The Journey

The Journey by Mary Oliver

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.

This time of year, when the days start to lengthen, and that bit of discernible change in the light fills your heart with gladness and hope for the coming changes that spring will bring, there's a feeling that things will get a little better, bit by bit.  That in spite of the impending collapse of those very foundations that you once worked so hard to build, something new will be built, that you will build it, that it will suit you much better, that it will be a safer, more nourishing space, a room of your own.  You stand and wait for the explosive shudder, the taste of grit in your mouth, the clearing of the dust. Things must sometimes fall apart--the road full of broken branches and stones, the skies obscured with fear and uncertainty, the abyss beckoning from below--before we can seek something new.  We are reminded that death begets life, and spring brings renewal.  That as the stars continue to burn through the sheets of clouds, that voice within might just be the brightest light of all.  

Thank you, Mary Oliver, for the reminders that The Journey brings.  As I struggle to find my way in this world, to shed the self-doubt, step out of the rubble and embrace a deeper love, I am grateful for the wild nights that make those starry skies possible.

Pema Chödrön speaks of the "Dance of Gloriousness and Wretchedness," in "Start Where You Are":

"Life is glorious, but life is also wretched. It is both.

Appreciating the gloriousness inspires us, encourages us, cheers us up, gives us a bigger perspective, energizes us. We feel connected. But if that's all that's happening, we get arrogant and start to look down on others, and there is a sense of making ourselves a big deal and being really serious about it, wanting it to be like that forever. The gloriousness becomes tinged by craving and addiction.

On the other hand, wretchedness--life's painful aspect--softens us up considerably. Knowing pain is a very important ingredient of being there for another person. When you are feeling a lot of grief, you can look right into somebody's eyes because you feel you haven't got anything to lose--you're just there. The wretchedness humbles us and softens us, but if we were only wretched, we would all just go down the tubes. We'd be so depressed, discouraged, and hopeless that we wouldn't have enough energy to eat an apple.

Gloriousness and wretchedness need each other. One inspires us, the other softens us. They go together."

Indeed.