Mary Oliver wrote in Dream Work (1986) of her early experiences of child sexual abuse by her father which informs a body of poetic work dedicated to intimately observing and being immersed in beauty in the natural world. If interpreting what she wrote approximates a lived life, Oliver’s poetry was a reiterated reflection of her choice, to be a part of that which can evoke both peace and awe. She reveals the depth of her suffering succinctly, and then surrounds this with a reverberating constellation of love present in her life. Among her most read poems she admonishes readers to love and accept self in flesh and spirit as part of the natural order of things. She found healing, but we do not, cannot, as readers, know how. We accept her words. By contrast, the poet Charles Bukowski struggles with the resurgence of each day which must be faced: arduous, mundane, lonely, unbearable, as seen through his lens and articulated in a large body of work.
We can only read what people give us to see. We cannot know the unique details of experience leading to the myriad directions we take in life. We accept the postcard each moment presents and cannot help but wonder about it in the context of our own exposures. To say we are biased seems obvious. The extent to which our conclusions are informed by an unknown formula carried deep within the folds of our brains, marked by visceral time stamps of which we are only vaguely aware, is a universal truth. But what does this mean, practically speaking? An anxious mom, leaning into her beloved newborn held for the first time in trembling arms, transfuses the breath of her experiences, for better and for worse, into the way in which the child grows up. Sometimes we learn this, a rude awakening which pricks us with guilt, couldn’t we have done better after all? But which ultimately we must accept to participate fully in relationship. Sun sets over storm: untimely illness, death, the realization of unkind influences, brutality overt and disguised, or even more confusingly, expressed by those who love us, somehow the sun rises too in the face of all this. Failure of attunement and war are divvied out arbitrarily, outside of our control, for our self-conscious and feeling brains to process, make meaning of, or collapse. It is a hard choice.
Recognition of choice is not always an easy thing. We learn early the way of the world, and these can be insidious lessons to unlearn. We are presented with options every step of the way, some more or less attractive, some requiring enormous effort, all requiring some consideration for what it is we hope to achieve and at what cost. Is it more money that will satisfy, make us feel safe in a reckless world, is it prestige, admiration from others, a demonstrated ability that hard things can be conquered over and over. It may be revealing to consider what underlying question is being addressed with our drives. Are we showing the world we are capable over and over again, and if so, why? Are we building a better life for our own children so they don’t suffer the insults thrust upon us? Is there some hidden responsibility that we fulfill without really knowing why? Or are we simply stepping through the course of our unexamined lives? The great mythologist Joseph Campbell urges us to “follow our bliss” but we in our day-to-day needs must also consider practicalities. It does no good to feel deeply fulfilled if we risk not being able to pay for the basics of a costly life. Meaning and logistics collide, but somewhere in there is a compromise ripe for consideration. Maybe it is recognizing that, after all, what we have is enough. Maybe it is suddenly feeling, viscerally, that our little problems are not so much to manage. Or maybe it is seeing suddenly that change is needed and now we wonder how to proceed with the cards we hold. Either way it can be rocky terrain and so we need our boots on the ground, even with our head in the sky, above the rain clouds, basking in the sun of our brighter moments and imagination.
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