It Is a Serious Thing Just to be Alive
On this fresh morning in this broken world
Boozhoo, indinawemaaganidog! Aaniin! That is to say hello, all of my relatives! Welcome to another edition of An Irritable Métis. I’m in the middle of working on something else more timely given the general mayhem of our current situation but, given the importance I think in recognizing a day like today, I trust you’ll indulge me on honoring today first, even as it draws to a close….
This past September the 25th I woke up early in a Fargo, ND, hotel near the airport. I went out for some coffee and then took a short walk along the banks of the mighty Red River of the North. The trees were beginning to turn from mostly green to a multitude of other colors and the morning light was beautiful. I didn’t have much time to linger as I had a long drive in front of me: I was headed to Spearfish for the South Dakota Book Festival, roughly eight hours away. For a big hunk of the drive I listened to Wild and Precious: A Celebration of Mary Oliver, an audio-only book that had crossed my radar only a day or two before. From the description:
***WINNER OF THE 2024 AUDIE AWARD FOR SHORT STORIES/COLLECTION***
Wild and Precious: A Celebration of Mary Oliver is a first of its kind audio commemoration of one of the greatest poets in modern history. Actress and activist Sophia Bush guides listeners on a journey of contemplation and discovery into the artistry of Mary Oliver as remembered by many who were most greatly impacted by it. For the first time, Oliver’s Bennington College students open up about what it was like to have her for a teacher, friends and neighbors recall her love of place and nature, multi-faith leaders contemplate her spiritual lessons, and high-profile artists and fans like Carmen Maria Machado, Ross Gay, and Rainn Wilson, among others, reflect on the profound influence of her poetry on their own work and lives.
The half-a-day I spent listening to that audio book, which included not just friends and fans and former students talking about Mary and reading her poems, but also Mary herself reading, comprised one of the best and most thoughtful travel days I’ve made in the three years and tens of thousands of miles I’ve covered out on the road not just promoting Becoming Little Shell but also serving Montana and beyond as the state’s poet laureate, a term which ended this past September.
Which also strikes me as weird that that ever happened. The poet laureate thing, I mean. Because it was also in September – this time in 2016 – that I scrawled the following inside the front cover of the little red notebook at my right elbow here: “You’re no damn poet.” This was an observation expressed unexpectedly to me by someone who at the time I considered a close friend and even a mentor of sorts. He was an established poet and I was someone who really wasn’t considering trying to be “a poet” but just wanted to try writing poems. I was hurt by his words and I think his comment – which he followed up by describing all the ways the one rough poem I’d shown him was a failure – probably drove a shard into the heart of our friendship, mostly because I hadn’t given it to him for a critique. I was just sharing.
That I’m here writing right now, and that I have been presented the opportunities I have as a writer, I owe in large part to Mary Oliver. When I discovered her work I fell immediately in love with it. She showed me that beautiful poems could indeed be written about the things I care about, which is all I wanted to do, regardless of what anyone else – and by that I mean “established” poets with university-granted credentials – might think. I wanted to write poems capturing the day-to-day things I encountered in my life, or reflected on, as clearly and simply as possible. Which is what Mary does with her poems and I love them. So do multitudes of other people too.
“I don’t usually mess around with what makes me unhappy when I’m writing. I want to write poems that will comfort, maybe amuse, enliven other people. I don’t mean that the world is all great and wonderful. But I’m careful to—I try to keep the emphasis on the good and the hopeful.”
— Mary Oliver
Today is the seventh anniversary of Mary Oliver’s crossing over in 2019 at the age of 83. She has been much on my mind today, a day that provided the opportunity to wander up a beloved forest trail and visit a beloved cedar grove transfixed by a beloved creek, all while my breath huffed from my face in steamy clouds, assuring me that I remain fully on this side of living. I think Mary would have enjoyed the trip.
I’m really disappointed because one of my favorite articles I’ve ever read about Mary appeared in Parabola magazine after she died, written by her friend, former Rhode Island poet laureate, Lisa Starr. When I went to find the article to link to it, I learned that Parabola has shut down and its vast archive is unavailable. What a loss! I’m grateful to have a physical copy of the issue the essay appeared in and might scan a PDF version of Lisa’s piece, I don’t know. There is kind of a condensed version of it HERE but it’s not quite the same; it’s still beautiful, and worth checking out. I’ve never met or corresponded with Lisa but I would like to, if only to express my gratitude.
