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In tribute to Mary Oliver

Jan 21, 2019 | Sacred Stories, Writing

At the end of last week, in reflecting on Mary Oliver’s life – small respite in the wake of her death – I ran a search through my previous 12+ years of blog posts to see what I’d written of her before, where her poetry and prose have inspired my own words (and heart).

I’ve chosen one of those many posts as remembrance; more, as tribute.

**********

An edited version of writing from March, 2007.

Though I know unfruitful, even unanswerable, I sometimes find myself asking questions like, Can’t things be easier? Can’t my life go the way I want it to? Does it so-often have to feel like a struggle?

And then I begin to wonder: if the divine were to answer these questions the way I subliminally desire (translate: a tame, sedate, even predictable life) who would that god be?

Surely not the one that Sacred Text portrays.

That god, that understanding of the divine, is one who falls asleep in storms – not one who prevents them from happening at all.

A case in point:

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41)

This is no tame, sedate, predictable story. For this is no tame, sedate, predictable god.

So, a better question to be asking is: Why would I ever anticipate, let alone desire, my life to be such?

If I choose to reflect on, and even believe in this god (not to mention being created in the image of such) – one who is nonplussed in a treacherous storm – how then shall I live?

Ahhh, yes. Dangerous. Risky. Unafraid. Hardly tame, sedate, and predictable.

Mary Oliver speaks of this better than me:

Maybe
Sweet Jesus, talking
his melancholy madness,
stood up in the boat
and the sea lay down,
silky and sorry.

So everybody was saved
that night.
But you know how it is
when something
different crosses
the threshold—the uncles
mutter together,
the women walk away,
the younger brother begins
to sharpen his knife.

Nobody knows what the soul is.
It comes and goes
Like wind over the water—
Sometimes, for days,
you don’t think of it.

Maybe, after the sermon,
after the multitude was fed,
one or two of them felt
the soul slip forth
like a tremor of pure sunlight
before exhaustion,
that wants to swallow everything,
gripped their bones and left them
miserable and sleepy,
as they are now, forgetting
how the wind tore at the sails;
before he rose and talked to it—
tender and luminous and demanding
as he always was—
a thousand times more frightening
than the killer sea.

This understanding of, conception of the divine is one I find myself far more able to believe in; a thousand times more frightening than the killer sea.

Then choosing the storm (vs. demanding the tame, the sedate, the predictable) feels right; more, sacred.

**********

Rest well, Mary Oliver – in the arms of the divine you named. In your absence we feel and know what you did: tender, luminous, and oh, so demanding, to be sure.

On Writing – #4

Sep 2, 2016 | Writing

This week, I’m offering a series of posts on writing – ones I’ve written before, new ones yet unseen, anything and everything that reminds you of just how powerful the act of writing is – whether you have any aspirations of ever being a writer…or not.

Writing For A Change
[1st posted in August, 2010]

A true piece of writing is a dangerous thing. It can change your life. ~ Tobias Wol

There are two obvious ways to look at the title of this post:

Writing for a change (as in finally, and/or in deference to other activities).

Writing for a change (as in having an agenda, desiring an outcome, hungry for
transformation).

Given that I write all the time and would do even more if I could, it’s the latter of the two that applies to me. Over and over again.

Though I am deeply hopeful that my writing invites change in others, what I know with 100% assurance is that it creates change in me. As I think of topics, categories, and themes I am (not always, but often) aware of how they speak to me, compel me, and are what I most need to consider in my own life. As I type words I am (not always, but often) aware of how the language choices, phrases, and even punctuation speak to what I’m attempting to avoid or that which I desire. Even as I choose design elements I am (not always, but often) aware of how particular images touch my soul, or don’t, and what that’s about.

And I’m super-aware (always) of when I’m just trying to make something work when it’s really not. ‘Seems an important metaphor in life…

Writing for a change means that I am willing to pay attention to all of this; that I am willing to pay attention to my own life – as articulated through the very letters, words, sentences, paragraphs, and pages I type. The dignity and the depravity. The celebration and the pain. The clarity and the confusion. The sanity and the craziness. The certainty and the mystery.

We are all a paradoxical bundle of rich potential that consists of both neurosis and wisdom. ~ Pema Chodron

All of it. All of it is telling. All of it tells me of me. All of it is writing for a change.

Change writers are purveyors of hope. ~ Mary Pipher, Writing to Change the World

Writing for a change, for me, means hope.
It is in writing that I feel hope. Yes, what I write offers hope – I hope; but it’s the writing itself that keeps me centered – and invites me to move; that encourages,  challenges, compels, inspires, settles, calms, offers perspective, heals, and changes (me). Hope is rife.

