THOUGHTS ON SOLITUDE AND THE LAST BUTTERFLIES OF SUMMER

I love to be alone.

I never found a companion

that was so companionable as solitude.

Thoreau

I need to be alone . . . 

I need the sunshine and the paving stones

of the streets without companions, without conversation, 

face to face with  myself, with only the music of my heart for company.

Henry Miller

A man can be himself only so long as he is alone;

and if he does not love solitude, he will not love freedom;

for it is only when he is alone that he is really free.

Schopenhauer

I live in that solitude

which is painful in youth, 

but delicious in the years of maturity.

Einstein

Loneliness is the poverty of self;

solitude is richness of self.

May Sarton

But your solitude will be a support and a home for you,

even in the midst of very unfamiliar circumstances,

and from it you will find all paths.

Rilke

Wherever I am, the world comes after me.

It offers me its busyness.  It does not believe 

that I do not want it.  Now I understand

why the old poets of China went so far and high

into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.

Mary Oliver

"Why I Wake Early"

Uncontradicting solitude

Supports me on its giant palm;

And like a sea-anemone

Or simple snail, there cautiously

Unfolds, emerges, what I am.

Philip Larkin

In order to be open to creativity, 

one must have the capacity for constructive use of solitude.

One must overcome the fear of being alone.

Rollo May

When from our better selves we have too long

Been parted by the hurrying world, and droop,

Sick of its business, of its pleasures tired,

How gracious, how benign, is Solitude.

Wordsworth

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS WITH BARRED OWLS

Barred Owl

We are all visionaries,
and what we see is our soul in things.

Henri Amiel

In her poem "White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field," Mary Oliver described an owl she once observed as "an angel, or a Buddha with wings."  This imagery has frequently resurfaced in my mind during the past week as I have studied the daily habits of the male barred owl pictured above, his mate, and the two young owlets that were born to the couple just a few weeks ago, and who are now in their fledgling phase.

On the day after first sighting the large male, I discovered him again, sitting on the limb of a tree within 25 feet of our front porch.  As soon as I peered through the viewfinder of my camera, a young owlet peeped out of a rotten cavity in an adjacent tree, informing me for the first time that this was a springtime family affair.  A couple of days later, two owlets emerged from the top of the rotten tree and eventually developed the courage to jump to a branch.  Since then, they have been struggling to understand their bodies, especially the large wings, while simultaneously trying to survive aggressive crow attacks and the piercing eyes of the red-shouldered hawks which are also abundant in these woods.  Through it all, the large male has been truly amazing, providing the young owlets with broad latitude to fail as they experiment with life, yet always ready to swoop down when necessary to protect them from predators.

Set forth below are some of the images I have taken of the barred owls, especially the young owlets.  Enjoy.

With this post, I hope to begin posting on a more regular basis.  It's been thirteen months since my last post, a sabbatical that happened without design as I simply tried to spend more time in the moment — and in movement.

THE RED-SHOULDERED MESSENGER

Red-shouldered Hawk

Sometimes we grow forgetful of what is vitally important to our sanity.  Sometimes we are simply distracted by the clutter and clatter of life.  And then, if we are lucky, a small miracle comes our way — something unexpected that breaks through the mind chatter and invites us to be still, to rest in the unfolding beauty of the world.

This was my experience late yesterday afternoon.  After a chaotic week of dealing with various issues too nettlesome to mention, I discovered a magnificent red-shouldered hawk perched in one of the sycamore trees in my yard.  I have encountered this hawk many times before, and I've spent considerable time trying to get close enough to make a decent photo.  On every prior occasion, however, my slightest movement sent the hawk screeching into the nearest heavily wooded area.

Yesterday was different.  I felt instinctively that the hawk was approaching me, no less than I was approaching it.  It was all about connecting with each other and with things that matter in this world.  Once the connection was made, the petty problems of the week dissipated and I was overcome with the kind of peace that Mary Oliver describes in her fine poem, "Messenger," which appears in her 2006 collection, Thirst.  Like Oliver, I simply want to "keep my mind on what matters . . . which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished."

