Part I:
It’s Tuesday evening. I’m not inspired. When I feel this way, I look to other writers and artists to pull me up. We’re all in this together. No need to compete. There is room for everyone. I’m a strong believer in abundance. I feel a spiritual obligation to pay it forward.
I’m thinking about last May. Me, Liz, and two of our friends met for dinner at Acadia Cafe . We were just finishing our meals, when it started to pour. We ran across Nicollet Avenue through the pounding rain (without umbrellas), and sloshed across the parking lot, dodging puddles.
When we finally slipped into a crack between two open doors, we were soaked to the bone: stringy hair, dripping palms, wringing wet. In the soggy line, we handed the smiling ushers our tickets, and stepped into an architectural dream. The place was packed, buzzing with energy. I’ve been meaning to write about that night ever since. But I just didn’t know what to say.
Sometimes things have to sit inside a while. I have to hold them tight to me. Until I know what I’ve got.
Angle, pipe organ, stained glass, inside Plymouth Congregational Church, night of Mary Oliver, May 7th, 2007, photo © 2007 by QuoinMonkey. All rights reserved.
Part II:
After a glowing introduction, and with a half-smirk that never left her face, Mary Oliver slowly walked up to the podium at Plymouth Congregational Church. Steady and sure, she had me from the first step. She was funny, witty, wise, and sometimes sarcastic. She made me laugh, something I highly value in a writer. She seemed to have lived a long, good life – a life not without sorrow.
She woke me up.
Liz took a few notes that night in a black, 8×10 sketchbook she had hidden deep in her pack. I asked her if I could take a look at it tonight, to help me unearth buried treasure. I chuckled when I saw a little thumb-sized pen and ink sketch of Mary Oliver in Liz’s notebook, near the left corner, by the spiral binding.
It’s a great reproduction of the way Mary looked that night. I wish I could scan and post it. I carry everything the poet said in my heart. But there is something about looking at handwritten lists, thin-lined sketches, and short words on a long page, that jogs the memory.
At the top of the toothy, unlined paper was a list the four of us made, things we wanted to do: go camping together again, hang with pre-Dr. Ruth (the name of one of our friends), ask questions at the end of Mary Oliver, practice pranayama (i.e. don’t forget to breathe), always carry a mint
At the bottom were shards of memory, dots connecting the thin, wispy lines of Mary Oliver to snippets of words from the past.
Part III:
- dogs remind us of the joy of the unexamined life
- dogs (pets) teach us to appreciate what we’ve lost; it’s the other life we no longer have that we must cherish
- it’s all in the way you live your life
- be disciplined
- pay attention!
- cultivate astonishment and tell about it
- never use a computer
- lose your drafts, they are only learning material
- poetry carries stories of us, community, culture, nation
- poetry is one of the bedrocks of culture
- poetry helps us feel
- poetry keeps the good stories going and makes us human – from Centering in Pottery, Poetry, and the Person by Mary C. Richards
- reach to be sustained
- have faith
- read other poems, other poets
- remember life is a gift
- love and work
- embrace the natural world
- keep it simple and clear
- accessible, no more than what you need
- have fun cutting away
- write fast, 30 or 40 drafts
- “Oh, what a nice podium. How nice for the preachers.”
- “I have trouble with titles – there’s a Spring in every book.”
Epilogue:
–Writer’s Hands, hands of Mary Oliver, signing a copy of Thirst,
May 2007, Minneapolis, Minnesota, photo © 2007 by QuoinMonkey.
All rights reserved.
At the end of her epic reading, we went out to the lobby to buy books for Mary Oliver to sign. I purchased a CD of Mary reading At Blackwater Pond. Liz purchased Owls and Other Fantasies. We had regretfully left Thirst at home.
Liz walked up to the table, and opened Owls to an unconventional page for signing. Mary paused, a little taken aback. Liz was quick to recover. “I like this image,” she said.
“Did you know it’s a photo of a feather?” Mary asked. Liz said, “Oh, no, I didn’t. That’s amazing.”
There was a pause while Mary ran her pen across the page. I watched from the sidelines. Liz smiled and said, “My Mom’s an Oliver. I like to think we’re related.”
Mary glowed with an impish grin, handed Liz the book, leaned forward, and I could have sworn she winked when she said, “Let’s say we are.”
