk shuffle along in that skunky way, sniffing and moving through the neighborhood. Bad break for those of us with dogs, and a reminder for us to be more aware. Dogs have no problem being aware, and boldly curious, which is why they end up on the wrong end of skunks all too often.

      On that very same walk, I watched a snapping turtle glide underwater in the stream as I walked over the bridge. The turtle is an active participant in the stream—I’ve seen her before, seen where she had buried her eggs, and expect I might see her every time I walk. But sometimes I see the blue heron instead, or the river otter, or the ducks moving through the slow August current. These characters aren’t fond of spectators hovering over them on the bridge, so I’ve learned to ease up slowly and glance discreetly down. And so has the pup.

      On the day that my father passed from this world, I remained very much a part of it, fully aware of what surrounded me. That we should rush through life without noticing the blessings around us is the curse of a busy mind. If my long goodbye with my father taught me anything, it was to appreciate the gift of presence for all it offers. It’s not a eureka moment, it’s a lingering awareness of all that is and will be in our quiet proximity. The light of the world continues to shine through in unexpected ways, simply awaiting our notice.

    • A Quiet State of Being

      If I had another life
      I would want to spend it all on some
      unstinting happiness.

      I would be a fox, or a tree
      full of waving branches.
      I wouldn’t mind being a rose
      in a field full of roses.

      Fear has not yet occurred to them, nor ambition.
      Reason they have not yet thought of.
      Neither do they ask how long they must be roses, and then what.
      Or any foolish question.
      — Mary Oliver, Roses, Late Summer

      The heat of summer has propelled the growth of the Musa zebrina (blood banana) plants. Bananas have no business growing in Zone 5 New Hampshire, but they don’t follow the rules layed down by zones any more than I do. I’ve had these blood bananas for more than a decade. I bring them out after the danger of frost, patiently wait for signs of life, and watch them reach for the sky when the days grow long and hot. The season is too short for them to produce blossoms, but long enough for them to thrive in their time before I reluctantly drag them back to the cellar to winter over yet again.

      My bride and I were talking about everything that’s happened this summer, and everything that will happen if things go according to plan (we know how plans go, but we also know that some things never happen without a plan). Life is moving along thusly, and we are swept up in the current of being. We are where we are, doing what we believe we should be doing, one blessed day at a time. We may thrive in our time, or simply dance with the days as best we can while we have them. We determine what we can, and accept that whatever will be will be.

      So many people work so very hard to be happy. As if you could earn happiness by how much money you make or how many likes you have from your latest post on social media. Happiness is not an objective, it’s flows from us as a byproduct of purposeful, engaged living. Purposeful in turn is simply moving with awareness towards something. Those potted bananas are trapped in pots, reliant on my inclination to save them from dying of thirst or a killing frost. Yet they dance in the sun each summer day anyway. Are they happy? Or simply living a quiet state of being in the time that they are given?

    • Perfectly Reasonable Reasons

      “Listen, are you breathing just a little, and calling it a life?” — Mary Oliver

      It’s always the poets and the artists who draw our attention away from the straight and narrow path. And if we ever need a poem to call us out and force us to reassess what we’re focused on, reading Mary Oliver’s Have You Ever Tried to Enter the Long Black Branches in the quiet time before the world awakens to demand we fall in line will do the trick. We listen at our peril, for to do so is to shatter the illusion that this life we’ve wrapped around ourselves in this protective shell is enough.

      How long will you continue to listen to those dark shouters, caution and prudence?
      Fall in! Fall in!

      What are we doing with our time? Have we noticed, even as we’ve entered the height of summer, that the days are growing shorter? We must venture to the tingly work now. What is bold and a little scary? What are we truly working on but clever excuses and perfectly reasonable reasons for not leaping? Do we really believe the audacious life will sit in the corner awaiting our approval?

      What do we see? What do we seek? Go to it. For our time grows ever shorter. May this day leave us breathless with wonder at what we’ve done with the time.

    • The Incredible Gift

      And under the trees, beyond time’s brittle drift,
      I stood like Adam in his lonely garden
      On that first morning, shaken out of sleep,
      Rubbing his eyes, listening, parting the leaves,
      Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift.
      — Mary Oliver, Morning in a New Land

      I’m nearing the end with my father, I can see that clearly now. In some ways our time ended years ago, back when we lost him to another life. And then we lost him again when his mind began to fail him, and you no longer recall the last time he said your name, because maybe your own memory betrays you in the recollection. Dementia is a bastard in this way, stealing the lives of people well before the heart stops beating. But eventually the heart will stop beating too. It won’t be long now.

      We may live in the present, but we still carry the past. Whatever it is that we carry is part of who we are, wherever it is that we are going. We may choose to release some things to lighten our load, or to hold on to memories that feel like someone else’s story the further we move away from them. Memories drift with the winds of time, offering glimpses of who we once were, like some movie that we watch again and again even though we know how it ends. When memory ends, does the story end with it? I think that those with dementia have had their burden released to those they leave behind—their memories are now only for others to carry.

      Life is this incredible gift, too often wasted on frivolous distractions, or perhaps we believe they are harnessed in relentless pursuit. But tell me, the pursuit of what? The gift is the present itself, whatever it’s wrapped up in. We must savor the days for what they bring. Even this. The long goodbye is its own gift, even if it doesn’t feel like it in the moment.

      Amor fati: love of fate. It’s easy to say these words, harder to live by them. We cannot control what fate brings us, we can only accept it and do the best we can on the test. For the sun will rise again, and we must carry on. The miracle remains that we were ever here at all.

