Art and Remembrance

Driving to my workshop today, my 12^th day in a row of teaching and still with energy to do so, I still had Mary Oliver on my mind. A first draft poem popped into my head and at a stoplight, took my i-Phone and dictated it into the Notes feature. Well, there’s an interesting use of that technology! Here’s the poem:

Art and Remembrance

What is art but the breadcrumbs

         we leave behind as we enter the dark forest,

              in hope that we will be found—

                        or at least remembered.

Bach’s notes strewn along the path,

        Georgia O-Keefe’s flowers

                     

                   Mary Oliver’s perfect words

They will never be alone in the world to which they’ve flown

And they keep us company in our aloneness, give us comfort

as we step, cautiously,

 into the black woods,

               steering us away

                         from the witch’s cottage.

Lunch with Mary Oliver

Spent the day reading through the many books of Mary Oliver poetry I have, looking for choice poems to read at my workshop tomorrow. Seems like the appropriate way to honor the passing of this fine poet. Found myself surprised by how long I've been a fan and then remembered writing a poem in 2006 that included her. Here it is:

LUNCH WITH MARY OLIVER

                      © 2006 Doug Goodkin

Two hours of cycling through the fog,

Winding through the hills of Marin

Just at the Larkspur border,

The sun emerged.

Perfect for my sidewalk lunch at the Left Bank café.

I quickly ordered my meal

and browsed through a new book of poems

by Mary Oliver.

How happy I was, edging to the state of gratitude that Ms. Oliver

sings so constantly and eloquently.

And it was just at that moment of euphoria, just as I was nodding in

agreement with her praise of the world,

that my ear caught the voice

of the woman at the table next to mine

dining with her two friends.

She was telling them about her Pilates workout

And her friend who sailed to Costa Rica

And the new insulation in her house.

And on she went,

and on,

and on,

 like an out-of-tune oboe

circular breathing through a themeless melody.

My iced tea arrived and she had yet to take even an 8^th note rest in her Symphony of

Small Talk.

Then came my hearty whole wheat bread appetizer

and her friends had still not gotten a word in edgewise,

sideways or

through the back door.

The waiter brought my Jacques Pépin roasted eggplant sandwich and the

Vapid Wagnerian Opera about Nothing droned on with nary a change in chord.

My French Fries served vertically in a coned napkin were powerless to stop her

And by the iced tea refill,

 still not a hint of a cadence.

How I wanted to shout, “NOBODY CARES ABOUT

YOUR FUCKIN’  INSULATION!!!”

like a thunderous timpani

announcing the final chords

           of a concert that never should have been.

But instead, I just finished the last leaf of arugula on my plate

and stared at the empty chair opposite me,

wondering what it would be like

             if Mary Oliver was sitting there having lunch with me.

what kind of conversation we would have.

And how she would react to this radio tuned to the wrong frequency.

I pictured her eating thoughtfully and then looking up with a wide grin and announcing,

“Just listen to the rustle of those eucalyptus leaves in the wind.”

A Candle for Mary Oliver

“Be alive until you are not” wrote poet Mary Oliver and alas, she is no more. And the world just got one great soul poorer. She left us a rich legacy of reminders to keep our astonishment and wonder alive, to partake in the unspeakable beauty of this world that she took the trouble to speak, knowing her words would always be so much less than the kingfisher, clam or goldenrod flowers she kept company with. I know of few people who were as consistently and deeply connected to the living things we share the planet with, who spent so many mornings of her life awakening with the dawn and walking through the woods of her Cape Cod home, notebook in hand, to capture a bit of the uncapturable.

I imagine her wholly at peace with the natural conclusion of her days well-spent, each one of 83 years. And yet there is the loss and grief knowing I’ll roam the bookstore in search of her next book and it will not be. Though she wrote to the very end and each time, as eloquently, if not more so.

Reading of her passing on an online obituary, I suffered the shock of seeing below the article the those horrible faces that people the news—Mitch McConnell, Ann Coulter, Guiliani, the ever-present Trump and the like. It’s extraordinary to think these demonic people are in the same species as someone of Ms. Oliver’s grace, courage and loving presence. Their bitterness and soul-ugliness dominate our national discourse and indeed, few Americans will know who Mary Oliver is or was or mourn her passing. She herself could not help but be aware of their presence, affected by their smallness and hurtful power, but daily she made the wise choice of choosing better company—her beloved dogs, the wild branches of trees, the bones of whales. We would all do well to remember her example. Do what we must to halt the ever encroaching tide of evil and ignorance, but not get swept out in their undertow. Make the daily choice of kissing or dancing or singing even if we’re not choir-trained, to sit and watch God’s creatures being wholly themselves and remember the beauty that we are and can be if we but pay attention.

The perfection of the natural world and our possibility of wholly belonging to it were Ms. Oliver’s constant themes. Both are gifted to us for free but we stubborn mortals refuse to notice or take the time or trouble to remember. Her work was made to remind us:

I know you never intended to be in this world.

