Patience

I have a good friend who, in times of crisis, swears by opening the nearest volume of poems and finding some form of answer or reprieve in whatever work you land on.  Happenstance and fate joining hands, a union of need and serendipity.  

Today two of my dearest friends began journeys, one spiritual and one physical.  In my struggle to know how to give them assistance, I tried out the aforementioned technique.  The book, New and Selected Poems Volume 2 of Mary Oliver.  The poem: Patience.  Imagine my utter shock to have wandered into those pages and come out not with a poem that is right for my friends, but one that is so utterly perfect for me.  

I struggle, often, with patience, with the letting go and letting God/the universe/the angels of our better nature.  I feel a deep joy when I wallow in some semblance of control, but of late I have noticed that is all it is--my control is nothing more than a charade, a glittery blue pool on the horizon of 110 degree day that, once approached, proves to be only sand.  So, today's poem is fitting in that I must try to stop controlling my own life, stop thinking there is a perfect word or thought or deed to accompany the events in my life and instead to breathe, to wait, to trust that what should be will be, whether I will it or not.

Patience, Mary Oliver

What is the good life now? Why,

look here, consider

the moon's white crescent

rounding, slowly, over

the half month to still another

perfect circle-

the shining eye

that lightens the hills,

that lays down the shadows

of the branches of the trees,

that summons the flowers

to open their sleepy faces and look up

into the heavens.

I used to hurry everywhere,

and leaped over the running creeks.

There wasn't

time enough for all the wonderful things

I could think of to do

in a single day. Patience

comes to the bones

before it take root in the heart

as another good idea.

I say this

as I stand in the woods

and study the patterns

of the moon shadows,

or stroll down into the waters

that now, late summer, have also

caught the fever, and hardly move

from one eternity to another.

35

This is the poem I want to live by from now on.

When Death Comes, Mary Oliver

 

When death comes

like the hungry bear in autumn

when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

 

to buy me, and snaps his purse shut;

when death comes

like the measle-pox;

 

when death comes

like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

 

I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering;

what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

 

And therefore I look upon everything

as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,

and I look upon time as no more than an idea,

and I consider eternity as another possibility,

 

and I think of each life as a flower, as common 

as a field daisy, and as singular,

 

and each name a comfortable music in the mouth

tending as all music does, toward silence,

 

and each body a lion of courage, and something

precious to the earth.

 

When it's over, I want to say: all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was a bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.

 

When it's over, I don't want to wonder

if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened

or full of argument.

 

I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Checking the Next Box

This coming Sunday, the 17th, I will turn 35.  This means on every survey, magazine quiz, legal document, and medical form for the next nine years, I have to check the 35-44 box.

19-25? Fine.  No qualms about that.  26-34 was cool, too.  I didn't mind being anywhere in that sucker, but this new one...well...it's a lot to take in, that nine year span.  It's going to include 40, and I have to tell you that 40 sounds like an unreal number, something that doesn't make any sense, isn't possible.

Inside, in my little pink heart I feel about 17.  I still laugh at all the things that made me laugh then (Weird Science, Growing Pains, my parents), I still love a lot of the same music (The Smiths, James Taylor, Ani DiFranco), I still read and am blown away by the same books (Skinny Legs & All, Catcher in the Rye, the poetry of Allen Ginsberg), and I am still stunned to silence by the same miracles of nature (sunrise, late blooming flowers, starry night skies).

It is absolutely shocking to think that soon, I'm going to boxed in by a whole other set of expectations, ones that traditionally mean I should be more grown up, less engaged, more settled, less full of wonder.  I am the oldest I have ever been--obviously--but each day I feel more alive, more engaged, more sure of who I am and what I want from the world.

So, here's to checking the next box, to embracing the next phase of life, to believing that getting older means getting better.

Revelation

I figured out today that at the heart of every single thing I am anxious about, afraid of, nauseated and confused by, lies a deep, rich, three-pack a day fear of being alone.

That fear moved in a long time ago, dragging its dirty boots across my carpet, leaving thick stains that no steam or solvent can remove.  It took over rooms in my heart, throwing dark curtains up, burning its foul herbs in little ashcans, smoking out the sweetness that used to live here, buying up prime real estate from the hope and joy that lived side by side for years.

I am trying, desperately, to evict that fear.  I know, with no intended arrogance, that I am smart, funny, kind, and beautiful.  I believe these things to be true and so they are.  After all, all we have in this world are the things we believe in, so I guess I'd better stop believing in the ludicrous notion that I will be alone, right?

But where are the examples of strong, single women throughout history?  I mean, where are the ladies who--without any romantic relationship to speak of--found true happiness?  And, frankly, even if you find me those examples, I'm not going to be placated because I believe in the power of sharing my life with someone, I want that desperately, but I have NO control over whether or not it happens.  None.   And that, too, scares the living bejeezus out of me.

Okay, enough of this.  It is late, and fear is trying to call up all his friends--speculation, worry, and doubt--so I'm going to turn off all the lights and shut their party down.  Here's to trying, each and every day, to be a little less afraid.