What Gorgeous Thing~Mary Oliver

I do not know what gorgeous thing the bluebird keeps saying,

his voice easing out of his throat, beak, body into the pink air of the early morning.

I like it, whatever it is. Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world without dark thoughts.

Sometimes it seems the only thing in the world that is without questions that can't and probably

never will be answered, the only thing that is entirely content with the pink, then clear white 

morning and, gratefully says so.

They are forever etched in my mind. Bob and Louise. They came over to my childhood home every Christmas Eve. Louise brought homemade fudge and a basket of gifts. When I was about four, my mother asked me what I thought God might look like. I said, "I think God might look like Bob." Bob was blond and fair skinned. His eyes evolved into blue crescents when he smiled. He puffed on a pipe when he listened to my childish pattering, nodding and laughing, occasionally reaching out to touch my shoulder. I felt loved just being near him. And Louise always seemed to choose the gift that felt individualized and personal, though she couldn't have known what I wanted. One Christmas, when I was 13, I unwrapped a bottle of Windsong perfume from Louise. I thought I'd never smelled anything better. I kept uncapping the top and holding the bottle to my nose. The scent of Windsong followed me throughout adolescence. 

Birdsong. Yes. What a glorious thing. I walked this morning around my condo complex and tilted my face up to the honeyed blue sky, listening to a bird perched on dark, wintery tree limb. A few orange leaves still clung to the branch. The sky and birdsong seemed to pour into my heart. I liked it. I felt better. "Keep on singing," I said out loud.

Now as I type, the man nextdoor is practicing his drums. I hear the thumps and steady beat. The sound does not bother me. I realize he's been practicing now for about a year and he's getting better. I admire his perseverance, his patience. His consistency makes me happy too. Like the birdsong. 

On my walks, I ask God to speak, to remind me of things. The memory of Bob is a reminder--love and kindness, taking the time to listen to a child. And Louise too. Preparing tastes that delight and perfume that clings to the skin and brings such pleasure. One should always have something good to smell. Something delicious to taste. And then the birdsong--sweetness, gratefulness easing out of rhe bird's throat to help me remember the goodness and tenderness of God. The drummer, too, with his patience and desire to keep going. Oh, let me keep hearing your sound through my walls. God, don't let me forget your goodness, your love, your sweetness, your patience, your perseverance, your consistency. What gorgeous things you keep saying to me.