The Making Of More
SWAN by Mary Oliver
Did you see it, drifting, all night on the black river?
Did you see it in the morning, rising into the silvery air,
an armful of white blossoms,
a perfect commotion of silk and linen as it leaned into the bondage of its wings: a snowbank, a bank of lilies,
biting the air with its black beak?
Did you hear it, fluting and whistling
a shrill dark music, like the rain pelting the trees,
like a waterfall
knifing down the black ledges?
And did you see it, finally, just under the clouds-
a white cross streaming across the sky, its feet
like black leaves, its wings like the stretching light
of the river?
And did you feel it, in your heart, how it pertained to everything?
And have you too finally figured out what beauty is for?
And have you changed your life?I remember a particular time in my twenties when I was in a hurried, harried state, wearing extra large bossy pants, slamming doors and snapping at my dad who was soaking up my frustration while waiting for me to be ready to leave my apartment. After he has enough, he gently places his hand on my shoulder and asks, “Jaclyn, what is the matter? Why are you speaking to me like that?”
I want to say, ‘I’m sorry for being a holy terror and taking out my emotional rollercoaster on you and mom.’ Instead, I say, “I am worried I won’t make it on time.”
He pauses, looking deeply into my eyes.
“You know what I do when I feel that way?”
“What Dad?” I say, rolling my eyes. I wonder if he asked himself whether it was worth the risk to offer advice when I’m clearly not in a receiving mood.
He continues, “I ask myself, what’s the worst case scenario if I don’t get what I set out to achieve. In this case, what happens when you don’t make it on time?”
I mumble something about being late. I hate being late. I sometimes am. But I brush his words away like I brush his hand off my shoulder, and walk in a different direction.