                                                       Messenger
                                                    by Mary Oliver

                             My work is loving the world.
                             Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird —
                               equal seekers of sweetness.
                             Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
                             Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

                             Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
                             Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?  Let me
                                keep my mind on what matters,
                             which is my work,

                             which is mostly standing still and learning to be 
                               astonished.
                             The phoebe, the delphinium.
                             The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
                             Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

                             which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
                               and these body-clothes,
                             a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
                               to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
                             telling them all, over and over, how it is
                                 that we live forever.

LIVING SIMPLY WITH A LYRICAL HEART

                                               MOZART, for EXAMPLE
                                                        by Mary Oliver

                                      All the quick notes
                                      Mozart didn't have time to use
                                      before he entered the cloud-boat

                                      are falling now from the beaks
                                      of the finches
                                      that have gathered from the joyous summer

                                      into the hard winter
                                      and, like Mozart, they speak of nothing
                                      but light and delight,

                                      though it is true, the heavy blades of the world
                                      are still pounding underneath.
                                      And this is what you can do too, maybe,

                                      if you live simply and with a lyrical heart
                                      in the cumbered neighborhoods or even,
                                      as Mozart sometimes managed to, in a palace,

                                      offering tune after tune after tune,
                                      making some hard-hearted prince
                                      prudent and kind, just by being happy.

The cardinal family that reigns over our small rose garden gives credence to Oliver's observation that our song birds "speak of nothing but light and delight."  Listening to the song birds and Mozart, I hope that I will someday master the art of living simply and with a lyrical heart.

Master of the Rose Garden

Mistress of the Rose Garden

. . . And Their New Spring Chick

I would rather learn from one bird how to sing than teach 10,000 stars how not to dance.

e.e. cummings

Mary Oliver's poem, "Mozart, for Example," is found in Thirst: Poems by Mary Oliver (Beacon Press: Boston, 2006).

ALWAYS A HEDONIST

                                 Be prepared.  A dog is adorable and noble. 

                                 A dog is a true and loving friend.  A dog 

                                 is also a hedonist.

Mary Oliver

from The Wicked Smile

Once again, Mary Oliver has nailed the truth to my front door, reminding me that Derry, my Zen master, is an unrepentant hedonist.  Could it be that hedonism, at least in judicious amounts, is part of being wise?  Whatever the case, the evidence is in, and it demonstrates beyond a scintilla of doubt that the Zen master has been an ardent and relentless pleasure seeker since becoming my partner and constant companion more than eight years ago.

It began as a portrait in innocence,

as it always does with young puppies.

Within twenty-four hours, however, 

some remnant of her reptilian brain

had created a passion for disemboweling

stuffed animals and other objects too numerous to mention.

After destroying most of the stuffed animals,
three pairs of prescription glasses, two remote controls for the electronics,
and various items of clothing, she suddenly became amorous,
displaying style and technique that, to be candid, was quite impressive.

Soon thereafter, she discovered that a look like this
could manipulate me into satisfying any of her hedonistic appetites.
Dog owners, including Mary Oliver, know exactly what I'm talking about . . .
so let me return to Ms. Oliver's sensitive observations for the remainder of this post
(all quotes from poems in her recent collection, Dog Songs).

                                         A puppy is a puppy is a puppy.

                                         He's probably in a basket with a bunch 

                                              of other puppies.

                                         Then he's a little older and he's nothing 

                                              but a bundle of longing.

                                         He doesn't even understand it.

from How It Begins

                            A dog comes to you and lives with you in your own house,

                                but you

                            do not therefore own her, as you do not own the rain, or the

                            trees, of the laws which pertain to them.

from Her Grave

                                       Running here running there, excited,

                                               hardly able to stop, he leaps, he spins

                                       until the white snow is written upon

                                               in large, exuberant letters,

                                       a long sentence, expressing

                                               the pleasures of the body in this world.

from The Storm (Bear)

                                    Emerson, I am trying to live,

                                    as you said we must, the examined life.

                                    But there are days I wish

                                    there was less in my head to examine, 

                                    not to speak of the busy heart.  How

                                    would it be to be Percy, I wonder, not

                                    thinking, not weighing anything, just jumping forward.

from Percy, Waiting for Ricky

                                A dog can never tell you what she knows from the 

                                smells of the world, but you know, watching her,

                                     that you know

                                almost nothing.

from Her Grave

                                      We're, as the saying goes, all over the place.

