Summer in December

The Summer Day
Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention,
how to fall downinto the grass,
how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed,
how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

from New and Selected Poems, 1992
Beacon Press, Boston, MA
Copyright 1992 by Mary Oliver


Car rides always seem to invoke deep philosophical thinking for DP and me. Yesterday was no exception. I had conducted our service at church on Mary Oliver's poem "The Summer Day," with several congregants providing their own responses. When it was my turn, I drew upon the poem but also Barbara Cooney's children's book Miss Rumphius, about a woman who tries to figure out how she can make the world more beautiful. Her answer is to plant lupines all over her town, making beauty for everyone.

What is my answer?

I said I don't know.

And several people in the congregation, mostly our senior women, told me I was already doing it, that it was the children.

I must say I am generally uncomfortable with this answer. And that was our car discussion while said children napped. I very much see the children as mostly their own creation, given to us with their own individual personalities. But as DP gently pointed out, that is disingenuous. If I don't feel like I'm helping to influence them, why do I stay at home? Why do I try so hard? Think about it so much? And she's right. There is a lot of guidance necessary to fully develop those little personalities into people participating in a community. And, in general, I think I'm pretty good at it. So, why not take "credit"? So I don't have to take the blame? I don't think I'm that wishy-washy. Or irresponsible.

Then I remembered something my mom said to me during her visit, mainly that she's glad I blog so she can get a sense of what I'm feeling. I tend to think of myself as a fairly emotional--and transparent--person, but I understood from her comments that this is just not the case. DP was surprised; she sees me the way I do. It's true, I don't gush about motherhood--I'm the last person to provide sentimental platitudes about being a mom. And I think that's because I find it so much more complicated than that. I almost can't put it into words--the difficulty, the devotion, the joy, the frustration, the surprise, the humor, the love. And there is not often the time to be that reflective.

Except on long car rides on winter Sunday afternoons.

My answer to the poem's question is still not simply, "the children." It's not simple. But I think I do know the answer. I just can't say.