On the Occasion of Mary Oliver’s Death

My Facebook feed is replete with poems of Mary Oliver, a 21st century tribute on the day of this sublime poet’s death. A tribute not only to her astounding poetic oeuvre, but more so, to how her way of perceiving and inhabiting the world eased the burden of living a human life and increased the human quotient of joy by revealing and reveling in our inherent connection with nature.

People are posting their favorite poems, or passages. Most are familiar — some especially so. A few are unknown or only whisper that perhaps once, at some point now long ago, our paths crossed.

Tonight, I was at a meeting at church. We begin our meetings by lighting a chalice and speaking aloud words of inspiration. It seemed most apt to read this Mary Oliver poem, which ends thusly:

It is one of my favorites of hers, though there are many-many of which this can be said.

Mary, in your last moments, may amazement have been your sweetest partner. At your last breath, may you have been taken into the arms of the world.

It is the poem below that is the one — if I must choose only one — that cannot be separated from a particular moment in my life. I don’t think it’s a much-admired poem. I’m not sure that I’ve ever heard someone else claim it as their favorite or even refer to it. Yet, it is mine in a way that can stop only when I stop breathing.

The poem is mine because it was my companion the day that I decided to approach the man who had violated me sexually, who had once been my lover, who had hurt me in such a way that years later, I was still nursing the wounds, still tending the trauma.

It is mine because when I came face to face with this man who had hurt me so, this poem-turned-mantra (faith, not logic; faith, not logic; faith not logic) scooped me into its metaphorical arms, repeating itself throughout my whole body, then compelled me to do the thing I feared.

This poem is mine because in its vibrating lines, which echoed within me and would not leave me alone, I was able to confront this man, to walk with this man, to speak my truth without my voice wavering (too much); I was able to offer him not forgiveness, but an accountability that meant something precious to my own healing.

It is mine because it was exactly what I needed to open my wings and step over the very dark thing that had too long been my companion. (And sometimes, still is.)

Egrets

Where the path closed

down and over,

through the scumbled leaves,

fallen branches,

through the knotted catbrier,

I kept going. Finally

I could not

save my arms

from thorns; soon

the mosquitoes

smelled me, hot

and wounded, and came

wheeling and whining.

And that’s how I came

to the edge of the pond:

black and empty

except for a spindle

of bleached reeds

at the far shore

which, as I looked,

wrinkled suddenly

into three egrets — — –

a shower

of white fire!

Even half-asleep they had

such faith in the world

that had made them — — –

tilting through the water,

unruffled, sure,

by the laws

of their faith not logic,

they opened their wings

softly and stepped

over every dark thing.