UPDATE! A reader found the full essay HERE. Thanks, Nina!
After reading the essay I found myself wanting to be like Mary. Kinder. Supportive of friends and people who don’t get their share of the things they need. Also, quieter. Less public. Even typing these words I feel the need to double down on these efforts. Mary Oliver proved what another of my poet heroes – Matsuo Bashō, probably one of Mary’s too – said: “Real poetry is to lead a beautiful life. To live poetry is better than to write it.” Mary seemed to live a beautiful life; she certainly lived her poetry.
“I've always wanted to write poems and nothing else. There were times over the years when life was not easy, but if you're working a few hours a day and you've got a good book to read, and you can go outside to the beach and dig for clams, you're okay.”
— Mary Oliver, in an interview with Maria Shriver
This year January 1st marked the ten year anniversary of when I left my last “real” job to go all in as a writer. I never could have predicted how things would unfold but they have and here we are. These two weeks since have been full of reflection. Sometimes the pressure of the constant hustle to make a living is incredibly stressful, but whose life isn’t? It’s been a gift to me, the opportunities I’ve had, many of which I owe to people I’ve never met, or never will meet, like Mary Oliver. The example of her work and her commitment and just how she presented herself to the world has been of critical importance to my existence. I am unemployable in any traditional sense at this point in my life which makes this whole writing gig do or die. Again, though: whose situation isn’t? No matter what we do, we all die.
“It is a serious thing | just to be alive | on this fresh morning | in this broken world”
— Mary Oliver
Since I started writing this post this morning the entire day has passed. As I mentioned I spent time with so much of what I love and I needed it more than I realized. At dusk – which I hope many of you in the northern hemisphere are realizing is coming just a wee bit later these days! – the local coyotes kicked up a song. I think Mary would have loved to hear that. And just a little while ago I was out in the cold darkness to walk some clearer thoughts into my head. The sky was cloudless and the stars were magnificent. Mary would have loved that too. I think, had we had opportunity to meet, we’d have been friends, or at least friendly. As long as I didn’t admit I really don’t care so much for Rumi, that is.
The Poetry Foundation has quite a number of Mary’s poems available online HERE. They are worth checking out. If you only read one of her books, I recommend this one. It’s a greatest hits package and it’s transcendent. Over the years since it was first released I sold a pile of them from behind a cash register at a bookstore and have also gifted many other copies. If I had the money I’d offer to send any of you who wants one a copy.
I wrote a few lines of a new poem in my notebook earlier while I was watching the morning outside my window and thinking about the day. I transcribed that draft from my notebook onto my computer and and tweaked and prodded it a bit. This is where it is and I’m a little nervous sharing because it’s still what I would call a draft. I may finish it, or I may not. I post it here because it’s for Mary … and for anyone who appreciates her lovely view of the world, despite, or perhaps even because of, everything we might prefer to not have to endure. We are able to endure because of people like Mary, and how her words made life livable for so many of the rest of us.
On This, the Seventh Anniversary
– of the day that Mary left us
the sun is out and the sky
seen from my perch at the desk
is as impossibly blue as it’s ever been.
I hear the immigrant doves make hoarse squawks
and watch them zoom in and zoom out
from and to the pines and cottonwoods.
House sparrows and house finches
are here, and so is an Oregon junco and,
seen now for the first since quite some time,
a Cassin’s finch with his hot pink mohawk.
A brace of red crossbills shelter briefly
in the Japanese shrub under my window
while across the street a scruffy lonely robin
sprints across the tin roof of a shed looking
still drunk, freshly rolled, and confused.
Finally, with one sweet chirp,
a goldfinch, not yet dressed
in his finest, arrives, greets the day,
and commences to counting leaves.
I breath a deep sigh.
My second cup of coffee is empty
and I don’t yet know what to make
of my waning opportunity for living.
All I know is that my heart is full of joy
in recognition that all the life outside my window
is truly wild and utterly precious.
Beautiful! I especially loved these lines:
My second cup of coffee is empty / and I don’t yet know what to make / of my waning opportunity for living.
The phrase “my waning opportunity for living” pierces my heart and that’s exactly what a good poet does.
The caption to the gold finch pic…….❤️
I haven’t been here for a minute and this essay captures my heart again, reminding me why I came here in the first place. Thanks