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A Good Hair Day

I didn’t brush my hair today. My perfectly logical explanation is that I couldn’t find a brush. Because I am the kind of person that frequently misplaces their hairbrush, which doesn’t even seem like it should be possible, but I always take mine in the car or in my purse. Our house is sparse and uncluttered because of the showings and I still managed to lose it. Though considering how good my hair looks today it might have to stay gone. This is the second day my brush has been missing and I swear my hair looked great both days. And that’s probably only 20% or 30% wishful thinking. I only did the fingers through the hair quick comb and yet it seems to be much less frizzy and unkempt than usual.

In addition to the hair, I feel like I’ve had a pretty good day. I was productive and I had a free meal at Subway with my mom. My veggie sandwich happened to be on the low fat list of subs (I’m ignoring the amount of cheese and mayo I added), I’ve been able to get some writing done, I worked out, and I studied Spanish for a little while. The only thing I can hope for is that this continues until tomorrow. It seems like every good day I have is followed by a day that I wear sweatpants and don’t leave the couch.

I suppose all of this is my way of saying I am glad to have some Mary Oliver in my life.

Reckless Poem- Mary Oliver

Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.

It flows through me
like the blue wave.
Green leaves – you may believe this or not –
have once or twice
emerged from the tips of my fingers

somewhere
deep in the woods,
in the reckless seizure of spring.

Though, of course, I also know that other song,
the sweet passion of one-ness.

Just yesterday I watched an ant crossing a path, through the
tumbled pine needles she toiled.
And I thought: she will never live another life but this one.
And I thought: if she lives her life with all her strength
is she not wonderful and wise?
And I continued this up the miraculous pyramid of everything
until I came to myself.

And still, even in these northern woods, on these hills of sand,
I have flown from the other window of myself
to become white heron, blue whale,
red fox, hedgehog.
Oh, sometimes already my body has felt like the body of a flower!
Sometimes already my heart is a red parrot, perched
among strange, dark trees, flapping and screaming.

At one point I had various pieces of Mary Oliver’s poems written up on my mirror. The marker washed off, but my mother hadn’t been pleased with it anyway. I don’t get to see her words everyday when I look in the mirror but I love rereading her poems. There’s a  lot of poetry I can’t get into, but I feel something every time I read one of her poems.

I think this is the first poem of hers I discovered, Lead.

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean–
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down–
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
With your one wild and precious life?

~ Mary Oliver, The Summer Day

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