“Every day,” says Mary Oliver, “I walk out into the world / to be dazzled, then to be reflective.”
I love Oliver’s poetry because it portrays her dazzlement in ways that open me to being dazzled, too. I love her poetry because it reflects on the big questions we all ask — about living and dying — in the context of the natural world.
Those questions can’t be “answered” in any fixed and final way without distorting the questions, the self asking them, and life itself. But asked in nature’s vast container where there’s a place for everything, they lose the knife-edge of fear that often accompanies them and are endowed with a grace that makes it easier for us to “live the questions.”
What a beautiful image of life — “hard as flint / and soft as a spring pond.” What a beautiful image of death — “the tenderness yet to come.”
As Mary Oliver says, “so many mysteries.” And yet how blessedly clear everything seems at the edge of Little Sister Pond! Not simple, but clear.
“Long Afternoon at the Edge of Little Sister Pond”
by Mary Oliver
As for life,
I’m without words
sufficient to say
how it has been hard as flint,
and soft as a spring pond,
both of these
and over and over,
and long pale afternoons besides,
and so many mysteries
beautiful as eggs in a nest,
though warm and watched over
by something I have never seen—
a tree angel, perhaps,
or a ghost of holiness.
Every day I walk out into the world
to be dazzled, then to be reflective.
It suffices, it is all comfort—
along with human love,
dog love, water love, little-serpent love,
sunburst love, or love for that smallest of birds
flying among the scarlet flowers.
There is hardly time to think about
stopping, and lying down at last
to the long afterlife, to the tenderness
yet to come, when
time will brim over the singular pond, and become forever,
and we will pretend to melt away into the leaves.
As for death,
I can’t wait to be the hummingbird,