Recently I was talking with a friend about Mary Oliver’s
latest book of poetry, Felicity. I think this might be my favorite volume of
her poetry and, upon receiving it, instantly devoured it, hungrily taking in
her rich and evocative images and words. My friend, who has only recently
started reading it said, “I am slow reading it, so I don’t become an Oliver
glutton.”
Her words got me to thinking about our culture of instant
gratification; in an era where we can instantly download the latest book or
movie we hear about onto our laptops, or tablets, or phones, taking things slow
is almost unheard of. It takes patience and a certain amount of intestinal
fortitude to let something unfold slowly—particularly if it’s something as
wonderful as a new book of poetry. There
is a frisson of anticipation I get when something good seems to be crackling in
the air, as electric as lightning that strikes close enough to thrillingly
illuminate without danger of causing harm.
It’s akin to the “quickening” that happens about midway
through pregnancy. This is the moment when the mother first feels the stirrings
of life inside her. For me, it happened at about the five month mark. I was
worried because I thought it should have happened sooner, and I wondered if I,
in my lack of knowledge had experienced it and didn’t realize it. Then it
happened one night, just as I was drifting off to sleep: a fluttering, as of
butterflies--or butterfly kisses-- that elicited an immediate, visceral
reaction of exultant joy! There was life in me! There was something new being
created within me-though as yet unseen to the world, and felt only by me! And,
as excited and impatient as I was for this new life to be revealed, I could
only wait, unable to force the process to go faster. I had to “slow read.” I
had felt life stirring but it would be months before Sam would be born in his
own time. And those months, too, held rich experiences that I’m glad I didn’t
miss.
As I reflect on that sense of “quickening” I realized I have
experienced that exact same sensation at other seminal moments of my life. I’ve
felt that same butterfly sensation in the moment when I realized I was falling
in love with someone, I experienced it when I had the epiphany of my sexual
orientation and my call to ministry. These, too, are moments of gestation when
I suddenly felt the existence of new life and all the possibilities on the
horizon—as yet unseen by others. And these, too, required slow reading. These,
too, were rich experiences not to be rushed through, but to be savored; to be
in the charged atmosphere of change, without hiding in fear of being struck or
trying to control where and when the lightning would, indeed, land; to succumb
to the delicious, sometimes agonizing unfolding of possibilities, trusting the
outcome would be what it was supposed to be.
Or, as Mary Oliver instructs us in her first poem in Felicity:
Don’t Worry
Things take
the time they take. Don’t
Worry.
How many
roads did St. Augustine follow
Before
he became St. Augustine.
So, I will try to remember to slow read important parts of
my life, experience the quickening with all its excitement and let it be, all
the while being open to those times when life and circumstances shout “take
risks! Dive in! Be headstrong!” These, Mary also advocates in her new book:
I Did Think,
Let’s Go About This Slowly
I did think,
let’s go about this slowly.
This is
important. This should take
Some really
deep thought. We should
Take
Small thoughtful
steps.
But, bless
us, we didn’t.
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