But you’re in it all the same.

So why not get started immediately.

I mean, belonging to it.

There is much to admire, to weep over.

And to write music or poems about.

And so she did. And now her words will come no more. I, for one, will miss them.

R.I.P., Mary Oliver.

PS I posted a short obituary on Facebook and noticed that all the comments of people who shared my love of her poetry were women. So I wrote:

“I can't help but notice no men have claimed their admiration yet in the comments. Come on, guys! We are larger than the swagger and the gun-tote and the greed and the power hunger. And we have a generation of boys to initiate into the other rooms of the soul. I hope we have space in our lives for the wonder, astonishment, tenderness, eloquence and fierce courage that Ms. Oliver lived.”

Yellow Boots

The Dream of Martin Luther King is a song 4^th graders in Memphis composed about Martin Luther King the day after he was assassinated. I was singing it today with preschoolers and after we sang, “White man, black man, red man, yellow man, loving one another with pride…” I felt obligated to try to explain what that meant.

And that’s when it struck me. How do you explain racism to a 3-year old? I mean that seriously. Try it. Whoever is close to you while you’re reading this, explain it to them like they’re 3-years old. What would you say?

There was a little girl in the front row with yellow boots and so I said:

“I see someone’s wearing yellow boots and I don’t like to wear yellow boots, so does that mean she can’t be my friend?”

“Nooo!!!” the kids all shouted back.

“I prefer black boots, but if it was raining really hard and I didn’t want to get my new shoes wet and the only boots around were yellow, does that mean I shouldn’t wear them because I think I only like black boots?”

“No!!”

“So if it doesn’t make sense with boots, it doesn’t make sense with our different skin colors either. So that’s what Martin Luther King was trying to……”

And then I just had to stop. The kids were looking at me like I was out of my mind suggesting that one had to fight so hard and even get murdered just to convince people of the obvious. And they are right, of course. Here I was singing with kids of all different skin colors and backgrounds and family structures and all I could see was one beautiful child after another, each with their own quirky personalities and absolutely delightful zest for life. How could I explain to that so many people for so long and still today can’t see a child’s beauty because they’re blinded by this miserable story passed down to them? And why? I defy you to come up with one single reason that makes an iota of sense to a three-year old.

So there it is. Take a step back from everything you’ve been taught, from the whole wretched legacy of our history, from all the excuses and analysis and ignorance and just look at it through the eyes of a 3-year old. And then look into  the eyes of a 3-year old—any 3-year old and if you can’t see the beauty and the fragile hope asking you to please tell them the world is not like that—well, if that doesn’t convince you to do your part to bring them a better future, I don’t know what will.

Just learn to step into the shoes of everyone around you—even if they are wearing yellow boots.

Standing Ovation

Listened to the Keith Jarrett Trio’s live recording driving home and pulled into the garage just as the applause started. So the next morning when I woke at an ungodly hour and got into the car to drive to school, was met with the applause as the car started. Pulled out of the driveway with the audience hooting and hollering, as if they were saying, “Way to go, Doug!! You got up in time and are driving to school for perhaps the 7,700^th time to go share just about everything you know with children. It’s raining like crazy, you’ve been working non-stop for 10 days straight in SF and Puerto Rico, taking red-eye flights and braving 5 hour delays in airports and 16 hours of flying. Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of early morning stays you courier of joy from completion of your appointed rounds. You have taken the education of children to be your lifelong partner, to have and to hold, from better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death or retirement do you part. Hooray for you!” (clap, clap, clap, clap!)

Would that we all start the day with a standing ovation for everything we have done to do our work. Opening the corner store so the neighbors can get milk, driving the recycling truck, working on the road crew, serving breakfast at the restaurant. All the worthy work that sustains life, offers service, makes other’s lives happier, healthier, heartier. Applause for it all!

Of course, this does not include opening the office of the NRA, tweeting your daily lie, organizing the KKK rally, scamming folks in your Wall St. office, spewing venom on talk radio. Boo!! Hiss!! Get off the stage!!!! Stay in bed, don’t bother to get up and resume your work of harming the world for your own profit or mean-spirited warped values.

6:20 am in the morning, off I go again. Maybe I’ll just make a soundtrack of that applause for that extra boost of encouragement when I start the car. But truly, it’s not needed. The real standing ovation comes from the sheer pleasure and privilege of playing, singing, dancing with children. The chill up my spine and wet eye when 100 elementary students stand up, link arms and sing in tuneful and soulful voices We Shall Overcome. The student who asked why we’re thanking Marty, hearing in his mind “Thank God and Marty we are free at last!!! (That’s “Almighty”). The 2^nd graders dancing Bow Belinda with such happiness and precision. No audience needed.

But hey, if you want to applaud, I’ll take a bow. And then get on with my work.