I have been sitting at my morning table for the entire first cup of coffee, having read the final pages of Long Life, one last, beautiful Mary Oliver essay, “Where I Live,” and two ending poems, and have not written a word here, until this, explaining to myself, not why I have not entered into this morning’s dialogue with the page, but just that I have not.
Out the north-facing window, I gaze into the alley with its fences, the draping brown fronds of the banana tree in the neighbor’s yard, the telephone pole with its nest of black wires I try to block with the spider plant hung in the window. Sometime during my morning reverie I expect to see a squirrel or two along the fence, but not yet on this sunny Thursday that promises another warm day to tempt us outside, donning our masks, keeping our distance.
Though the west-facing window, in the corner of the deck outside Frank and Scott’s door, Rocky lazes in the sun. But not for long, this bounding, barking dog. He must make his rounds, guard the property, be prepared to alert with his loud and ferocious voice. The trash and recycle trucks are due in the alley any time now.
I will miss reading Mary Oliver’s words in the morning, taking them in with my coffee, my morning thoughts. A new book arrived the other day—Toni Morrison, The Source of Self-Regard, (thank you The Book Catapult for your online ordering and home delivery service). I may open its pages tomorrow morning, but consider it may be a book for a later time of day when my mind can grapple with the subjects she examines and their effects on our culture. My mornings may want to continue within the gentle and thoughtful intimacy of Mary Oliver, her views of the natural world, her witnessing of life and death and the cycles of nature.
I go to my bookcase and bring down from the top shelf where it rests along with Rumi and Whitman, a few of the Beats, Upstream, another collection of Oliver’s essays. This book published a dozen years after Long Life, and three years before her death last year, at eighty-three. This is the tone I may want to continue to begin each of these strange mornings where we live, and die, within the surreal reality of our time.
Later today I will go to my writing and continue to edit, revise, compose new sentences and rewrite and edit those. I’ll go back into the manuscript of poetry a friend has asked me to help structure into a collection. I’ll join Thursday Writers this afternoon for another virtual session on Zoom. Steve leading us into our writing today, all of us appearing in tiny squares on our personal monitors as we attempt to create community, which we do in the only way possible these days, our images closer together than our physical bodies can be.
A friend said yesterday that she believes we’ll be under martial law by November’s election. I want to believe we will be cautiously together again, maintaining our distance, perhaps still wearing our masks as we continue to count the dreadful numbers that measure our dead, our sick, the state of our reality. Yet even with all that, still holding onto hope, believing that, yes, “A Change is Gonna Come.”
I put away my journal, open my iPad, click to YouTube and find the song by Sam Cooke.
Thanks for your post Judy.
Good thoughts in bad times…
The Gift – Mary Oliver
Be still, my soul, and steadfast.
Earth and heaven both are still watching
though time is draining from the clock
and your walk, that was confident and quick,
has become slow.
So, be slow if you must, but let
the heart still play its true part.
Love still as once you loved, deeply
and without patience. Let God and the world
know you are grateful. That the gift has been given.
Thanks for stopping by Michael. Always good to see your name and read your comments here.
Mary Oliver has become my best friend these sequestered mornings. So grateful for my bookshelves, messy though they are.
So beautiful, Judy. I felt like I was right there looking out the window with you.
Thanks, Marilyn. This morning I took photos of the windows and what is beyond. Still, no squirrels. But they’ll be back. Probably something like the twelfth generation since I’ve lived in this apartment.
My heart goes out to you. Regardless of the content of your words, I can feel
the underlying pain. Everyone feels it. Over the masks you can see it in eyes.
The world is suffering and we are trying to endure. The keep calm and carry
on mantra playing out in whatever practices we may follow. Years ago, after
9/11 I thought of doing a collection of some thoughts. The working title was:
“Words of Comfort for an Age of Orphans”. Somehow that feels even more
relevant now. Comfort is not an antidote, but the human spirit is battered as
well as the body. We derive comfort in the company of others and now we are
deprived. Know that although distant in proximity the human spirit reaches for
others and acknowledges their suffering. That empathy shoulders the feelings
and whispers, “I know, I care, I do see you and know you are there.” Take
comfort in your practices, that bring you a sense of meaning, and also know
so many others feel and care that you are walking this lonely, uncertain path.
Acknowledgment of our genuine feelings in itself lightens the burden. We may
appear alone, yet in a very real sense we are more genuinely together than
we have been for quite a while. The heart connects us all, you uplift others
and they uplift you. Your heart is not masked. It is heard, together with your
words. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and heart during this strange
and deeply troublesome time. Keep the candle in your heart shining!
Thank you so much, Elizabeth for your thoughtful and warm note. The working title of the book you were inspired to write is both sad and beautiful. And yes, it does feel relevant now. Let’s all keep our candles burning for ourselves and for one another. Thank you.
Hi Judy,
You are in pensive mode. I think you need to write some more poetics!
Take care and stay well.
Hi Linda, Yes, pensive in the morning;time with the journal can do that to me. Thanks for your suggestion. Be well.