One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do—
determined to save
the only life you could save.
"The Journey," Mary Oliver
"The Journey" was given to me by a hospital chaplain, several years ago. She came into a defining moment in my life--a life-changing medication overdosage that called me to decide whether to struggle in the work world, or to enter into a completely foreign world--long-term disability.
The chaplain visited me twice.
On Monday, my mind was in the deepest fog imaginable, thanks to Depakote's hold on me. I was crying out for help--to be listened to--using words I do not know to be able to retell today. Yet, I craved a keenly attuned ear--her listening soul.
On Friday, my brain had been drained of Depakote's excesses. My mind was clear. My perspective was fresh. Two extremes of the same person was the chaplain's view that week. She knew--we both knew--many difficult months lay ahead to be navigated. The chaplain gave me "The Journey."
I have not read this poem in some time. I passed her occasionally in my drafts. But, I needed to reach a rest stop on the very narrow, winding road free of any icy patches.
I still don't know what this foreign land's name is. It is not retirement. I am not old in mind, or so I like to claim. I am not young in body. I am old enough to know that much.
I keep thinking that I will get to a point--a definite point--where I know what that word is. Yet, that is just the point. There is no single point. Mary Oliver talks about finding your voice. Yet, she says much more, though it can be easily lost in its subtlety. It is "The Journey" that Mary Oliver wrote. Mary Oliver did not write, "The Destination."
I will heed Mary Oliver's words. I will continue to seek my voice, and continue in search of retirement's synonym, as I redefine this new life.
"The Journey" was given to me by a hospital chaplain, several years ago. She came into a defining moment in my life--a life-changing medication overdosage that called me to decide whether to struggle in the work world, or to enter into a completely foreign world--long-term disability.
The chaplain visited me twice.
On Monday, my mind was in the deepest fog imaginable, thanks to Depakote's hold on me. I was crying out for help--to be listened to--using words I do not know to be able to retell today. Yet, I craved a keenly attuned ear--her listening soul.
On Friday, my brain had been drained of Depakote's excesses. My mind was clear. My perspective was fresh. Two extremes of the same person was the chaplain's view that week. She knew--we both knew--many difficult months lay ahead to be navigated. The chaplain gave me "The Journey."
I have not read this poem in some time. I passed her occasionally in my drafts. But, I needed to reach a rest stop on the very narrow, winding road free of any icy patches.
I still don't know what this foreign land's name is. It is not retirement. I am not old in mind, or so I like to claim. I am not young in body. I am old enough to know that much.
I keep thinking that I will get to a point--a definite point--where I know what that word is. Yet, that is just the point. There is no single point. Mary Oliver talks about finding your voice. Yet, she says much more, though it can be easily lost in its subtlety. It is "The Journey" that Mary Oliver wrote. Mary Oliver did not write, "The Destination."
I will heed Mary Oliver's words. I will continue to seek my voice, and continue in search of retirement's synonym, as I redefine this new life.
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