Dying Wiser #11: Tree Trilogy: Three
Wisdom through Poetry; Eldering through Dad: Why not one more?
There have been already two posts on autumn and trees but I have a poem from Mary Oliver that I refer to often, even as I sit among the trees on our property, and I couldn’t not use it as an Eldering through the Dad lens. So I’m going with it.
Here’s a third from our fellow souls, the trees.
When I Am Among the Trees
by Mary Oliver
When I am among the trees,
especially the willows and the honey locust,
equally the beech, the oaks and the pines,
they give off such hints of gladness.
I would almost say that they save me, and daily.
I am so distant from the hope of myself,
in which I have goodness, and discernment,
and never hurry through the world
but walk slowly, and bow often.
Around me the trees stir in their leaves
and call out, “Stay awhile.”
The light flows from their branches.
And they call again, “It’s simple,” they say,
“and you too have come
into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled
with light, and to shine.”
All one really has to say is Mary Oliver.
Period.
Full stop.
If you aren’t into poetry, an accessible entry point for anyone would be Mary Oliver—her poetry is nature-based, down-to-earth, and sublime. If anyone was able to express the Soul that could be found in a single leaf, or goose, or grasshopper, or tree, it was Mary Oliver. The Pulitzer Prize winning poet died in 2015 at roughly the same age Dad is now.
When I Am Among the Trees:
I see two halves to this poem, through Dad.
The first half includes Dad as a non-stop, busy, “gotta have something to do” farmer. If you were to ask me how my Dad relaxed over the course of an entire year, I’d be hard pressed to think of things.
“I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I… never hurry through the world but walk slowly, and bow often.”
I used to think Dad was distant from “that” too, from going slow and never hurrying—but I’m discovering I’ve defined that differently from Dad ‘cuz I don’t think he hoped or wanted anything different. His life was farming—his passion, his energy, his sustenance, his fulfillment, his meaning…his reason for getting up every day. He was a successful farmer because he worked so damned hard. Farming also matched my Dad’s innate introverted and humble nature. On the farm, you get to choose how solitary you want your world and work to be. There could be days on end before you have to talk to anybody—and that, I think, was totally okay with Dad.
Dad and I share this character trait. Many who know Dad may not know this side of him because in the presence of others, he was always kind, friendly, sociable to a point, and present. Most introverts know how to play that act well. Dad was most himself, though, not when people were around, but when he could lose himself in the hard, heavy, dirty, and monotonous work of the farm.
At dinner the other night, as we in our home have been nursing colds, Kristin asked Dad, facetiously, if he ever had to ask his boss for a sick day. You know Dad’s answer. You already know Dad had no boss on the farm (but cross the threshold of the house doors though…that’s a different story as Mom’s presence would dominate). And “sick day” was never in his lexicon. So Dad’s answer was that he never got sick. He didn’t have the time—there was work to always do. (Interesting note: both Kristin and I both caught this cold virus—so far, Dad hasn’t had a single symptom! I think he’s skated by—quick, knock on some wood with me please!).
“…[In] which I never hurry through the world, but walk slowly, and bow often.”
Dad was almost always working. Most days during the growing season, the only time he’d relax was right before bed, after a bath, likely with a bowl of popcorn he just popped himself in a skillet on the stove (remember, this is the only thing he could cook!), and then reclined on the couch with his feet up to watch whatever show the family had on one of the four TV channels (YES, young’uns, you read that right—four channels and one of them was the PBS channel.).
During the winter months, we still had school so we really didn’t witness what Dad’s days were like but we know, for sure, they weren’t filled with idleness. Winters weren’t fun for Dad—so he had to work to find things to do. We always had garages and shops to putter around in and if Dad wasn’t driving around in his pickup somewhere among his idle, wintering fields, he’d be holed up in one of his shops doing something while not really listening to a country western station he’d allow himself the luxury to have on in the background.
A new Eldering
As I look back on it now, I do think it is amazing and fascinating that most of my memories are of my Dad always working. And as I write these words, I’m discovering this was also how Dad “walked slowly” on this earth—which I interpret now, with Dad, as walking deliberately and with purpose. He not only worked hard, my Dad also deeply respected the work, the soil, and everything and everyone associated with the raising of a crop of hops. So, in every act of work, my Dad lived a sacredness in what he did. Without me seeing it until all these years later, and 27 years after he gave up all his acreage, I am just now realizing my Dad “bowed often” every single day. He knew how lucky he was to have discovered something essential to his being. Which brings me to the second half of Mary Oliver’s poem.
“And you too have come into the world to do this…”
Farming was exactly what Dad was brought into the world to do. He didn’t want to do anything else. So, in an ironic way, when Mary Oliver said of trees:
“It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine”,
that is exactly what Dad did even though he was always working. That was how Dad “went easy” through the world. Ever hear the saying: “If you find something to do in/with your life that you absolutely love, you will never work a day in your life?” Though he worked so dang hard, I don’t think Dad worked a day in his life. Work was how Dad relaxed. Work was how he fulfilled his purpose. Which is also why he’s found his “post-work” life to be so difficult.
My Dad had his answer early in his life. He knew, likely from shortly after birth, what he was going to be doing with his “precious life.” The trees he lived among must have approved.
“…to be filled with light, and to shine.”
Say the trees:“It’s simple….” And only in retrospect, it really was. It was my Dad’s life. It’s how he nourished and fulfilled his Soul with meaning. It is “what [he came] into the world to do.”
And it was how he shined!
T plus 127 days…and counting. “You too have come into this world to do this.” To be the truest YOU you can be. Just like my Dad did. Exactly like my Dad did.
In my next life I want to be a farmer. Like Wally, I love working in dirt.