By 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 the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measles-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 the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it is 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.
Poetry Wednesday is inspiring me to read poetry again. I suddenly want to rush out and buy a bunch of poetry books so that I can scour them for good candidates for my weekly post. I like how poetry allows for a pause in my day, how poems can take the physical shape of a thought.
I also like how well poetry fits into domestic work–you can stop to read a poem between loading the dishwasher and folding laundry, and while while you’re pairing the socks, you can be turning lines over from the poem. And I like, of course, that the act of posting (and reading) poetry on Wednesday connects me to people I love back on the mainland.
This morning my aunt emailed me to let me know that my cousin’s father-in-law, Ron Green is near death. His daughter, Emily Green, is a beautiful person and a dear friend of mine. She has two young children who are saying goodbye to their grandfather. So I can’t help but cry as I read Ron’s story on Caring Bridge. I have my lampada lit and am now keeping vigil with the Green family.
I look at that candle flickering in the blue glass, and I am remember that I, too, will die one day. This thought, always present before me, helps shape the way I live. I hope to live better each day, to make my life something particular and real, so that when the time comes I can step through the door full of courage and curiosity, wondering: what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
Photo by Amber Schley Iragui
Molly Sabourin
2
Viewing death as a perversion, something horrifically unnatural, I’d do best to avert my eyes and thoughts from makes me feel anxious and fragmented. I so appreciate your honest and open, yet hope-filled, viewpoint as well as Mary Oliver’s!
“I look at that candle flickering in the blue glass, and I remember that I, too, will die one day. This thought, always present before me, helps shape the way I live.”
That is beautiful, Jenny. This post is both comforting and convicting at the same time.
Molly Sabourin
2
And that photo is awesome, just really, really great, by the way!
jenny
2
Molly,
Thanks so much for your comments. You saw that the photo is Amber’s right? She is amazing! I don’t know if you’ve visited her flickr site yet, but her name links to it. I find it so relaxing to browse her photos!
Beth Johnson
2
Jenny this poem is so beautiful as is the picture. A few days ago I awoke in the middle of the night with such a strong impression that I really will die someday. It is truly hard to grasp spiritually even though I rationally know it and experience it as loved ones pass from this world to the next. Prayers for Ron.
These are the lines which I especially loved.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
hen it is 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.
Well I hear two little boys splashing in the sink. Should probably attend to them!
jenny
2
Beth,
Thanks for the prayers for Ron!
amber
2
“When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.”
What more can I say, that about sums it all up.
That photo, by the way, looks it’s best here on your blog, next to this lovely poem.
Julia
2
This is really great, Jenny. I like the way Mary Oliver uses so many animals in her poetry, and this one is of course great for many other reasons, which I am too tired right now to enumerate. We had a very hectic, irregular week which prevented me from participating in poetry Wednesday. I can’t wait to join the circle again.
Beverley
1
In my ‘stuck’ state, I typed in ‘getting unstuck’…which brought up, amongst others, a 2005 article by Jenny Schroedel on Resistance and vocation. That choice led to this page. It is Wed. (!) It is 2010. Time is indeed an idea for me – having survived, each day is both amazing and frightening to me. Today I re-encountered the Public Library team at a literacy fundraiser – I was there on behalf of children who are blind or partially sighted, and all children who need funding for literacy programs. The hunger going unsatisfied frightens me, but the cruelty of which the hunger is a product frightens me more.
That is what ‘sticks’ me – the callous, cruel relegation of beautiful minds by those to whom material luxuries are supreme.
I can’t describe how it moved me to read Molly’s poem, and I want to share it with so many people. How can I do that, respectfully, and in some way that appreciates and supports Molly’s (and Jenny’s) gifts.
Beverley