【Written by Caroline Brink】
In the endeavor of reflecting on Mary Oliver’s work, I find language to be quite insufficient. Her craft and her language constantly astonish me. It seems that as an author, she faces life head on, always accessing feelings that I had previously thought unnamable. Her writing is a privilege to read. It is exquisite and simple and true. A sonic texture runs through every sentence she writes, bringing to life the wonders that she describes: the forest, the ocean, the experience of writing. She is subtle, works with a style that is rather sparse at times, yet at others, her words dance elaborately on the page. Always, there is the perfectly crafted experience of her poems, something tangible and real.
As a girl, I combed the woods for stories. I remember wandering beneath the color-crisped leaves, around trails that spiraled forever outwards. My aunt took us on walks to rivers that had no names, that giggled and tripped around our ankles. On Mondays after school, my grandmother took us to clear the mudded leaves from the brook behind her house: an early version of stewardship. I knew there were words in the woods, but I didn’t know how to use them.
I grew up with Mary Oliver. At first, I wasn’t able to fully grasp her genius. I loved her, of course, from the very beginning. I even saw her read once at the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. I remember being baffled by her, unable to speak when I finally made it to the meet-and-greet table. She’s an author, I thought to myself, a real one. She seemed ancient and all-knowing. But I had hardly read anything she had written, and I certainly hadn’t gone out into the world as she had. I couldn’t comprehend everything she was doing with her work. I only saw its appreciation for nature as something valuable and rare.
I studied other writers. I read fiction and adventure. I learned to appreciate authors for craft rather than just entertainment. For a while, I forgot about Oliver, the patient soul asleep on my shelf. When I finally did pick up her volume again, I remembered the light in my grandmother’s eyes when she gave me the book. I remembered the reverence in her voice as she spoke about Oliver. And when I read her poetry again, I remembered the changing leaves, the singing water, the words in the woods.
Since then, our relationship has changed and grown. I have come to rely on her as the poet who has shaped my understanding of the world, the poet I rely on and understand with a reassuring consistency. Mary Oliver has become a friend to me. She is to me what Whitman was to her, a “shadow companion…constant, and powerful, and amazing” (9). When she passed away just two years ago, I wrote her a poem, and at times, I read it back to myself. Inspired by her, my words feel more authentic, as though her work powers them.
Perhaps I will eventually publish my own books, referencing her poetry and the way she has shaped my writing. For now, I can discuss her work with anyone who will listen. I can laud her for the elliptically crafted sentences, the truth that lies in all her work. I can stand in awe at the way she describes nature. I can hope, and I can dream, and I can aspire. I can learn.
I started writing about nature slowly, finding ways to braid in descriptions of the trees or of the mountains. It slowly became my passion, my obsession. Colum McCann says writers “write towards our obsessions.” If this is the case, it seems I have found my calling. Gradually, words and stories about the wilderness have begun to pour out of me. The language of my fiction is consistently grounded in the natural world. As I move towards writing my thesis, I am considering society. I am considering environmentalism. I am considering Mary Oliver. At times, when it feels as though I have no direction, I read Upstream. I bask in the glorious, almost holy, scenes that Oliver depicts, and then I write, and things seem clear.
For those who haven’t, read Upstream. Read it. Read it, and write in it, and fold the pages. Oliver’s wisdom has the power to transform. It frequently brings me peace. These essays are often about nature, sometimes about literature, and always about life. I believe anyone can benefit from her work, and I hope that at least one person will read this review, pick up her book, and be changed by it. She is not heavy-handed or pushy about her beliefs, but they exist all the same between the pages. She respects all things, and she is patient. The book is loosely organized into five sections. They are, as I understand them: a section on life, a section on nature, a section of critical reviews on literature, another section on life and the lessons it has taught, and a section on Provincetown, her home on the Cape. Each essay participates in a conversation. They all seem quite similar, littered with fragments of wisdom like fallen leaves. The essays are not challenging to understand, but they are complex in their own specific ways. I think that if we all accepted a little of Oliver’s wisdom into our own lives, we would make the world a little better. One day, I truly wish to give these things to the world in the same way Oliver has.