CHANGE
Mary Oliver is a Dear Friend of Mine
Some Things Don’t Change in the Way That They Change Us
Mary Oliver is a dear friend of mine. I know this because when I read her work I feel as though we cannot possibly not be friends. Also, because she once declared in a beautiful essay that she is friends with Walt Whitman, whom she never met, and only knew through his writing. She said as much in her essay My Friend Walt Whitman in the book of essays entitled Upstream. She said “I never met any of my friends, of course, not in a usual way — they were strangers and lived only in their writings. But if they were only shadow-companions, still they were constant, and powerful and amazing.” If she can be friends with Uncle Walt, then surely I can be friends with her.
I discovered Mary Oliver almost by accident, except there are no accidents, and in her, I have found a kindred spirit that my 17-year-old self would have adored, and my 44-year-old self is grateful to have found. For most of my life I have been the sort of person who almost always has at least one book on her person, a sketchbook and at least one, often two or three books to read. For the better part of the last two years that has included a book written by her.
Books act like a security blanket. They are comfort, and a conversation piece, entertainment, and escape.
My friend Mary knew — and loved wandering in the woods — and like me, preferred to be alone and said as much in her writing. As I wander, breathing in deeply the earthy scent of the forest, tasting the musky air, being solitary in the woods allows for stillness, and opportunity to just… be. I’m positive she probably never wandered the same stretches that I do in and around my mid-sized Midwestern city, and yet there is a familiarity in her words that only a lover of nature understands.
There is magic that comes when you wander a trail often enough that the trees become your friends. Have you ever talked to a tree? I have. There is a park in my city, hidden, but not really, at the end of a street, that extends into a greenbelt full of trails. This was the first bit of woods I was brave enough to explore on my own. For the better part of almost three decades, it has been where I go when I need to return to myself — Self, and return to earth.
Thank you, tree friends, and animal friends, and human friends. I am grateful for you.
My time in the woods grounds me. It feeds the internal spot that doesn’t need heat, rather it craves the cooling calm that only the forest can provide. They are where I retreat to when life feels like too much, when the stress of parenting, and teaching starts to overcome me, and it is in these moments that I am reminded of her poem, When I am Among the Trees, as she talks about how the trees invite her to “stay awhile” and remind her that she too has “… come into this world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light and to shine.”
Earlier this summer it was in these woods where I fell and broke my ankle. As soon as I had clearance to drive I visited them, I went hiking with my eyes from the car, studying the angles of the trees, and the way the green of the leaves shifted with the sunlight and in the shadows, soaking in the delicious quiet whispers of the trees, and as soon as I had clearance to walk on two legs I went for a walk on a paved trail. Within days of the boot coming off, I was back on the trails I know and call home.
For me, being among the trees is the closest I ever feel to a higher source.
This summer, I allowed myself time to notice small movements of bugs or ground squirrels, birds I hadn’t paid attention to before, conversations between cardinals, and I paused, often. In the weeks immediately after my return, I saw wasps building a nest. If they noticed me they didn’t bother to acknowledge my presence. I took them in, fascinated by how benign this creature I had always viewed as aggressive was behaving when left to do what a paper wasp does. This celebration of these creatures reminds me of a time when Mary implored in a poem called Look Again, where she describes in great detail a toad,
“…and if the smile is wide it never fails, and the warts, the delicate uplifts of dust-colored skin, are neither random nor suggestive of dolor, but rather are little streams of jewelry in patterns of espousal and pleasure, running up and down their crooked backs, sweet and alive in the sun.”
Yes, Mary, toads are indeed underappreciated, and beautiful, warts and all.
The same stretch of woods I discovered as a frustrated teen — riding my bike as fast as I could in an attempt to escape my own mind — has welcomed me back 27+ years later, older, settled, no longer looking for an escape, walking this time, slower, deliberately, and soaking in the wisdom of the trees rather than dismissing it. The trees have welcomed me back. For me, being among the trees is the closest I ever feel to a higher source. There is beauty, magic, and growth in all of it — tiny insects, or bacteria imperceptible to the naked eye, large trees, and that which is now decaying — feeding the growth, and sustaining the future of the forest.
“I don’t really want to be witnessed talking to the catbirds or hugging the old black oak tree. I have my way of praying, as you no doubt have yours” — How I Go Into the Woods
Yesterday I found myself in this space where I was shifting from one mindset to another after four weekends in a row surrounded by humans, and artists, and toward a bit of time where I get to feed that academic part of my brain that right now is hungry. I’m an introvert, and all of this people-ing has me feeling drained. I asked my kids to come for a walk with me today. They were tired and insisted I go alone. As is my way, on my way into the park, I asked the trees permission to talk to them, to seek their guidance. As I was nearing the end of my walk, I bumped into a college friend I haven’t seen in more than 20 years, and while we chatted, a deer ran past us, and woodpeckers played in the trees. My friend's family, who doesn’t frequent this park was amazed. I was just grateful. Those woods, that stretch of home, with its gifts, always provides exactly what I need, even people just as I think I am done people-ing. As I exited the woods today I thanked the trees and expressed gratitude to the creatures who honored me with their presence. As I was getting in my car, at my feet, a smashed coin. Thank you, tree friends, and animal friends, and human friends. I am grateful for you.
© Sarah Backstrom 2021
