My first post for this blog appeared on January 19, 2017, exactly two years ago today. This is what I wrote:
“My husband Keith and I were squeezed together with a thousand or more others, a few yards from the corner of 6th Street and Pennsylvania Avenue in Washington, D.C, a stone’s throw from the mall where we had come to witness the inauguration of Barack Obama as the 44th president of the United States. After three and a half hours standing in sub-freezing weather, it was evident that we would not clear security in time to get there. Keith turned on a borrowed transistor radio a few minutes before noon (yes, only eight years ago and no live-streaming!) Several others near us circled around to listen to a moment that would change history.
I reflect back on this moment now, a day before the current inauguration. Never would I have predicted this recent turn of events as I stood in our nation’s capital that January day. With fear and trembling, I await the future of our country, while still holding fast to hope that my fears will not be realized. Yet evidence to date shows me that the days to come are going to be vastly different from what got started that winter morning eight years ago.”
Time has proved my fears were real; even more troubling and devastating than I could have imagined. Two years on, I wonder how much bleaker and toxic it can get before this nation plunges into the pit. How have we managed to survive so far? How much longer can this continue?
I expect that each of us has found some way to face the day when all around us voices of hatred shout and scenes of violence and destruction invade our homes. At least I hope so. One of the more valuable tools in my survival kit sits next to me on the kitchen table. It’s a volume of poetry. It has been there during these long and trying months since January 20, 2017. Every morning I read at least one poem before turning on the radio or reading the newspaper. Because of these poems, I am able to get through most days with a sense of hope and a dose of joy.
The book is “Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver” published in 2017. It contains her poems from 1963 to 2015. Mary Oliver left her body yesterday at the age of 83. Yet her astonishment and delight for all that she witnessed in woods and water and sky and described in such spare yet precise and exquisite language will remain. The New York Times described her poems “suffused with a pulsating, almost mystical spirituality…to read one is to accompany her on one of her many walks through the woods or by the shore.”
Her voice is silenced now but her words live on. They will accompany me and continue to lift my spirit whenever and wherever I walk the wild and watery world.
Here, as my tribute to her, are Mary’s words, written a few years ago, about her beloved dog. who had died. The last two lines become, now that she, too, has left us, a promise and a prayer as she goes.
The First Time Percy Came Back
he was not sailing on a cloud.
He was loping along the sand as though
he had come a great way.
“Percy,” I cried out, and reached to him—those white curls—
but he was unreachable. As music
is present yet you can’t touch it.
“Yes, it’s all different,” he said.
“You’re going to be very surprised.
“But I wasn’t thinking of that.
I only wanted to hold him. “Listen,” he said,
“I miss that too. And now you’ll be telling stories
of my coming back
and they won’t be false, and they won’t be true,
but they’ll be real.”
And then, as he used to, he said, “Let’s go!”
And we walked down the beach together.
6 Responses
Lovely, Polly. A beautiful tribute to a wonderful poet. I love the photos. Are they yours?
Beautiful post, Polly. I wasn’t familiar with this wonderful poem by Mary Oliver. I’ve saved it.
“Now is the winter of our discontent…”
Polly,
I too was at that inauguration with two of my daughters and will never forget the streams and then rivers of people making their way to up the hill to the steps of the capitol. The positivity was exhilarating.
I get through these times by listening to inspiring words. Today I listened to Bishop Gene Robinson’s sermon at the National Cathedral’s memorial service for Matthew Sheperd.
Thanks for sharing. I like the they won’t be false, they won’t be true but they’ll be real line.
Polly, lost your email. please email me off line so I can fill you in on the writing group. Maureen