– Mary Oliver – On Paying Attention posted on red Ravine, Tuesday, July 31st, 2007
-thanks to WomenSpirit, The Loft Literary Center, and Plymouth Congregational Church for sponsoring Mary Oliver’s visit to Minneapolis on May 7th, 2007
-related to post, The Uses Of Sorrow – What Is It About Obituaries
I’m glad you held this as long as you did. I like the way you laid it out for us. I could feel being there in the church but also being with you as you recalled the night.
cultivate astonishment and tell about it — beautiful! I can remember that.
I wish, too, that you could scan Liz’s drawing of Mary Oliver. Maybe a photo?
Thanks for this post.
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Overlapping time….something I’m very fond of. I like the line you plucked from what she said that night. Cultivating astonishment is a gift, an art form. It reminds me of having a natural curiosity about things, people, places, other than us.
Liz’s drawing is great. Not sure if I’ll post it. But I’ll tell her you asked. 8) It was really a great night at Mary Oliver. I thoroughly enjoyed it. It’s so inspiring to go and hear other writers read.
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A wonderful essay. I enjoyed the different parts that took us from the present, to that rainy night, folded in friendship and tiny anecdotes, and back to the timeless present of Mary Olivers words.
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Something strikes me about this post–Liz. How awake Liz is, how engaged, how her humor comes through in her interaction with Mary (it takes some serious moxie to tell the famous Ms. Oliver you think you are/want to be related), that she enters into this interface with a poet so completely. I mean, as far as I know, Liz isn’t aspiring to be an artist or poet. And yet there she is, documenting the experience. It’s inspiring. And beautiful in this obvious, simple way.
I went to Barnes & Noble today (bought On the Road and Howl). I picked up their coming events brochure, and can’t wait to go to listen to authors read from their latest work. It seems a perfect antidote to my feelings of writing paralysis.
Thanks, QM. Loved the post.
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Hmmm…perfect antidote to writing paralysis? Write a post for red Ravine!! (smile)
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Oliver’s work is elemental for me. Thank you for sharing this more expansive account. Love your site.
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Deborah, glad you enjoyed the piece. And thanks for the kudos to red Ravine! It was just last week that I ran into Slow Painting in my blog travels and added it to our blogroll. It’s full of information about artists, writers, creatives. I’ve since noticed that you have two more blogs related to art and creativity. It’s so great that you stopped by red Ravine. Hope you’ll visit us again.
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Sinclair, you’ve struck on something I love about Liz – she loves and embraces the world and is excited to be out in it, exploring and discovering. I especially appreciate this about her because I used to be so afraid to be out in the world. I’ve changed so much over time. And being around people who love to experience everything to the fullest and take risks in that area is such a pleasure for me.
I’ve started On the Road, too. Maybe we can compare notes on red Ravine as we move along in it. I always get bogged down in the beginning of that book. But I am going to keep pressing on. One thing I learned from Natalie is not to put a book down because I might not like it or find the style hard to read. Those are the books that I need to push myself to complete. It’s part of a good practice around writing and reading.
Howl – I’m dying to know what you think about that! That’s another book from the Beats that’s quite different. Let’s talk about that one on the Ravine, too! I checked it out once before one of the writing retreats in Taos and brought it with me there. It’s wild! Have you started it yet?
Maybe I’ll do a separate post on those two books. And we can start a discussion!
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You find the best blogs, QM. I’ve been enjoying Slow Painting. I wonder if there’s any connection to slow walking.
BTW, one of the bits of Mary Oliver’s advice that you captured had struck but I didn’t comment on it yet. Have fun cutting away. We get so attached to our words, they become like limbs. How to go from feeling pain as you rip them from the page to having fun? Just like that? Is it that simply? Did she expound?
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QM,
I haven’t started On the Road. It is sitting on my bookshelf along with all my other “must read before I die” titles.
I have, however, begun Howl. The first time I read the poem was after my first session with Natalie Goldberg. I thought it would just be the average poem. I mean, I expected a masterpiece, but the average masterpiece poem like a few Robert Frost penned. I wasn’t prepared. It didn’t take long for me to be asking myself and the page: “What???!!!???”
