I wrote yesterday that I know Mary Oliver’s The Journey by heart.
Well, I don’t.
I sat down on the edge of the bath this morning, reciting the poem aloud. My husband was shaving, I was rolling on those black tights, ready for an hour's walk in the rain.
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
kept shouting
their bad advice—
though the whole house
began to tremble
and you felt the old tug
at your ankles.
"Mend my life!"
each voice cried.
But you didn't stop.
You knew what you had to do,
.......?
Did I? Do I know what I have to do? At least I didn’t remember the next sentence. There is something about reciting in public, though the audience could be just a single man. A man, I must add, whom I have know for years. And years.
There is something about bringing words into the public space. They might sound just perfect when held in the privacy of your own mind. But once they slip past the threshold of your lips, you don’t always trust them.
