by: Lauren Jonik

The sound of water rushing over the large, grey boulders that dotted the creek just outside punctuated the stillness. A faint light from a room adjacent to the yoga studio was the only source of illumination. As I lay on my back, surrounded by six other people and exhausted by the effort of my practice, my inhalations deepened. My muscles relaxed deeply into the thick, tan beach towel beneath me—I didn’t yet own a proper yoga mat. In the final moments that concluded the class, our teacher Rowan instructed us to wiggle our toes, to move our fingers, to return. He began reading “The Summer Day,” the exquisite poem by Mary Oliver.

At 23, attending this class was the first thing I had done on my own since age 14 that didn’t involve doctors  or family. Years of living with Lyme disease and its effects—particularly in an era when many people didn’t believe in its existence at all for anyone—cocooned me in world of silence, suffering and words. I lost the ability to do nearly every activity but one: write. So, that’s what I did every day, no matter how sick I felt. Staring at the wallpaper of my childhood bedroom grew tiresome and illness never seemed like a good enough reason not to do what my spirit came to do. Writing emerged as my link to the world and to navigating my inner terrain.

I grew up in a home surrounded by books, by the physical presence of words. It was something to be treasured that books could take you far away and return you back home safe and sound in the course of an ordinary afternoon.  When I was eight years old, my dad decided that each night after our family dinner, my brother and I had to read poetry aloud to my mom and him. My father rarely arrived home from work before 7:30 p.m. After eating and helping with the dishes, the poetry readings often conflicted with what I really wanted to do: go watch a TV show before I had to go to bed at 8:30 p.m. My dad pretended to negotiate, but in reality, my parents ran a tight ship. Winning the negotiation meant picking which poems I read from his heavy volume of Rudyard Kipling poems, not whether or not I would read at all.

I thought we were normal in the way that the Munsters thought they were just another all-American family living on Mockingbird Lane. It was only after I started going to sleepovers at my friends’ homes a few years later that I realized that other kids weren’t giving nightly poetry readings. As a child, it is hard to have a frame of reference beyond your own before being exposed to other realities to compare it to. And, perhaps it was somewhat atypical for someone like my dad to be so into poetry. He is a scientist by training, a Baby Boomer alpha male who ran marathons and climbed mountains (that’s not a metaphor). He was born to parents who were smart, but who I am quite sure never possessed any special appreciation for poetry. My dad did so poorly in high school that his teachers told him not to bother going to college; there were no support services then for students who likely had undiagnosed ADD or who were too far advanced and simply disinterested because the work wasn’t challenging enough. He ignored the advice, went anyway and found his niche. I don’t know where my dad’s affection for poetry began, but I know where it ended up: in his two children. Both my brother and I sought professions that involve writing and literature.

At the yoga studio which doubled as an art studio, Rowan’s evocative voice—he was trained as an Irish storyteller—rolled over the words of “The Summer Day,” I listened intently, eager to take in every moment of my new experience, receptive to the invitation of the unknown. As he ended the poem with Tell me, what is it you plan to do / with your one wild and precious life? I felt my hands, which were resting on my abdomen—my forearms grazing the part of my hipbones that poked upward to the sky—move. I felt her words physically and experienced them on multiple levels all at once as the poignancy of her question did what all good poetry does: made me believe that the poem was speaking directly to me.

Oliver’s genius was in her ability to use ordinary language to explore ordinary things and show how extraordinary the experience of being alive is. The simplicity of her imagery and the intimacy of her words feel like an invitation to a space where the world still whispers its secrets to those who get quiet enough to listen. I intuitively related to the many references to the natural world that appear in Oliver’s work. Her words were comforting, but in the way that didn’t offer a quick balm, but rather a gentle reminder that true solace comes from doing the work of contemplation—of digging into the experience of being human in all of its magical, distressing, temporary incarnations and holding—if only for a moment—the sparks lit by the eternal.

After Rowan posed Oliver’s question to my yoga class, I realized that I had no tools to answer it. Plans were luxuries up until that point in my young adult life. My health just was beginning to improve after being bedbound for seven years. I had given up on a long-term future because many of the fifty-some doctors I saw during my teens didn’t have much faith that I would have one. My energy was wholly directed to daily survival. But, now. . . what if?

I spent the next decade living my way into the answer. In short, I planned to do everything, to see everything, to meet everyone and hear their stories. In order to free myself from the idea that the stillness was a curse, I had to do the opposite to understand what a blessing the years of only being able to grow spiritually and in my writing had been. It would take another decade to understand that I could find balance between both action and contemplation. The forces are complementary and I’ve come to terms with the idea that my illness was some kind of antecedent that facilitated a distinct future path. It can take time to discover that the weight of the things we carry is heavy because we bring our own stepping stones, often mistaking them for mere rocks.

As I’ve grown, I’ve come to put a lower value on happiness. It is not my aim. I’m more interested in meaningfulness, in empathy and in service—these things call to me more deeply. Happiness is, however, the sweetly welcomed guest that quite often comes from these other pursuits. I am happier when I don’t expect to be made happy by an outside source. Mary Oliver demonstrates time and time again how the act of living is an inside job. Her work doesn’t shy away from sorrow or the difficulties of being human, but rather invites these multitudes a la Walt Whitman to the table. She ends the poem “Lead” with I tell you this / to break your heart, / by which I mean only / that it break open and never close again / to the rest of the world.

In a world of influencers and celebrities de jour, Mary Oliver, who rarely gave interviews, wielded a quiet, true influence—the kind that comes not from the superficial, but from the simple, the sacred, the true. When I read of her passing on January 17, 2019, there was a palpable sense that the world had just grown a little dimmer. Yet, Oliver’s words will continue to illuminate the way forward for readers, seekers and all who are continuing on with the extraordinary work of being human. In the poem “Sometimes,” she writes, Instructions for living a life: / Pay attention. / Be astonished. / Tell about it.  What more could there be to do?

Photo of person writing in journal courtesy of: Hannah Olinger

Lauren Jonik is a writer and photographer in Brooklyn, NY. Her work has appeared in McSweeney’s, The Manifest-Station, Two Cities Review, Amendo, The Establishment, Bustle, Role Reboot, Ravishly and more. Follow her on Twitter: @laurenjonik