The copy was the typewritten version they’ve published straight from his typewriter. As I recall it was full of corrections and scratch-outs, not to mention being a very unwieldy, clunky book. I was too psyched out to proceed. The internal, hissing voice (“You don’t even get it!”) really revved up.
This time, I bought the book new. It is pocket-size, very clean and manageable-looking. I carry it with me everywhere, and have read the first three sentences. So far, I totally get what he’s saying. Since it is supposed to be the greatest poem ever written, I’ll take my time.
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Sinclair, I checked Howl out from the library, too, an older copy, close to the original. I was completely taken off-guard and got lost in the seeming chaos of scratch-outs and corrections that appeared on the page. I don’t think I actually finished the last few pages. Cut it short before I came back to Minneapolis, and turned it into the library.
After those writing trips, I’d usually have to hang a big sign on my forehead, “Downtime Needed.” Anyway, sounds good to take your time. It seems like that kind of poem. Can you imagine hearing him read it back in the day?
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You bring up an excellent idea. Allen reading it. Surely there must be a sound recording of him reading Howl, he only died ten years ago. Let’s put ybonesy on the hunt.
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I like what she said about writing, especially the fun of cutting away. It is fun, though I never thought of it as that. I don’t cut when I blog, I realize. But when I have to limit myself to a certain word count, it really is a fun challenge. And of course revising for publication is fun as well. I always thought of the revising as more fun than the initial draft. That’s what I like about blogging and nanowrimo: it makes the first draft fun again.
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I’m glad you commented on this, tiv. It inspired me to re-read the post, as well as the interconnected post on obituaries.
I’m not sure you’ll return here, but if you do, I wanted to say I was intrigued by two things you said: that you don’t cut when you blog, and that blogging (and nanowrimo) makes the first draft fun again.
On the first point, do you type right into your post template and when done hit Publish? If so, that’s like a form of practice. Every post you make, in that case, is raw and vulnerable like practice. It struck me because today I left a comment on one of your posts talking about how much your vulnerability appealed to me.
On the second point, I love writing the initial draft, too. I only publish it raw like that when I’m doing writing practice. Most other times I go in and revise. But some of my best posts (or the one or two for which people comment on the strength of the writing) are the ones I revise the least. I think it’s because I nailed something on the initial draft, like hitting a voice or a tempo. It weird; it reminds me of having a great night at darts or something.
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Yes, I just type into my template and hit publish. Raw thought. I don’t know how long it takes, if it’s a fifteen minute or half hour or five minute spurt. I lose track of time completely, which is a great sign that I’m in a Flow state. Then, I’ll just read it over a time or two and before I read comments and might correct typos or add a phrase here and there. More likely an additional free association than a cut. Have you read Czichentmihalyi’s book “Flow.”? I’m slaughtering his name. That’s the exact “hypnotic” state you are describing about tempo, great night at darts, my losing track of time. I’ll look for his book and maybe cite some quotes. God knows where any particular one of my books are.
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I haven’t read the book, but I know a man who bases an entire speech around it (giving author credit). He apllies the concept to meditation practice and to practicing yoga. I really ought to read the book.
When I do writing practice, I usually write into my journal, then type later. I have to do a spell check, because I’m awful at spelling.
It’s interesting to revisit this Mary Oliver post, because I enjoyed it so much. I really felt like I had been there with you guys on that rainy, cozy night.
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Yeah, it’s a great post. QM put time and energy into it. Those are the posts that seem to have the most staying power; that is, you can come back to them and get something out of them long after their post date has passed.
I haven’t read “Flow” either, although I want to now given that you both mention it. I do my writing practice in a notebook and type it in later to the blog template. I’m more likely to hit that “flow” state when I’m writing with a pen, although it’s not a given that I’ll hit it even then. Or maybe the last two paragraphs of the writing practice are flowing, the first few not. I love how it works, though. Love being able to sense when I hit Flow.
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tiv, thank you for resurrecting this post. And to ybonesy and C. for the kind comments as well. It led me to read it again, too. And I have to say, it’s good to remember the simplicity of Mary Oliver’s advice. She has been at her craft quite a long time. After seeing her in Minneapolis last May, I have even more respect for her and her writing.
I have not read the book, Flow, tiv, but it sounds fascinating. Like ybonesy, I’ve often been drawn to the vulnerability in your writing.
