Mary Oliver's "Goldenrod"
In her poem "Goldenrod," Mary Oliver begins:
"On roadsides,
in fall fields,
in rumpy bunches,
saffron and orange and pale gold,
in little towers,
soft as mash,
sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
full of bees sand yellow beads and perfect flowerlets
and orange butterflies."
I love the phrase "rumpy bunches." That was the phrase that caused me to remember what goldenrod looked like. Hiking the prairie, the goldenrod are the yellow plants that seem to gather and bend together, old women, golden-headed instead of gray, whispering their secrets. They stink, and they are rugged and disheveled, but they are also beautiful in their own way.
I loved the prairie from the moment I moved here, but I learned to love it more because of S, who was so in awe of living in the midst of so much open space when I first got her. She loved to walk with me, noticing plant and snake and bird, breathing in, in, in. Later, walking the same paths with T, who actually knew the names of the plants and animals we spotted, my appreciation grew even more.
Oliver goes on,
"I don't suppose
much notice comes of it, except for honey,
and how it heartens the heart with its
blank blaze.
I don't suppose anything loves it, except, perhaps,
the rocky voids
filled by its dumb dazzle."
And I know what she means--it wasn't until I looked up the flower that I was sure I remembered seeing it at all. It is not the milkweed, noticeable because of the way it attracts caterpillars-turned-monarchs, or the delicate asters, or the showy coreopsis, or prairie smoke, or blazing star, or coneflower. It grows in rocky places a little off the beaten path.
Oliver continues,
"For myself,
I was just passing by, when the wind flared
and the blossoms rustled,
and the glittering pandemonium
leaned on me.
I was just minding my own business
when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
citron and butter-colored,
and was happy, and why not?"
I've had this sensation while walking the flat, open prairie before--sudden, inexplicable joy at the sight of a flower I didn't expect to see, one that becomes noticeable suddenly when the wind flairs up. I have walked through the prairie enraged at some long-since-forgotten insult or hurt, exhausted, grief-stricken. The flat nothingness calms me--the unexpected delights remind me of how small my feelings are, how silly. Something about the prairie wind is playful, even at its most brutal. The weather is constantly playing tricks.
"Are not the difficult labors of our lives
full of dark hours?
And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,
that is better than these light-filled bodies?"
Good question.
"All day
on their airy backbones
they toss in the wind,
they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
they rise in a stiff sweetness,
in the pure peace of giving
one's gold away."
They are flowers with old souls, definitely, shameless about their bodies, rugged though they may be. They are stiff but also sweet, generous even if not regularly noticed. They are, in short, all I want to be--comfortable in my body, at ease with my own generosity and within my own community, humble but also the bearer of joy, joyful myself regardless of whether and when and how the rest of the world notices me.
I have a lot to learn.
We are considering this poem as one of our wedding poems, so I thought I would use this Lenten discipline to examine why I feel drawn to it. It is not an Oliver poem I know well, nor is it explicitly a love poem. But how T and I discovered each other quite unexpectedly after knowing each other for so long is not unlike how we pass the goldenrod again and again, never noticing it. The poem also reflects our own values--humility, deep, spiritual joy, a generosity that doesn't care what the world thinks of it.
I looked up the medicinal qualities of goldenrod and learned that it was used to heal wounds. Immediately I remembered the moment I was sure I would marry T, when she said to me, after I shared my crazy Healing Ranch dream with her, "All I've ever wanted to do was to heal people." And our friendship, early on, centered on healing; we saw each others' old wounds and found ways to open them, to touch them with salve until we were beginning to heal.
The scientific term for these plants are "Solidago canadensis" or "Solidago virgaurea." Solidago means--get this--"to make whole."
Now I not only want to use this poem, but also to have goldenrod in our bouquets, despite its stink and propensity for drawing bees. OK, maybe not the bouquet part, but surely I can convince T (who is almost convinced already) to use this poem. Unless I feel the same way about the next one we consider...
