Mary Oliver

I have rarely identified with and found comfort in the writings of a person in the way I do with the work of Mary Oliver. She reminds me not just to ground myself in my body, but also in the world. To look around and notice my environment and my relationship with the other creatures in that same environment. She connects me with a younger version of myself. The version who would wander through the woods, joyfully get lost, search out all the interesting and strange dried out plants each autumn with the hopes of making some kind of strange, sculptural masterpiece. The version who sat in a field, holding onto a notebook, trying to write down all the things she noticed around her. The small spider jumping in the grass. The birds swarming from tree to tree in the hillside above. Once, a beaver wandering up from the wild wetlands to see if some kind of home could made in the practical mud puddle that was the farmhouse pond. The beaver eventually abandoned the pond. I sat still, watching after it left. I am still that version of myself. Mary Oliver ties me to her.