You know, I think I enjoy writing the initial practice and draft more than I do the cutting away. But once I begin to cut, then it gets kind of fun to move things around.
When I finish a piece, I always read it out loud. I can tell right away when something’s not working or doesn’t fit. It’s the real litmus test for me.
Thanks again for commenting, tiv. I especially like what Mary Oliver said about cultivating astonishment and telling about it. And what she said about being sustained in difficult times (words to live by):
reach to be sustained
have faith
read other poems, other poets
remember life is a gift
love and work
embrace the natural world
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Sinclair, I just realized in these comments that you had picked up On The Road and Howl last August and were going to read them. Did you ever finish them?
I finished On The Road this Fall (finally!). I had so much resistance to reading it, that it felt really good to complete it. I still want to do a short post on it. I’m planting the seed here so I remember.
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I just got home from hearing Mary Oliver read–a packed house at the State Theater. When the first speaker stepped to the podium to introduce the “Literary Legends” series he said, “And they say no one reads poetry anymore!” Lots of cheering for that comment.
She read for an hour from her new book, Red Bird. She talked a lot about her late partner, Molly, staying engaged with life, the responsibilities of writers. She was asked what writers she gains inspiration from. She said, “Whitman. Whitman. Whitman.”
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Oh, Terri, lucky, lucky, lucky you! I would love to hear Mary Oliver read from ANY book, but especially from her newest beautiful book, Red Bird. Thanks for sharing your experience here.
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breathepeace,
I’ve been thinking of a question this morning I wish I had thought of to ask Mary during Q & A. Did she have to learn how to stay awake? Is it effortless for her now? Is it a conscious decision she has to recommit to everyday? Does she look back at the end of the day ever see lost time? Oh, I guess that is four questions. These are obviously my concerns and daily struggles.
More tidbits from last night:
*You must write by hand. You must learn to write with your hand as a painter learns to paint with a paintbrush. She didn’t forbid the computer; she talked about typing herself.
*Read the masters. Besides Whitman, she spoke of Keats, Yeats, & Thoreau influencing her.
*Always carry a notebook for the gifts that are given to you during the day.
*Avoid learning how to write in an academic setting.
*You learn to write by mimicking great writers.
During the book signing she was wearing a heavy black hiking jacket–the sort you can get at REI. I wondered how many ponds, birds, and trees she’s seen while wearing it. Mary Oliver can totally get by with a jacket like that for a book signing. Love it.
She also said she’s the only person who knows where Blackwater Pond is because she has invented a name for a body of water she visits.
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Teri, oh, how lovely to wake up to inspiration from Mary Oliver! And thank you for dropping these notes into this post on red Ravine.
I had a little twinge when I saw that last night was the night she was at the State Theater. Liz and I made a conscious choice not to go this time. It turned out to be the best for us in terms of timing. but when I saw your comment, I was having this twinge of, “Oh, that sounds so inspirational!”
It brings back fond memories of seeing her last year at the small venue of Plymouth Congregational. I’m not at all surprised at her writing influences, especially when I read the way she writes. Makes total sense, doesn’t it?
The other thing I want to say is that isn’t it hopeful for writers that a poet can pack the house! I just love that. It’s kind of like at your last poetry group, when someone mentioned that the world would be such a different place if people packed the Metrodome to hear a writer read her prose, or to hear poetry. I’m going to hold that thought.
If you think of anything else about seeing Mary Oliver last night, we’ll look forward to reading.
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QM,
Mary read the poem that you read aloud at the last poetry reading, “Roses, Late Summer.” The audience laughed hard at the ending, and Ruth and I turned to each other and said, “That’s QM’s poem!”
I’ve been listening to public radio all morning while I drive. There’s been a guest on talking about the dumbing down of America. One grim fact she relayed is that half of the people in our country under the age of 44 did not read one book last year. Those kind of stats can really put me under.
And yet, I take hope in the fact that the problem is being talked about. I take hope in hundreds of people turning out for Mary Oliver. I take hope in the young people who come to our Poetry and Meditation group who are being turned on to books they may not have thought of before.
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wish I could have been there in the pocket of Mary’s hiking jacket; thanks for sharing your experience!
