I would it were not so but so it is, who ever made music of a mild day.
The title of this post is the last line from a poem by Mary Oliver entitled A Dream of Trees.
There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
I would have time, I thought, and time to spare,
With only streams and birds for company,
To build out of my life a few wild stanzas.
And then it came to me, that so was death,
A little way away from everywhere.
There is a thing in me still dreams of trees.
But let it go. Homesick for moderation,
Half the world’s artists shrink or fall away.
If any find solution, let him tell it.
Meanwhile I bend my heart toward lamentation
Where, as the times implore our true involvement,
The blades of every crisis point the way.
I would it were not so, but so it is,
Who ever made music of a mild day?
As I entered the third act in a long life, my long life, I imagined this act to be filled with writing and reading, my meaningful work of helping people come to deeply value, trust and love themselves. I did not hunger for leisure or even travel. Rather I preferred learning and continuing to offer impactful support as my clients came to make choices that enlarged their lives and enriched others. In this dream I never questioned the stability of my country. I presumed I would navigate this chapter from a place of grounded steadiness. And like the poem’s author, I would be “a little way away from every troubling town,” and at least apart from laments.
Of course these were the dreams of a younger Nancy. One who lived in a much less divided country. A Nancy who would not need to find time in her days, for letters to elected officials, imploring them to not confirm her President’s appointees that came from backgrounds disdainful and/or without experience in the departments they were responsible for overseeing. Nor did she expect to be protesting an unelected, unconfirmed Billionaire manager of a department that did not previously exist and has not yet been approved by the US Congress. Yet, it is reeking havoc on the US Treasury Department systems and many others.
Dear reader you may not share my political point of view. You might be in favor of the things I am protesting. But I bet you too have had an experience where your “dream of trees” had to suddenly accommodate a reality not of your choosing. So please bear with me while bringing your unique experience to mind. Our poet goes on to say
“... but then it came to me that so too was death a little way away from everywhere.” This pivot in the poem is critical for each of us in our lives, when we find ourselves in a reality not of our choosing. And one that some of us, myself for instance, struggle mightily to achieve. Mary Oliver follows it shortly after with “… there is a thing in me still dreams of trees. But let it go.” It am finding it hard to accept this new reality I find myself in. I want to shout. “This is not what I wanted.” Some of you reading this are possibly much better at letting go than I am. But none of us love being surprised, at least not initially. This is a strong part of our human nature. We long for permanence, consistency, and predictability. And for our hoped for, dreamed of outcomes. AND we are now into the third decade of the 21st century which is marked strongly by constant upheaval. Steady, relentless change. Instead , of the permanence, consistency and predictability most of us desire.
Our poet tells us “homesick for moderation half the world’s artists fall away” I too, am so homesick for moderation. This small post I am writing is my attempt to follow the poet’s lead and
“bend my heart toward lamentation.
Where, as the times implore my trust involvement,
and the blades of every crisis point the way.”
And this of course means I must transcend how I see these crises. Instead of seeing them as events taking away the future dreamed of, how can I see them as an invitation to a future with more aliveness and meaning than I had envisioned? Did I underestimate my own capacities? Do I not trust my ability to discern where, when and how to engage the issues of our day? Is it possible that there might be some part of me that longs for this more intense engagement? The poem ends with
“I would it were not so, but so it is,
whoever made music of a mild day.”
reminding me/us, yet again that the storms of our lives are what bring our essence more fully to the surface. Maybe you too are confronted with a storm in some aspect of your life. if so, where or how might you be underestimating your capacities? Is there somewhere you too, aren’t trusting yourself to discern where, when and how to meet the particular storm presenting itself now to you?
If so, we might begin by facing the reality that storms, like babies, do not come with instruction manuals. We must find our way step by step. How? By trusting that inner counselor, that deep intuitive wisdom within us. Remember “getting warmer, getting cooler” from our childhood games of hide and seek? S/he is still within each of us and speaks to us through our energy (or lack thereof), our dreams, our intuition, which we can access through non-dominant handwriting. The later is one of my favorite things to teach people so that they can indeed connect with what TED Talk retired bank executive Bill Donius calls our brain’s hidden app. That hidden app turns out to be our very own astonishing inner counselor.
I will close this post by saying as a 70+-year-old woman when I look back at every crisis in my life, every time my life didn’t show up as I dreamed and hoped it would, it ushered in a new level of becoming, of enlarged capacity and vitality. And while there are some I hope to not repeat, it is equally true they all their unique way served my growth and becoming. Onward!