Your One Precious Life

I could not sleep the night of August’s Blood moon.
And so I let myself out through the window over my bed,
And wandered in the woods alone.
The world was out of balance, and therefore so was I.

That night, shards of my life revealed themselves.
I was once again little,
Boney-kneed and freckle-faced from hours spent under the Texas sun,
Self-conscious about bangs my mother had cut too short for my liking.

Because we moved often, I sought solace in libraries among book friends.
Years later I built a library in the country that fed my writing,
Lost in thought, I’d  resurface hours later,
Gasping for air as if I’d been holding my breath underwater.

I had not lived down a country road until my early 40s.
There, far from the noise of cities and the world I’d traversed,
I was a child again, exploring nature up close,
Observing nature’s cycle of life and death unfold around me.

There I raised flocks of ducklings and goslings in a chicken house
And taught them to swim in an enamel basin.
When fully feathered out, they joined the honking flock on the pond,
Eager to explore its wonders and hopefully survive the night.

And so it is in life.
When full, the audacious moon’s brilliance commands the night sky.
Starry nights like those immortalized by Van Gogh are brightest in the dark.
It’s the contrast of light and dark that gives the other one meaning.

The forest is where my thoughts go in the early morning and at night
To wander along a path I revisit often,
Each time pausing at a low water creek
To read the stones that are alive in this small stream.

There the poems of Mary Oliver live everywhere
Among the dead poets from an earlier century—
Whitman, Thoreau, and others who taught her to love nature

And to allow herself to be amazed by its beauty.

Re-reading Oliver’s poems of August blackberries and wild geese,
They are always new.
Standing with my feet at water’s edge,  the poet whispers, “Pay attention.”
A reminder my journey has long been underway.

Oliver’s soft voice offers comfort,
A way to find light in times of darkness.
“Write every day,” she counsels. 
And so I do, knowing my life depends on it.

The next morning, I re-read the final line of Oliver’s poem The Summer Day.
“Tell me,”
“what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”
“Keep writing,” I whisper aloud, “for as long as this journey I’m on lasts.”

[From The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver]
(b. 1935-d. 2026)