Mary Oliver passes

I first met Mary Oliver on a bookshelf in Maadi, Egypt. I am not so clear why I was there, kneeling, and pulling out a copy of "Wild Geese" by Mary Oliver from a white row of low shelves. Perhaps I was there after a workshop or an event. I am also not clear about the name of this place.

I remember the book being a beautiful purple coloured cover, and I think I may not remember it correctly. I remember it being almost square and weighing well in the hand. I remember reading the title poem, and I remember wanting to keep the book, probably to steal it.

I remember sharing the poem with a friend, who had read her poem "The Dogfish."

I remember sharing it with another friend I loved, and who faced confusion, and I remember sharing it with another friend, and another love.

I remember pulling it out to comfort myself, realising the value of the freedom from the burden of being good, though I have always tried so hard to be good.

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 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. Mary Oliver Wild Geese

I know this poem is a blessing.

As I hear of her death, I know that I have never craved to meet this person, yet her touch has been light and present, especially in moments where I searched for or sought to share hope. 

If I could pass through this world as lightly, and with as much grace...

I remember today, waking up to quotes and dedications to this poet, and feeling already left behind, feeling already old in my praise.

It is almost as if nothing had happened. You will always be like this quiet morning, this soft light that shines on the bright green leaves of the tree. 

And I am thankful.