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.

Maru Oliver

Yesterday, I ran while listening to the On Being podcast with Mary Oliver, “Listening to the World” from 2015. At one point, she read “Wild Geese.” Like many, I have known that poem for years and the words wash over me with feelings of forgiveness and humility and gratitude and love every time.

Hearing the poem yesterday was like hearing it for the first time. Hearing her read as I ran along the ocean, fully aware of the soft animal of my body running and learning about loving what it loves, watching birds circle over head and fish jump in the water, I made new sense of the words.

I heard nature for the first time. I heard about going home for the first time. I heard about the world offering itself to my imagination for the first time. I heard that I had a place in the family of things for the first time. (I guess I always got stopped in my tracks by the first part of the poem, before and never let the rest sink in.)

She talked about her experience of writing that poem. She explained that this poem was an exercise in technique — an exploration of using hard stops in poetry. She said it just flowed. I think about that a lot. I think about how form and process can free us up to learn our truth. I think about being so tuned in, paying such deep attention, that our truth simply flows.