Walking Home by Mary Oliver

I called to the other men that the sky was clearing, and then a moment later I realized that what I had seen was not a rift in the clouds but the white crest of an enormous wave.

Ernest Shackleton


Life is reflected in nature, and strong parallels run between the two.  Clouds with a low ceiling can make us feel oppressed by their heaviness, similar to the emotional stress cloaked around our shoulders and neck.  As the rolling clouds take on a darker form, our problems also seem to multiply.  We might be dreading personal consequences while the clouds begin to threaten and rumble.  Our phone rings breaking our imagined sense of  safety and  bolts of lightening strike out of the sky.  It is good news arriving by phone, and there seems to be a clearing in the sky.  The relaxing sense of relief begins to evacuate our tension.  Just when we allow our selves to believe everything can be worked out, we realize there was not a clearing in the sky, but rather another large wave coming right at us.  In the distance, we hear sirens going off predicting more turbulent times, and we search for shelter where we can discover a way to survive.

Gratefully, life is not always this dramatic, but the point is how we use nature for comparisons:  out of the woods, storm passes, drowning, blown away, dead weight, etc...  Nature is the very form many poets use to express their most inner feelings.  There is an identity that is easily embraced.



WALKING HOME FROM OAK~HEAD
Mary Oliver

There is something
     about the snow - laden sky
        in winter
            in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
     and the lovely meaninglessness
        of time.
            Whenever I get home ---whenever---

somebody loves me there.
     Meanwhile
        I stand in the same dark peace
            as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly
     like the still unhurried wind,
        waiting,
            as for a gift,

for the snow to begin
     which it does
        at first casually,
            then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live ---
     in music, in woods,
        in the fires of the heart,
            I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place,
     this world,
        which is falling apart now,
            which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
     our deepest prayers.
        Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
            Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway
     stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
        my shoulders
            covered with stars.