                                      Steadfastness, it seems,

                                      is more about dogs than about us.

                                      One of the reasons we love them so much.

from How It Is With Us, 

And How It Is With Them

Credit:  All quotations in this post are from Mary Oliver's new collection, Dog Songs (The Penguin Press, New York, 2013).

STOPPING TIME WITH WINTER VISITORS

  

After spending my morning with a massive flock of snow geese in the Blackwater National Wildlife Refuge, I returned home with a vague memory of having recently read a poem about these winter visitors.  Suspecting that it might be a poem by Mary Oliver, I looked through my volumes and found the poem below in Oliver's New and Selected Poems: Volume Two (Beacon Press, 2005).  It is such a privilege, as Oliver reminds us, "to love what is lovely, and will not last!"

                                                   Snow Geese

                                                 by Mary Oliver

                        Oh, to love what is lovely, and will not last!

                              What a task

                                 to ask

                        of anything, or anyone,

                        yet it is ours,

                           and not by the century or the year, but by the hours.

                        One fall day I heard

                          above me, and above the sting of the wind, a sound

                        I did not know, and my look shot upward; it was

                        a flock of snow geese, winging it

                           faster than the ones we usually see,

                        and, being the color of snow, catching the sun

                        so they were, in part at least, golden.  I

                        held my breath

                        as we do

                        sometimes

                        to stop time

                        when something wonderful 

                        has touched us

                        as with a match,

                        which is lit, and bright,

                        but does not hurt 

                        in the common way,

                        but delightfully, 

                        as if delight

                        were the most serious thing

                        you ever felt.

                        The geese

                        flew on,

                        I have never seen them again.

                        Maybe I will, someday, somewhere.

                        Maybe I won't.

                        It doesn't matter.

                        What matters 

                        is that, when I saw them,

                        I saw them

                        as through the veil, secretly, joyfully, clearly.

You can hear a reading of Mary Oliver's poem, "Snow Geese," by clicking on the following Youtube link: http://youtube.com/watch?v=zAxN9Zu6hfE

FRAGMENTS AND REFLECTIONS

                                            From David Whyte's poem 

                                                  "Sweet Darkness" 

                                                           *  *  *

                                         You must learn one thing.

                                         The world was made to be free in.

                                         Give up all the other worlds

                                         except the one to which you belong.

                                         Sometimes it takes darkness and the sweet

                                         confinement of your aloneness

                                         to learn

                                         anything or anyone

                                         that does not bring you alive

                                         is too small for you.

                                           Raymond Carver's poem

                                                 "Late Fragment"

                                   And did you get what 

                                   you wanted from this life, even so?

                                   I did.

                                   And what did you want?

                                   To call myself beloved, to feel myself

                                   beloved on earth.

                                            From Mary Oliver's poem

                                              "When Death Comes"

                                                         *  *  *

                          When it is over, I want to say: all my life

                          I was a bride married to amazement.

                          I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms..

                          When it's over, I don't want to wonder

                          if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

                          I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened, 

                          or full of argument.

                          I don't want to end up simply having visited this world.

Sources:  David Whyte's poem, "Sweet Darkness," is from The House of Belonging (1997), by David Whyte.  Mary Oliver's poem, "When Death Comes," is from New and Selected Poems (1992), by Mary Oliver.  Raymond Carver's poem, "Last Fragment," is from A New Path to the Waterfall (1989), by Raymond Carver. The Whyte and Oliver poems are also reproduced in a small anthology titled Risking Everything: 110 Poems of Love and Revelation (2003), edited by Roger Housden.

CLEARINGS IN THE FOREST

To those who have come to expect more frequent postings from me, I apologize for failing to post anything of substance since mid-February.  Simply put, it's been one of those hectic periods in which travel and the demands of domestic life have left little time for other pursuits.  

