Today while listening to Tim Ferriss’ most recent podcast episode, #223: Calming Philosophies for Chaotic Times with Krista Tippett, I was introduced to the beautifully crafted poem below by Mary Oliver, which can be found within her New and Selected Poems, Volume One. Enjoy…
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.
If you enjoy posts of this type, let me know! It goes without saying, a poem every now and then is good for the soul!
Sipping my Americano at the corner of Rivington and Clinton at the Lower East Side’s Marm Cafe, I finished one of my current reads; Dalton Trumbo’s “johnny got his gun”. It is my belief that by being exposed to the darkness every now and then we learn to appreciate the light that encapsulates us, the light we to often neglect and overlook. This book provides a healthy dose of the dark. Enjoy…
Is it possible for anything to resist change, even a mere commodity that can be bought, buried, banned, damned, praised or ignored. Johnny held a different meaning for three different wars. Its present meaning is what each reader conceives it to be, and each reader is gloriously different from each other reader, and each is also changing.
I’ve let it remain as it was to see what it is.
But exactly how many hundreds or thousands of the dead-while-living does that give us? We don’t ask. We turn away from them; we avert our eyes, ears, nose, mouth, face.”Why should I look, it wasn’t my fault, was it?” It was, of course, but no matter. Time presses. Death waits even for us. We have a dream to pursue, the whitest white hope of them all, and we must follow and find it before the light fails.
So long, losers. God bless. Take care. We’ll be seeing you.
January 3, 1970