Visiting the Small Bodies--Blog Entry #3

Sunday, February 3, 2013

2:45pm

26˚F

"It is hard sometimes, oh Lord,
to be faithful."

There is a pond at the center of this cemetery where mallard ducks wash themselves in the water’s cold and lucid skin. The men’s green marbled heads dip into the earth’s frigid belly like a baby into sleep, harsh and deliberate. The women watch with their streaked brown silhouettes bold against the water. The mallards are the only flowers of winter still in full bloom with their emerald and dark bodies waving in the snow. I wonder if they see me here at the water’s hem, if they recognize me as something human or as just another still pine. I see them; see how they exceed my human limits every time they lower themselves into the olive rust of the water. I want to believe they are free, that if they wanted they could dive full under the pond and rub their bones against her frozen glass hide. I want to believe that they could leave; slip quietly and float like an ethereal beacon, all oily and feathered, all spilled out in the sky. That they could disappear into a wilder wetland, into a place their gleaming heads, gray flanks, and black tail-curls could be silently striking. I want to believe they know they are beautiful, that when their bodies come together on the ice, so close, almost touching, they are more real, more constant than the cold running through my veins. I want to believe they see me too, feel my presence like I feel theirs, deep and filling.

"I am more boldly made
than the little ducks, paddling and laughing."

It is not so hard to be faithful here when these mallard ducks, these small bodies, comfort the water, warm the water from itself. It is not so hard when I see them playing like school children, splashing and carrying on, their yellow and dull orange and black wired beaks pressing against the other. It is not so hard when I think they could be in love, could be mothers, could be fathers, sisters and brothers. It is not so hard when I witness these winter suns, these winter stars lead each other through the day, through the melting puddles of the pond, into night. It is not so hard to be faithful when offered faith, but these mallard ducks do not know what I know. These mallard ducks do not know they are put here to not only comfort the water, but the man who visits his brother, the brother who waits for the man, the woman who visits her uncle, the uncle that waits for the woman. These mallard ducks are some-what of commodities and although their wings are still able, they are tied by an invisible rope—the human rope of mourning.

"I know you know everything –"

I wonder if this cemetery, this thin place, forces the natural to be used like a drug. Each thick pine a needle inserted into the vein, each fleck of snow strong or stronger than cocaine, each mallard duck a bruise left as a reminder of the high. Is that what happens when we see nature in a place full with death? Does nature know it is a part of this ritual of suffering? That often the people that visit self-medicate with its bare and trusting body?

"I rely on this."

It is snowing hard from the east and my human body feels like it could give under this white weight. I concentrate on the ice and the way the mallard men chase after the mallard women whose blue patches shine in the quilted light. I watch two mallards appear out of the blue and circle the pond before they land as light as the snow on their beaks. I am still as I can be under these conditions. Nature never seems to be cold. It moves all around me like a carousel. I cannot concentrate on the mallards or the sky or the rustling of the pines. Nature just keeps circling and circling until I am in the center of a singing ring of gold.

"Still, there are so many small bodies in the world,
for which I am afraid."

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Visiting the Small Bodies--Blog Entry #3 Inspired By:

“Small Bodies”

by Mary Oliver

It is almost summer. In the pond
the pickerel leap, and the delicate teal have brought forth
their many charming young,
and the turtle is ravenous.
It is hard sometimes, oh Lord,
to be faithful.
I am more boldly made
than the little ducks, paddling and laughing.
But not so bold
as the turtle
with his greasy mouth.
I know you know everything –
I rely on this.
Still, there are so many small bodies in the world,
for which I am afraid.