That said, I hope to return to more frequent postings, beginning today with a couple of lovely poems that I have stumbled across in recent days.  Each of these poems seems to capture the spirit of renewal that is resonating deeply with me on this Easter Day.                                            

                                            A SETTLEMENT


                    Look, it's spring.  And last year's loose dust has turned
                    into this soft willingness.  The wind-flowers have come
                    up trembling, slowly the brackens are up-lifting their
                    curvaceous and pale bodies.  The thrushes have come
                    home, none less than filled with mystery, sorrow,
                    happiness, music, ambition.


                    And I am walking out into all this with nowhere to
                    go and no task undertaken but to turn the pages of
                    this beautiful world over and over, in the world of my mind.


                    Therefore, dark past, 
                     I'm about to do it.
                     I'm about to forgive you


                     for everything.


                                               Mary Oliver
                       What Do We Know:  Poems and Prose Poems

                                                  CLEARING


                    Do not try to save the whole world or do anything grandiose.
                    Instead, create a clearing in the dense forest of your life
                    and wait there patiently,
                    until the song that is your life 
                    falls into your own cupped hands
                    and you recognize and greet it.
                    Only then will you know how to give yourself
                    to this world
                    so worth the rescue.


                                        Martha Postlethwaite

HAPPY EASTER TO EVERYONE!

FEASTING ON THE AUTHENTIC LIFE

"Every man has his own destiny," wrote Henry Miller, "the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him."  Wise counsel, for sure, but it is seldom followed.  Many people, perhaps most people, are so conditioned by family, culture, and experience that they never discover their own destiny, and if they do, they usually lack the courage to follow it. More often than not, they end up leading what Thoreau called "lives of quiet desperation."

Consider the pathetic narrator of The Lovesong of J. Alfred Prufrock, the powerful poem by T.S. Eliot (left) on the horrors of the inauthentic life. Prufrock is a man who always needs "to prepare a face to meet the faces" that he meets; who always thinks he has "time yet for a hundred indecisions, and for a hundred visions and revisions;" who desperately wants to "disturb the universe," but, sadly, cannot muster the courage to do so.  He is a man who has measured out his life with coffee spoons; who feels that he is "pinned and wriggling on the wall;" who doesn't know how to "spit out all the butt-ends" of his days and ways.  

Dare to eat of peach?  Dare to part your hair from behind?  Dare "to force the moment to a crisis?"  Not Prufrock.  He can do none of these things, for he lost his authenticity long ago, and now thinks it might have been better if he had been "a pair of ragged claws scuttling across the floors of silent seas."  His destiny unfulfilled, Prufrock is left with nothing but a sad admission:

 I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat and snicker,

And in short, I was afraid.

If Eliot's Lovesong tells us about the tragedy of an inauthentic life, other poems point us to the joy that awaits those who have the courage to recapture their personal authenticity.  Two of my favorite poems in this regard are "The Journey," by the wonderful American poet, Mary Oliver, and "Love After Love," by the Caribbean poet, Derek Walcott, who won the Nobel Prize for Literature in 1992. When I begin to feel the slightest deviation from my own authenticity, I return to these two poems and always find inspiration.

Mary Oliver

The Journey

              One day you finally knew

              what you had to do, and began,

              though the voices around you

              kept shouting

              their bad advice --

              though the whole house

              began to tremble

              and you felt the old tug

              at your ankles.

              "Mend my life!"

              each voice cried.

              But you didn't stop.

              You knew what you had to do,

              though the wind pried

              with its stiff fingers

              at the very foundations,

              though their melancholy

              was terrible.

              It was already late

              enough, and the wild night,

              and the road full of fallen

              branches and stones.

              But little by little,

              as you left their voices behind,

              the stars began to burn

              through the sheets of clouds,

              and there was a new voice

              which you slowly
              recognized as your own,

              that kept you company

              as you strode deeper and deeper

              into the world,
              determined to do
              the only thing you could do --

              determined to save 

              the only life you could save.

                                   

Derek Walcott

                             Love After Love

    The time will come

    when, with elation

    you will greet yourself arriving

    at your own door, in your own mirror

    and each will smile at the other's welcome,

    and say, sit here.  Eat.

    You will love again the stranger who was your self.

    Give wine.  Give bread.  Give back your heart

    to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

    all your life, whom you ignored

    for another, who knows you by heart.

    Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

    the photographs, the desperate notes,

    peel your own image from the mirror.

    Sit.  Feast on your life.