Some spaces have such disregard for what goes on outside that time forgets itself in them. Mary Oliver's world of words is that space for me. A temple of rest and quiet contemplation tucked away from the madness of everyday life. Oliver takes you gently by the hand and leads you into the woods, turning your attention to a red bird that flies past in a flurry and to a drowsy honeybee, swollen with the day's feast—lives that, by virtue of being nothing like our own, bring respite. The beauty of nature lies in its utter indifference towards us. Your cries are no more and no less important than the howls of a dog in the distance and it can be said with certainty that the river flows with or without you. And so, while you're here, the supple grass will do its bit, and make for a nourishing bed for you to curl up and lick your wounds.
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I am reading Upstream by Mary Oliver