And finally (though hardly), I am writing for a change because I’m realizing, more and more, that only I can say these things. Not because I’m such an excellent writer or because I have such incredible thoughts. Only I can say these things because they are words, ideas, stories, and concepts that I alone can say. They are mine. (The same is true for you, you know?)

What can I do that isn’t going to get done unless I do it, just because of who I am?
~ Buckminster Fuller

I am writing for a change – my own. Always. Every day. In hope.

What are you writing for? What are the words (and worlds) that you alone can say?

Choosing the Storm

Mar 6, 2007 | Hope & Encouragement, My sort-of Sermons, Sacred Stories, Spirituality

I’ve been thinking a lot about how strong my proclivity is for calm; for a life that is tame, sedate, and predictable. 

Somehow, I’ve gotten the notion into my head that surely God’s desire for me would be a life of comfort and ease. God’s protection and promised presence would surely look like secure relationships, finances, profession, retirement, future…

I’m aware that at least in part, this incessant and often subconscious demand has come about by growing up and living in Western theology and culture that tells me I not only can, but deserve to have it all and that this is what God wants for me too. Even though I know that this is a lie, it’s hard to shake. I find myself asking questions like, “Can’t things just be easy?” “Can’t my life go the way I want it to?” “Why does life often feel like such a struggle?” 

And then I begin to wonder: if God were to answer these questions the way I want (translate: by granting me a perfect, conflict-free life) who would that god be? Surely not the God I know from Scripture. 

Who is that God? 

It’s the God who sleeps in the storm: 

On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?” And they were lled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?” (Mark 4:35-41) 

This is not a tame, sedate, predictable story. This is not a tame, sedate, predictable God. And the natural question to follow: Why would I anticipate my life to be such if this is the God with whom I’m in relationship? 

I’ll admit it: I’m somewhat afraid to let this narrative (and nearly every other one found in the pages of the Bible) define my God or shape my life. If I chose to reflect on, believe in, and live by this image of God – a God who was nonplussed in a treacherous storm – who might I become? That potential – to be like that God – dangerous, risky, not afraid – is more than I often want to imagine or bear…but not in the ways you might think. 

The following two quotes speak beautifully to what it might be like, at least in part, to let the images and stories of scripture define my God…define my life: 

Death is not the biggest fear we have; our biggest fear is taking the risk to be alive – the risk to be alive and express what we really are. (Don Miguel Ruiz) 

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our Light, not our Darkness, that most frightens us. We ask ourselves, who am I to be brilliant, gorgeous, talented, fabulous? Actually, who are you NOT to be? You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightening about shrinking so that other people won’t feel unsure around you. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It is not just in some of us; it is in everyone. As we let our own Light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others. (Marianne Williamson) 

Ultimately, the disciples’ fear is not about either death or being inadequate. The disciples’ fear is over what to do with a God who can sleep through such a storm, who can choose to calm it, who has dangerous, unquenchable, beyond-imagining power. Who might they become if they really understood, believed in, and followed this guy? 

And like the disciples, our fear is not really over what might happen to us, what might overtake us, what storms might bluster and blow. Our fear is of who we might actually be if we believed in this God of Mark 4, this God of the Bible. Our fear is that we might actually have to let the wind blow; that we might just have to let go of our incessant demand for a life of ease – and the all-too-familiar comfort of doubting God’s faithfulness when things don’t go our way (or God seems to be asleep). We might actually have to get wet! 

I think, maybe, that’s what I want… 

Maybe – by Mary Oliver 

Sweet Jesus, talking 
his melancholy madness, 
stood up in the boat 
and the sea lay down,
silky and sorry. 
So everybody was saved 
that night. 

But you know how it is 
when something 
different crosses 
the threshold—the uncles 
mutter together, 
the women walk away, 
the younger brother begins 
to sharpen his knife. 

Nobody knows what the soul is. 
It comes and goes 
Like wind over the water— 
Sometimes, for days, 
you don’t think of it. 

Maybe, after the sermon, 
after the multitude was fed, 
one or two of them felt 
the soul slip forth 
like a tremor of pure sunlight 
before exhaustion, 
that wants to swallow everything, 
gripped their bones and left them 
miserable and sleepy, 
as they are now, forgetting 
how the wind tore at the sails 
before he rose and talked to it— 
tender and luminous and demanding 
as he always was— 
a thousand times more frightening 
than the killer sea. 

No, I’m certain of it: this is the God I want to follow – tender, luminous and demanding, a thousand times more frightening than the killer sea. 

This is the God I want to reflect. This is the life I want to live: choosing the storm.