authors as friend

never underestimate the power of an author.  i feel much the same about the loss of mary oliver as i did about madeleine l'engle. without ever meeting either of them, they became my friend through their stories and poems, entering my childhood and adulthood at just the right times, sharing insights in ways that seemed to understand, sometimes better than anyone in person.

my one regret is not writing to mary to thank her, as i did to madeleine, cherishing her response carefully tucked into my copy of "a wrinkle in time".

but i suspect mary knew shared gratitude. when you write truly, as she did, it can't help but resonate deeply and widely; why else would so many of us feel as though we've lost a friend we've never met? even if i had written her, her ego didn't need it. she would likely read the praise, set it on the corner table, and go for a walk.

i did get to hear her read when she came to portland and i marveled at how this slight woman scarcely taller than the podium and clad in simple black could command our attention so gently.

she taught me about nature and amazement and about paying attention. she also sat with me in grief, pointing out the gifts hidden in darkness and how to open them when i was ready. she pastored my soul without ever preaching and delighted me with her wry and playful words. 

beneath the beauty of her poems is an undercurrent of someone who has loved and lost and kept on loving anyway; one who has learned to tread lightly in this world.

as i get out the recording of her reading from "why i wake early", her voice brings comfort; a quiet yet steady reminder of all that is good in this world.

and, since she left us with so many volumes, we'll be fine. but i think i'm saddest that there will be no new poems. that task she's left to us, her friends and poets, fellow wanderers and wonderers: never cease being amazed and share it.

for all of us, mary, this is your long overdue letter of gratitude.