Befriend your books, befriend Mary Oliver

An Invitation to read poetry in the forest

(I wrote this a few years ago but it felt relevant to post it again, here)

Life is busy. In the middle of my working routine (for the sake of my sanity) I need gentle reminders to remember the Earth. Sometimes, when I am glued to the never-ending feed of my screen. It can take the words of another to remind me: go outside, walk wild.

Be wild and discover the subtle kingdoms of the Earth.
This is my journey with one of those reminders.

This is about the late and ever-great, master nature writer, Mary Oliver

I came late in life to the works of Mary Oliver. There are some books, some authors that I have always intended to read but never quite have. It’s like we had been standing at opposite ends of the same library and all I needed to do was walk over and pick up her book.
But I don’t.

She hit me while I was on the toilet. She attacked me from the back of the door. She was magazine ripped and staring at me. With nothing else to do but wipe, I read. I thought wow, mmhm, yup, this is amazing. I washed my hands and forgot about her.

Months later, she hit me again. Over the head. In a bookstore. I was reaching high into the shelves for Louise Glück. But I stumbled and knocked book upon book onto the floor. Pain dazzled and spun, I sprawled myself low to look for the one that had collbered me. It was Mary Oliver, the minx. As if in apology, I took her book home. I planned to read cover to cover. Then at lights out, eight pages in, I forgot about her. But books are like old friends, patiently waiting till we are ready.

Months passed and it was festival season and on a whim, I packed her book into my bag. Little did I know how much that one decision would change my life.

“Keep some room in your heart for the unimaginable” -Mary Oliver

I am in the woods with a book

I am walking and sensitive in my senses. I am close to the subtle kingdoms. The insects. The birds I am witness to the dew drops on bark. The soft and slow breath of the forest.

I open my book and read out loud. I read words that sound like blessings. It was like this one poem was written for this moment.

This moment to remember that others walked before me.
Others walked in the fields, walked through the forest and through the long night. In the darkest hour, I need a gentle reminder to remember the Earth. Sometimes that simple memory is everything to me.

There is a mysterious conversation between the human body and the Earth

Enter poetry, the great translator. Language can be the bridge between one person and another. Enter the art of memorizing poetry. I am not talking about performance. I am talking about connection. I am talking about bridging the gap between humans and Earth.

Enter the poet with their sensuous dance. Reading feels like standing on the bridge between the writer and the forces of the Earth. The bridge built by inhabiting the heart. Built by speaking from the heart. I know when poetry speaks as stale words, shy and bitter on the tongue. I can feel when it breathes through the body. When each spoken word is like remembering an old friend.

I want to tell you a story about my conversation with the stars

It began with Mary Oliver and her book, Devotion. The pages began.

“The thought the Earth remembered me”

I felt like a stranger. An impostor. Why would the Earth remember me? I am a stranger in the night. I loop on the question: why am I in this forest? walking around, muttering to myself

Why am I having this conversation with the trees?

I spent many hours that night, sitting on a fallen log, reading and reciting and talking to the forest. With each spoken word, feeling like it was falling deeper into my body.

“Nothing between me and the white fire of the stars but my thoughts”

My thoughts being the only barrier between absolute connection. With the stars, with the sky, with the living Earth.

I stayed there for hours, reading and rereading this one poem.

People walked past. This was in the middle of a festival, after-all. They were curious. They were talkative. I spoke the immortal words of Mary Oliver. At first they thought it was a performance. Then it got real: I spoke into the listening. I spoke into the depth.

You feel it, when an audience meets you in the heart. Meets you in your intention. As if the act of opening yourself up; opening up to vulnerability, invites the audience in.

Vulnerability is terrifying. The terror is loud. Almost deafening. But the heart knows how to speak through it. Then the moment moves on. The poem spoken and complete. The spell has been cast and set free.

We move on with the night. But I carry the memory with me. I was heard. Truly heard.

This is enough of an anchor to to pull me out of my routine thoughts; powerful enough to help me remember the Earth.