Mary Oliver

My friend dano, one n and lowercase d, teases me that I have a girl crush on Naomi Shihab Nye. And if I do (admittedly, I do), he has a crush on Mary Oliver. I love that we both crush on poets. Usually the Oliver poems dano shares with me have to do with nature. Let’s do like Thoreau and go live deliberately in the woods. Let’s just walk through a fall day and breathe in the colors: the cerulean sky, the snow-white cloud wisps, the brilliant golds, rich auburns, and rusty oranges. They drip from the trees. They carpet the ground, all plush like a deep pile.

Mary Oliver said, “The dream of my life is to lie down by a slow river and stare at the light in the trees - to learn something by being nothing.” To breathe in that space, that air, that renewal of that moment. Stop the clock and just be.

Last weekend, I wandered through Forest Lawn Cemetery in Buffalo. I stumbled onto a herd of deer, a flock of geese amid some mallards, and a few other wanderers whose silent smiles were enough to bring peace to the day. I didn’t lie down by the slow river (it was a little muddy after all the rain we had), but I did find myself staring at the light in the trees. The word ethereal came to mind.

I think Mary would have been proud of the way I spent my afternoon.