"On roadsides,
in fall fields,
in rumpy bunches,
saffron and orange and pale gold,
in little towers,
soft as mash,
sneeze-bringers and seed-bearers,
full of bees sand yellow beads and perfect flowerlets
and orange butterflies."
I love the phrase "rumpy bunches." That was the phrase that caused me to remember what goldenrod looked like. Hiking the prairie, the goldenrod are the yellow plants that seem to gather and bend together, old women, golden-headed instead of gray, whispering their secrets. They stink, and they are rugged and disheveled, but they are also beautiful in their own way.
I loved the prairie from the moment I moved here, but I learned to love it more because of S, who was so in awe of living in the midst of so much open space when I first got her. She loved to walk with me, noticing plant and snake and bird, breathing in, in, in. Later, walking the same paths with T, who actually knew the names of the plants and animals we spotted, my appreciation grew even more.
Oliver goes on,
"I don't suppose
much notice comes of it, except for honey,
and how it heartens the heart with its
blank blaze.
I don't suppose anything loves it, except, perhaps,
the rocky voids
filled by its dumb dazzle."
And I know what she means--it wasn't until I looked up the flower that I was sure I remembered seeing it at all. It is not the milkweed, noticeable because of the way it attracts caterpillars-turned-monarchs, or the delicate asters, or the showy coreopsis, or prairie smoke, or blazing star, or coneflower. It grows in rocky places a little off the beaten path.
Oliver continues,
"For myself,
I was just passing by, when the wind flared
and the blossoms rustled,
and the glittering pandemonium
leaned on me.
I was just minding my own business
when I found myself on their straw hillsides,
citron and butter-colored,
and was happy, and why not?"
I've had this sensation while walking the flat, open prairie before--sudden, inexplicable joy at the sight of a flower I didn't expect to see, one that becomes noticeable suddenly when the wind flairs up. I have walked through the prairie enraged at some long-since-forgotten insult or hurt, exhausted, grief-stricken. The flat nothingness calms me--the unexpected delights remind me of how small my feelings are, how silly. Something about the prairie wind is playful, even at its most brutal. The weather is constantly playing tricks.
"Are not the difficult labors of our lives
full of dark hours?
And what has consciousness come to anyway, so far,
that is better than these light-filled bodies?"
Good question.
"All day
on their airy backbones
they toss in the wind,
they bend as though it was natural and godly to bend,
they rise in a stiff sweetness,
in the pure peace of giving
one's gold away."
They are flowers with old souls, definitely, shameless about their bodies, rugged though they may be. They are stiff but also sweet, generous even if not regularly noticed. They are, in short, all I want to be--comfortable in my body, at ease with my own generosity and within my own community, humble but also the bearer of joy, joyful myself regardless of whether and when and how the rest of the world notices me.
I have a lot to learn.
We are considering this poem as one of our wedding poems, so I thought I would use this Lenten discipline to examine why I feel drawn to it. It is not an Oliver poem I know well, nor is it explicitly a love poem. But how T and I discovered each other quite unexpectedly after knowing each other for so long is not unlike how we pass the goldenrod again and again, never noticing it. The poem also reflects our own values--humility, deep, spiritual joy, a generosity that doesn't care what the world thinks of it.
I looked up the medicinal qualities of goldenrod and learned that it was used to heal wounds. Immediately I remembered the moment I was sure I would marry T, when she said to me, after I shared my crazy Healing Ranch dream with her, "All I've ever wanted to do was to heal people." And our friendship, early on, centered on healing; we saw each others' old wounds and found ways to open them, to touch them with salve until we were beginning to heal.
The scientific term for these plants are "Solidago canadensis" or "Solidago virgaurea." Solidago means--get this--"to make whole."
Now I not only want to use this poem, but also to have goldenrod in our bouquets, despite its stink and propensity for drawing bees. OK, maybe not the bouquet part, but surely I can convince T (who is almost convinced already) to use this poem. Unless I feel the same way about the next one we consider...
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