24th of February

  “Stanley Kunitz”

I used to imagine him

coming from the house, like Merlin

strolling with important gestures

through the garden

where everything grows so thickly,

where birds sing, little snakes lie

on the boughs, thinking of nothing

but their own good lives,

where petals float upward,

their colors exploding,

and trees open their moist

pages of thunder ―

it has happened every summer for years.

But now I know more

about the great wheel of growth,

and decay, and rebirth,

and know my vision for a falsehood.

Now I see him coming from the house ―

I see him on his knees,

cutting away the diseased, the superfluous,

coaxing the new,

knowing that the hour of fulfillment

is buried in years of patience ― 

yet willing to labor like that

on the mortal wheel.

Oh, what good it does the heart

to know it isn't magic!

Like the human child I am

I rush to imitate ― 

I watch him as he bends

among the leaves and vines

to hook some weed or other;

even when I do not see him,

I think of him there

raking and trimming, stirring up

those sheets of fire

between the smothering weights of earth,

the wild and shapeless air.

                     - Mary Oliver

If I remember correctly, Mary Oliver studied with Stanley Kunitz. If this poem is any indication, she had a huge amount of respect and reverence for the older poet. In their writing they both share a keen observation of the world around them, and work to relay how it strikes them. I suppose you could say that of most writers worth their salt, but I think it is especially true of these two, though they are very different poets.

The thing that strikes me this morning, is the combination of work and amazement. These are writers who both work hard to render their personal amazements, and relay them to others. They pay close attention to their surroundings, and are often in awe of what they witness. I think they work to pay that close attention, and then they work to convey what they saw, what they felt. 

The relief she feels at discovering that this man worked steadily at it to get his results is something I can relate to. It is easy to see people with great talents and assume that they just open the faucet of creativity or ingenuity and let it pour out. That they just have something I don't, and cannot acquire. This is especially true for me of artists and creators, but it applies across the board. True, they the talented almost always have some innate talents, and perhaps grew up in an environment that encouraged them one way or another... but in every instance, as far as I can tell, they worked hard, for a long time, to be as good as they are. 

It's not waving a wand and making a beautiful flower appear from thin air... it's noticing, and paying attention closely enough to see the interesting thing about the flower (which, by the way, might not be about beauty at all). Then it's all about the weeding, the pruning, the nourishing... consistently working, and with respect. Then and only then, is sharing an option. 

Embedded in this poem is also, I think, her acceptance of her own learning process. Everybody learns from others. You don't need to come up with it all on your own. Imitate, ask,  learn, work hard, and make something that is your own, eventually... but don't freak out if you haven't broken the mould right out of the gate. 

Pay attention. Work hard. Enjoy your amazement, whatever it may be inspired by....

the Keeper (word to think about/keep with me for a bit): 

“Wonder” - n. 1.) a feeling of surprise mingled with admiration, caused by something beautiful, unexpected, unfamiliar, or inexplicable. 2.) a strange or emarkable person, thing, or event.

May I pay close attention and see more than I might normally do. May I have the willingness to work hard, consistently.