Tucking yourself in: emotional tending-to that yields a rich life

I never considered geese to be particularly romantic or graceful animals until I read Mary Oliver’s “Wild Geese” for the first time. I find this poem both comforting and inspiring and I want to share it with you along with some impressions I have about it. You will find the poem at the end of this entry.

Each time I read this poem, it feels a bit like unwrapping a lovely gift—the pleasure of discovery undiluted by repetition. Good poems are like that—each bite of words tastes as good as the very first.

The fact is, when life feels out of control, we want to seize upon anything we can to feel stable and certain once more. People exhort us to take perspective, to slow down, to breathe. Like most advice, this counsel is easy to give but sometimes very hard to follow.

What is wonderful about this poem is the reminder that we can take comfort in the simple and steady rhythms of the planet—of the trees and animals in their seasons, and even in familiar personal rituals or practices that bring us ease.

It gives permission to simply exist, without effort or angst or trial. We are tucked into bed, soothed and quieted, assured of our goodness and gently reminded of the humble scope of our own lives.

Something that often strikes me is a general sense among the public that life must be difficult, or barring that, effortful. Somewhere along the way, we learned that things would be hard and enjoyment would first require preparation and effort in spades. We would earn our right to a place here, and we would work hard to acquire the means enjoy the life we have been given. Perhaps we even learned that our worth resides in our doing rather than our being. Used sparingly, these lessons can be helpful. But if they are left unchecked, they can be quite sharp and unforgiving.

People who learned these lessons very well tend to approach therapy with grave stance. They take the hour to task. They rarely laugh, and they appear braced for something—a disappointment or rejection that they are certain will arrive. Generally, they expect therapy to hurt.

I am not criticizing people who approach therapy in this way. Many have been serious students of some of life’s harshest lessons. In therapy, sometimes the work is very dark indeed. And yet, a bit of laughter or humor at the proper moment can make a painful story bearable again. Over time, a kinder and more flexible viewpoint of one’s “job” or station in this life can actually encourage greater personal accomplishment and almost certainly more lifelong contentment.

If you are one of these who is steeped in solemnity or responsibility, I encourage yourself to find something that tucks you in—a poem or a phrase or a practice that reminds you of your modest but very important place in the world. I hope you will think of this gesture and practice it often.

I know this may feel perverse, indulgent, or perhaps even stupid to you. But, I want you to try it. I want you to breathe easy for a little while, if you can.

Sometimes there does not need to be an impressive product or outcome to justify time spent in our day. Sometimes—perhaps often—process trumps product in the long run.

This poem is one of my tuck-ins: each time I read it, it awakens my sentimentality and hopefulness about the world and my place in it. I hope you find some ease and comfort among its words, too.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.

-Mary Oliver