I’ll tell you a half-dozen things/ that happened to me/ in Indiana/ when I went that far west to teach./ You tell me if it was worth it./ I lived in the country/ with my dog— part of the bargain of coming./ And there was a pond/ with fish from, I think, China./ I felt them sometimes against my feet./ Also, they crept out of the pond, along its edges,/ to eat the grass./ I’m not lying./ And I saw coyotes,/ two of them, at dawn, running over the seemingly/ unenclosed fields./ And once a deer, but a buck, thick-necked, leaped/ into the road just-oh, I mean just, in front of my car—/ and we both made it home safe./ And once the blacksmith came to care for the four horses,/ or the three horses that belonged to the owner of the house,/ and I bargained with him, if I could catch the fourth,/ he, too, would have hooves trimmed/ for the Indiana winter,/ and apples did it,/ and a rope over the neck did it,/ so I won something wonderful;/ and there was, one morning,/ an owl/ flying, oh pale angel, into/ the hay loft of a barn,/ I see it still;/ and there was once, oh wonderful,/ a new horse in the pasture,/ a tall, slim being-a neighbor was keeping her there—/ and she put her face against my face, put her muzzle, her nostrils, soft as violets,/ against my mouth and my nose, and breathed me,/ to see who I was, a long quiet minute-minutes — then she stamped feet and whisked tail/ and danced deliciously into the grass away, and came back./ She was saying, so plainly, that I was good, or good enough./ Such a fine time I had teaching in Indiana.

Mary Oliver

I grew up on the Indiana side of the Ohio River at Louisville. I lived in Indiana until the age of 27 when I moved to Washington State. Indiana feels like home. Oliver’s Indiana rhythm is familiar to me. Familiar in a nostalgic way, though my speed was more about the river, the Derby, basketball, bluegrass, and rolling hills. (I always lived in the southern part of the state below Indianapolis and did not spend time with too many animals other than the dogs and cats we had as pets. Indoors. I never had a horse or a barn.)

What does Oliver mean when she asks if the things that happened were worth it?

Having lived outside of Indiana for half of my life now, I think I know why she asked that question. She is not from Indiana. Indiana is not her home. She writes about the experience like an anthropologist taking observational field notes. Of course, her Indiana looks the way it does. It is her relationship with the natural world in Indiana. She notices what she knows. She notices the strangeness of fish, the presence of coyote and deer, the majesty of an owl, and the friendship of horses. Her field notes, and the beauty they capture, make me believe she saw teaching in Indiana as worth it.

This question leads me to consider my own journey. What does it mean to be “worth it?” Have all my moves been “worth it?” What have I lost and gained and learned along the way? On balance, my moves have been worth it. Every last one of them (and there have been many). I have found pockets of cool everywhere I have lived. My world gets bigger. Relationships emerge and friends are made. My world becomes a kaleidoscope of new sights, sounds, and flavors. My eyes get wider and clearer with each adventure. My curiosity muscles strengthen. Most importantly, my appreciation for and understanding and love of home deepens.