I've never understood how one could be so full-heartedly and inseparably connected to someone they feel they know so deeply, so perfectly understanding one another, but in reality have never met each other.
I am, of course, speaking of my dearly beloved poet (or as she likes to refer to herself as a "mere observer") who expresses the quintessential beauty life holds for anyone with a pair of eyes and a supple heart yearning to discover more than first meets the human eye.
I'm never been the human to swoon over just anybody--with the exception of James Dean, of course--but there is simply some element to her that is stupefying, her words penetrate more than any other's I've read before (and I've read quite a few handfuls of words I thought understood my soul perfectly, like Vincent Van Gogh and so many others). But Mary Oliver. How do you do it?
I often find myself drifting to the mere thought of her words, the gentle matte of her perpetually satisfying books, the smell of their pages like the musk of all my life compressed sweetly together. There was a period in my young life with (which I am still apart of) where the only book I would accompany myself with (as I almost always carry a book with me everywhere I go) was her prepossessing copy of "New and Selected Poems: Volume One" with which I did basically anything and everything except sleep with (and even that's questionable). There were times I recall being so deeply affected by a poem or two of hers and the only thing that I could do to keep my skin from running away from the fiery passion radiating from within my heart, was press that dear lightly purple book against my chest and let it rest there until the composure of being so ignited, so alive by another human's words seep into my soul calmly overtake me. I always think about that clever, that gentle and most beautiful human I've yet to read from their heart, Mary Oliver.
There are few people I want to meet that are still living, and though I would love to run into dear Mary for just a moment, perhaps on a jumbled street or a seaside dock where we never thought we'd meet, just to see that soft spark of understanding in her eyes. I would never wish to meet her in an arranged manner, as I know she would never want that and neither do I. She is too beautiful of a creature to be forced into a world, an urban jungle with which her heart could never be gently cared for and for that, among so many other reasons, I love her endearingly.
I know I may never get to meet her.
But just to know she's lived and touched my life and many others is enough for me.
I accept that we are kindred spirits without a real bridge, but that's okay (just because it is happening inside my head doesn't mean it isn't real, right?). I love her and her beautiful words anyway.
Always and always.
-Kiersten B.
March 3, 2016
Thursday
12:43PM