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skyWire, what a great place to hide. I loved that Mary Oliver was wearing a hiking jacket. I see myself following in that tradition. I just don’t know how to dress up anymore. The longer I write, the more comfortable I want to be everywhere I go.
Teri, that’s so cool that she read “Roses, Late Summer.” I enjoyed reading that at the poetry reading last month. Thanks to you and Ruth for thinking about me. 8) The age diversity in the poetry group is so refreshing. It gives me hope!
Hey, can you talk about what she said about the responsibilities of writers? I’d love to hear more. Also whatever you remember about Molly Malone Cook, her partner of over 40 years. Whatever you can pull from your memory.
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Mary said that Molly was given up by her parents and passed from home to home (some form of foster care, I believe) for years. Eventually, she did track down her parents, but Mary didn’t say if it was a happy reunion or not. Mary said that Molly was hard for people to get to know, and gave off vibes that made people stay away. However, once Molly got to know and love someone, she was loyal nearly to a fault.
Also, in their years together, they rarely spent a day apart. Molly would travel with Mary if she had to teach somewhere or speak. Mary said last night, “Well, I guess maybe you already know, but I lived with my partner Molly Malone Cook for 40 years.” Mary said there are photos and negatives galore in their home that Molly took. She spoke highly of her ability to photograph, sharing that Molly would say things like, “I want to photograph every person alive.”
Mary talked about the responsibility of writers to see, watch, and record. She talked about the sad state of affairs politically, and how ours is a voice of justice and reason. She read a wickedly funny poem about Rumsfeld and Bush, and said at one place that she read it recently they almost made her leave.
She talked insistently about living life, being alive, waking up, not frittering away time. Though this is always her style, last night it was very, very intense. She wasn’t going to let us off the hook being half-conscious.
When she signed books she was particularly engaged and smiling with her readers. Obviously so. Very grateful.
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Oh, one more funny Mary/Molly quip I heard last night:
Mary said when they were first together, they were very poor; they weren’t making any money as either photographer or writer. Mary would call Molly to the supper table, put down two bowls and say, “We’re having chicken with rice and almonds tonight! However, the almonds are invisible and the chicken ran away.”
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Teri, thanks for all the great info on Mary Oliver last night. Boy, would I love to see all those photographs of Molly Malone Cook’s in her home. I wonder how many people she did actually end up photographing?
It sounds like she was in a much better place at the booksigning last night. Though I wonder if there were any other Oliver’s in the audience (like last year)? 8) How long was the line? I hope she sold a ton of books.
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Oh, thank you, Terri, for being such a good listener and for being so generous with your time to share your memories with us! I’ve really enjoyed reading your recollections and they are helpful to me — right now. Blessings to you!
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Ditto, Teri. These pearls of wisdom are invaluable. Thank you for coming back and reviving these posts, too. I love reading them after so much times has passed that I’ve forgotten about them.
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I stumbled upon this site and have enjoyed the postings about Mary Oliver. I live in Montana and would love to hear her read. I suppose she never leaves Mass. I’m not a writer but deeply appreciate her work. I just purchased a copy of Thirst this afternoon. It’s time to savor a poem or two before bed tonight.
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mslamom, so glad you found us. I take it from your pen name that you are from Missoula? What a coincidence — I lived there for about 8 years in my twenties. I loved it there. And I remember we used to go to quite a few musical and literary events at the University of Montana. You might be surprised; Mary Oliver may just make it to Montana after all!
I think Mary Oliver has been known to leave Provincetown as she has been to Minneapolis twice over the last few years. She’s one of the most popular and well-paid poets in this country, so I suppose she can set her own schedule. But she’s so grounded and down to earth — maybe you should write to her and see if she’ll come to Montana? Thanks for your comment. Hope you keep hanging out at red Ravine. Say hi to the Clark Fork and Blackfoot rivers and the Bitterroot mountains. 8)
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Last night, I volunteered at a fundraiser for my local foodshelf. My job was to sit at a table and collect donations. It was intensely fast-paced and loud. After I had processed a few people, I realized I wasn’t even stopping to look at them or thank them.
Then I remembered Mary Oliver, and how she paused with each person who had bought her book. She looked them in the eye and smiled. It took no time at all, but it made all the difference. It was four years ago that I saw Mary at Plymouth Church, but her example came back to me with great clarity.
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