Autobiography in Five Short Chapters

I

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I fall in
I am lost ... I am helpless
It isn't my fault
It takes forever to find a way out.

II

I walk down the street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I pretend I don't see it
I fall in again
I can't believe I am in the same place
but it isn't my fault
It still takes a long time to get out.

III

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I see it there
I still fall in...it's a habit
My eyes are open
I know where I am
It is my fault
I get out immediately

IV

I walk down the same street
There is a deep hole in the sidewalk
I walk around it.

V

I walk down another street.

- Portia Nelson

I f you can listen to the wisdom of your body,
love this flesh and bone,
dedicate yourself to its mystery,
you may one day
find yourself
smiling from your mirror.

-Marion Woodman

The Journey

One day you finally knew

what you had to do, and began,

though the voices around you

kept shouting

their bad advice--

though the whole house

began to tremble

and you felt the old tug

at your ankles.

"Mend my life!"

each voice cried.

But you didn't stop.

You knew what you had to do,

though the wind pried

with its stiff fingers

at the very foundations,

though their melancholy

was terrible.

It was already late

enough, and a wild night,

and the road full of fallen

branches and stones.

But little by little,

as you left their voices behind,

the stars began to burn

through the sheets of clouds,

and there was a new voice

which you slowly

recognized as your own,

that kept you company

as you strode deeper and deeper

into the world,

determined to do

the only thing you could do--

determined to save

the only life you could save.
-Mary Oliver

The Summer Day

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 down
into 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?


~ Mary Oliver ~

(New and Selected Poems, Volume I)