It's windy, near raining, and some wild geese just flew by my window. I hear their squawks as a very clear: "you do not have to be good". I always enjoy this reminder.
I wonder what wild geese said before Mary Oliver lent them her voice.
They also say things like "it's okay to be awkward" and "go ahead and be mean sometimes", and "I may be fat but I can still fly!". But isn't all that in her poem?
And what would a horizon be without David Whyte? I can't even point to one poem here; for Whyte, horizons are everywhere. Here's one favorite, "The Opening of Eyes". He doesn't even use the word in this poem, but sketches it's meaning. What is life but "a vision of far off things seen for the silence they hold"?
Billy Collins has completely transformed my relationship with the word "suddenly" in his poem Tension. Every time I hear that word now, the poem kicks up a tickle and stealthily tills my soul.
Sometimes I feel alone in this particular flavor of madness. Sometimes I wander through the woods on hikes reciting Rilke koans to myself and wonder if this is the edge. If I'm slipping too deep into love.
Of course I have this same sort of relationship with many of my own poems, too. Maybe someday I won't be the only one for whom spiders trigger reflections on the cross, or for whom dry lavender inspires a world-as-self meditation. Regardless, it's a sweet way to talk with the world. And maybe, today, you can join me.
Which brings me back to wild geese, and this bumbling art of public sharing. Perfectionism can be a biting, honking terror, and there's just something potent that Mary catches in the awkward grace and harsh beauty of these geese. As far as poems go, this one's pretty damn universally relatable: Stop trying to be something. Just do your thing, share your shame, give up seeking. Just be you. The world doesn't care, but it's also harsh and excited and waiting. Step forth and announce yourself. Stop quibbling over goodness and just take your place in the family of things.
Fine, Mary. Fine, geese. Thanks for the reminder, again: it does not have to be good, you do not have to be good, but do what you're here to do anyway. Okay, I say. I'll keep loving, keep writing.
I wonder what wild geese said before Mary Oliver lent them her voice.
They also say things like "it's okay to be awkward" and "go ahead and be mean sometimes", and "I may be fat but I can still fly!". But isn't all that in her poem?
And what would a horizon be without David Whyte? I can't even point to one poem here; for Whyte, horizons are everywhere. Here's one favorite, "The Opening of Eyes". He doesn't even use the word in this poem, but sketches it's meaning. What is life but "a vision of far off things seen for the silence they hold"?
Billy Collins has completely transformed my relationship with the word "suddenly" in his poem Tension. Every time I hear that word now, the poem kicks up a tickle and stealthily tills my soul.
Sometimes I feel alone in this particular flavor of madness. Sometimes I wander through the woods on hikes reciting Rilke koans to myself and wonder if this is the edge. If I'm slipping too deep into love.
Of course I have this same sort of relationship with many of my own poems, too. Maybe someday I won't be the only one for whom spiders trigger reflections on the cross, or for whom dry lavender inspires a world-as-self meditation. Regardless, it's a sweet way to talk with the world. And maybe, today, you can join me.
Which brings me back to wild geese, and this bumbling art of public sharing. Perfectionism can be a biting, honking terror, and there's just something potent that Mary catches in the awkward grace and harsh beauty of these geese. As far as poems go, this one's pretty damn universally relatable: Stop trying to be something. Just do your thing, share your shame, give up seeking. Just be you. The world doesn't care, but it's also harsh and excited and waiting. Step forth and announce yourself. Stop quibbling over goodness and just take your place in the family of things.
Fine, Mary. Fine, geese. Thanks for the reminder, again: it does not have to be good, you do not have to be good, but do what you're here to do anyway. Okay, I say. I'll keep loving, keep writing.
Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
by Mary Oliver
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about your despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting --
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.
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