Rust around the rim, drink it anyway

Finished reading Mary Oliver's book of prose, Long Life yesterday. Before she passed away (a week ago), it was and still is my goal to read all her work this year. I've read most of her books, but poetry and lyrical prose are always worth revisiting. I wondered what book of hers I would read next and remembered that I had a handbook she had written. A handbook. Mary--an unobtrusive woman who I believe would never instruct a person on how to do this or how to do that--wrote an instructional book. Yet, in a very clever way, her poems were instructions in themselves. On how to live a life. Literally!

Instructions for living a life.

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.

-Mary Oliver

And from the many mourners I have encountered on social media, I know that many other tree-huggers out there carried Mary in their backpacks and jotted her instructions in their personal journals, tattooed her words on their skin, even.

I own her book Rules for the Dance: A Handbook for Writing and Reading Metrical Verse. Mary didn't even write metrical verse! I pulled it off my shelf with every intention to begin reading it. And I did...begin reading it. In the foreword I came across the word scansion (a technical poetry term taught in the classroom) and had to set the book down. I don't even remember what scansion is. I don't care to know what it is. I couldn't help but think, Oh Mary, who put you up to this? Did the Pulitzer-win demand your genius to tell everyone how to write?

I'm not dissing the book. I'm sure it does its job just the same as a blue jay mocks a raptor to scare other birds away. But I'm not going to read it. Outside that book, Mary was and still is the perfect teacher: through her meanderings, her observations, her actions, her solitude, and her passion. She didn't need a lick of rhyme or pinch of beat to move her audience. Her life was poetry. She paid attention. She was astonished. And she told us about it.

And I mourn for the things she has not told us. Or what more she could be telling us. But c'est la vie. A biography is forthcoming, of course, and I am sad to be looking forward to reading it.

I've read several essays and personal anecdotes from writers about how Mary's writing has made them feel more comfortable with themselves. I believe that may be the reason why her words are scattered seeds throughout my own journals. They help me grow, too. I go back and water them sometimes and they rise and bloom.

Today, I became obsessed with another song. This happens all the time. I become obsessed with a song and listen to it over and over again for months. Thank goodness I'm always alone. The song is the piano version of "I Cut My Lip" by Twenty One Pilots. From my own interpretation, it's about being your worst enemy, but persisting regardless. There's a part of the song where the piano abruptly goes from flowing to staccato, gaining what sounds like a reggae vibe. The transition is surprising, but welcomed. And the lyrics are simple, but vulnerable:

(in random order)

I'll keep on trying.

Might as well.

If you decide,

all is well.

Though I am bruised,

face of contusions. Know I'll keep moving,

know I'll keep moving.

Rust around the rim,

drink it anyway.

I cut my lip.

Isn't what I want.

Blood is on my tongue.

I cut my lip.

I don't mind at all.

Lean on my pride,

lean on my pride,

I'm a lion.

***

It flows much better to the beat of the music, so here is the version I've been listening to:

A very simple song about a very complex complex we all have in one way or another.

Today was my long day of work, so there's not much to relay other than the fact that I wrote a poem that had nothing to do with hiking, nature, or my dog.

And no, you can't read it.