“Sniiiffff.”

“Cough.”

Here it was, my reminder (it comes each semester) that I need to slow down and relax, that doing too much running around, procrastinating, and cutting back on sleep runs us down eventually. My cold had been present for a couple days at this point and was subsiding, but the chilly air had a way of uncorking my nostrils. My eyes ached slightly, as if they had been straining to see something bright in the distance and had grown weary. My head was a little foggy, my mind unfocused.  The creek didn’t notice of course – it just kept flowing with the normal sense of purpose and adventure. In between the shades of brown of dead leaves on the ground I saw that green grass was starting to tentatively poke through, testing the waters and longing for sunshine, for warmth. A house sparrow sang in a bush nearby. I suspected that a companion was close by, although I could not see him or her. I decided to spend some time listening. That would be easy enough. Two birds were talking to each other on the opposite bank. I wondered what they could be saying, and some possibilities crossed my mind.

“Is it spring yet?”
“Nope”
 
“Is there food over there?”
“Yes, if you come quickly.”
 
“Wanna hang out tonight?” (A hopeful male)
“Get lost.” (The female he so delicately tried to woo)
 

My trips to the woods are my favorite time to read Mary Oliver, because much of what she talks about is going on around me. I opened up to “Hummingbird Pauses at the Trumpet Vine” and decided that I might get more meaning out of her words if I read them aloud. The effect was incredible. Every phrase made more sense when I could hear it coming from my own lips, in a voice that I normally use to talk to others but need to hear for myself every once in a while. To me, this poem discusses our desire to do things quickly and glamorously, to be like a fluttering hummingbird that is both beautiful and swift.  The problem with this is that we often don’t stop and appreciate life when it becomes a race and a competition. Eventually, Oliver says, we may see the world as “pale, cool stones” instead. I wondered if she was referring to death, or simply the wisdom of old age. As I read her words, I heard rustling behind me. Oh great, someone is walking by and will think I’m this crazy girl talking to herself, I thought. I turned around to see who my intruder was and discovered a migration of six white-tailed deer.

They stared.
I stared.
They stared.
I snapped a picture. Or ten.

After relaxing for a time and trying to forget the fact that I was still feeling slightly ill, I heard a couple “quacks” close by and saw a flap of wings. Three mallards flew down into the creek, one female and two males. This was timely, as I formally learned how to identify this species in my ornithology class this past week.  The males seemed to be in hot pursuit of the female, and therefore weren’t getting along with each other. After a quick confrontation, one floated down the creek alone, clearly the reject. I wanted to tell him that he’d have better luck next time, that this just wasn’t his moment. Unfortunately I don’t quite speak his dialect. The remaining couple also ventured downstream after he made his graceful exit, stopping to find food as they went. I suppose it was an intimate moment, but I really don’t understand how ducks connect. When I was about to get up and leave for home, they returned, this time traveling against the current.

My copy of Mary Oliver’s book of poems did not come from the UD bookstore. On my fourteenth birthday, a family friend gave it to me. I still have the card she placed inside.

“Dear Kerry,

This book of poems was mine. I want you to have it. Mary Oliver is a great observer of nature both human and animal. I hope you will enjoy these poems. They have been a guiding light for me. I took the liberty of dog earing a few of my favorites. We are glad to have you in our lives. Happy Birthday.”

At the time I wasn’t quite sure how to absorb and appreciate this gift. I thumbed through it on occasion, but Oliver’s style just seemed so strange to me. I couldn’t grasp what she was trying to communicate. Seven years later and I think I may have it. It took some personal observation of nature and life experience, but she speaks to me now.  Many of her poems touch on personal consciousness of the natural environment and her opinion that we can’t hope to understand everything in a world that doesn’t quite include us. She provides examples of how we as humans observe and interpret nature for our own enjoyment. So yes, my friend was right to say that her poems talk about both animals and humans.

“so this is the world.
I’m not in it.
It is beautiful.”
(October)
 
As I sat thinking about how true this is, some words came to my mind, and to my pencil. Nothing close to Mary Oliver, but it put me at peace today. Sick or not, I love listening to the sounds in the woods and taking time to appreciate a place where I continue to be merely a visitor.
 
 
My mind in the clouds
shouts to the body
below, commands it
to start walking
 
far into a world
of water, trees, birds.
 
True freedom lies in appreciation
of what you can access
but cannot quite understand.
 
Pay attention.
The understanding may come
sooner than you think.