Mary Oliver

A new acquaintance shared this poem with me recently. I've read segments of Oliver's poetry in Sabrina Ward Harrisons books, but never on in it's entirety. This poem hits me in an incredibly deep way, as if I've known it since my childhood. The geese have always made me stop in my tracks, mid conversation. Most birds have that effect on me.

 Wild Geese 

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.

Unemployed, but busy as ever. Hoping to start work with the Fresno Art Museum soon, gallery monkey.  I'm looking for a tiny studio in which to cloister myself to make art. I'm kind of thrilled at the idea of dusting myself off a bit.

p.s. apparently most people don't bike in Modesto, so our bike bags were not as big a hit as we thought, but they will soon hit the Etsy shop for your holiday consumption. stay tuned.