Wild Geese by Mary Oliver
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.
it’s true my first thought
was it could have been me
I thought I could transform
it the horror and not know it like
the Palace Hotel and Goldie’s
and six-inch yellow heels
(I loved those shoes)
but finally there isn’t anything left
to say really to do only that it slips
through the knowing
like a knife and at least each time
I’m a little less surprised
at how cold
Yeah that’s what I said. A place to be me, anonymously. I mean, for personal stuff like conflict, and fears, and heartache, and mostly the usual stuff and probably some bad behavior and questionable decisions, okay. Not criminal, horrific shit, just mostly the daily crap. And just once in a while.
Otherwise this happens: I have shit going on in my life that I don’t want to talk about and that I REALLY don’t want to talk about HERE (Sorry for the caps instead of italics; my cursor is frozen). So I stop talking, which means I stop writing, because I can either talk freely or not at all. I find it almost impossible to just censor SOME stuff. Because when I’m shoving all THAT stuff down, the stuff I do want to talk about gets shoved down too. Also, it takes a lot of freaking valuable energy, picking and choosing words as if walking in a minefield, when all I really want to do is write. And to be transparent.
Whew! I feel a lot better, at least for now. Freed. Not gagged. Flowy. Ahhhhh…better.
Why else be a writer?
Edit: These posts are short, kind of rambly. But better than nothing. So the world can suck it. Which I’m sure many fellow writers will understand.