    • Creating Outcomes

      “There is some risk involved in action, there always is. But there is far more risk in failure to act.” — Harry S. Truman

      The funny thing about taking action is that it often leads to more opportunities to act. We become action-oriented, and notice opportunities to act more often than someone who is sedentary and usually looking for opportunities to rest. Ultimately we go in the direction we set our compass to, seeing what we see while creating outcomes that lead to even more outcomes.

      That term, creating outcomes, is high agency stuff. It’s an action-oriented approach to living that suits us. We all know that we’re here for a short time (memento mori). If you read this blog with any regularity you’ve certainly heard me mention that with some frequency. This is not a death-focused mindset, it’s life-focused. Awareness leads to action. We only have so much time—don’t dare waste a moment of it!

      What is an outcome but a destination separated from us by a gap we close? We see the target, determine the action necessary to reach it, and do the work to bridge our here with our potential there. Having reached an outcome, we naturally look towards the next interesting destination, and so on. This is a growth mindset, and it’s a world apart from believing we have no control over our lives. Decide what to be and go be it.

      All that said, I see even as I’m actively bridging gaps that there are other gaps yet to bridge. The only thing to do is figure out how to create those outcomes too, then get after it with urgency. For the clock is ticking and time flies (tempus fugit) and we’re deep into our one precious life, so what are we waiting for?

    • To Be Filled

      When I am among the trees,

      especially the willows and the honey locust,

      equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,

      they give off such hints of gladness,

      I would almost say that they save me, and daily.

      I am so distant from the hope of myself,

      in which I have goodness, and discernment,

      and never hurry through the world

      but walk slowly, and bow often.

      Around me the trees stir in their leaves

      and call out, “Stay awhile.”

      The light flows from their branches.

      And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,

      “and you too have come

      into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
      with light, and to shine.”
      — Mary Oliver, When I Am Among the Trees

      This morning it’s raining again.

      For the thirteenth Saturday in a row, I might add.

      Breaking a record, I’m told, for consecutive weekends of rainy Saturdays.

      And even though I’d rather have the sun warm my face and draw my tomato vines to the sky, I don’t mind a rainy morning. If only for the sounds it brings to the forest. If only for the quiet it brings to an otherwise busy mind.

      We may choose how to face each day. My inclination to shine may seem out of step with the times, but it’s my day to face in whatever way I decide to face it. To bring light to darkness is a choice, just as it is a choice to bring darkness to light. How we bring balance back to the world is determined by the collective, but I’ll go on shining as best I can in my time.

      Filled with light, I’m inclined to share it.

    • A Wee Bit of Stubborn Attention

      “People think it’s about self-indulgence or selfishness or something like that. But it isn’t really. It’s about, where is your attention? Where does your attention want to be? … in a world where everything is trying to claim your attention to sell you something or to get you to vote for something or to believe in something, what your attention wants to do is important. And it just is constantly bombarded by other demands.
      Hold on. What is it I liked? What is the thing that really mattered to me? … you really ought to be the shepherd of your own attention. You can’t let that be stolen from you. I think that one of the primary qualities of the artist is stubbornness. And that is what stubbornness is about. It’s about refusing to have your attention stolen.” — Brian Eno, Inside Brian Eno’s Studio | Zane Lowe Interview

      There’s a lot to be distracted about at the moment. Perhaps that is one reason this interview with Brian Eno resonated so well with me. But there’s always distraction—a lifetime of it swirling around us at all times, with the promise of much more to come. This planet has become very distracting indeed. We still ought to do something with the time we have.

      What is that thing? Why is it hiding behind the chorus of obligations and distraction we call a life? Drag it out on stage and let’s hear what kind of voice that thing has. Too shy for a spotlight? We must remember that nothing else matters in our days than bringing that voice to the forefront (I gotta have more cowbell!). It’s now or never for our essential work.

      Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
      Tell me, what is it you plan to do
      with your one wild and precious life?
      —Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

      There are a few ways to hear that voice. We may try to amplify it, by placing ourselves in an environment where the voice is prioritized above all, or, if that’s not enough, we can remove all the other noise, that we may finally hear what that timid voice is whispering to us. But there’s another way, and that’s to find a chorus that works with our voice to find a truth that we might not have found otherwise. In such moments, the choir soars to new heights.

      Whatever our path to creative expression, our time grows short. We ought to do what we can with what we have. That begins with being a little selfish with our attention. Sure, we may let the world speak to us, for it’s not shy with its demands, but really, what was that thing that really mattered most to us? Why not give that a voice today? If only to discover where a wee bit of stubborn attention may bring us.

    • What Would Do?

      And, if you have not been enchanted by this adventure—
          your life—
      what would do for you?
      — Mary Oliver, To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

      There’s still time today to find adventure. The day is still young, and we are young enough to be bold—and old enough to play this hand wisely. Seek adventure, as Thoreau whispers from his root-covered grave in Sleepy Hollow Cemetery. Be enchanted, Oliver whispers from her grave in Amarillo.

      And so we must heed the call, with the sum of who we are, to multiply our experiences. There is no deferring with living. Do the math: Every day we subtract another.

      Yes, these are distracting times, and things like adventure and enchantment may seem frivolous when there’s so much at stake in the world. But this is our time, and these are our days to be alive. Do something that stirs and inspires. The world will still be there, miserable as ever, when we return to it.

      What would do for you? What are you waiting for? Do. Be. While there’s still time.