Mary Oliver, Fahrenheit 451, Musical Horse Rides, & a Winter Walk in the Woods

Happy Tuesday! It’s Monday for me as I write this, and I’m not feeling delightful. This morning was one of those mornings where I didn’t want to get out of bed, let alone write about what delights me. And the longer I lay in bed, the more challenging simple things felt. In fact, I all but threw my day’s intentions out the window, which included sharing my delights. 

Nonetheless, I touched bare soles to carpet, stumbled to the shower, and hyperventilated myself through a cold shower. They are a recent part of my self-care routine, these cold showers I loathe. They shock the system and often give me an ice-cream headache without the dang ice cream. That last part kinda upsets me. Not getting the ice cream for all that frigid trouble. Pisses me off, really. But there is a growing body of research about the benefits of cold water immersion for mental health. That it stimulates the vagus nerve and helps alleviate an overactive sympathetic nervous system. Mind you, nothing conclusive. But as a whole, from what I've read, it’s promising, so I endure them.

And you know what? After the cold shower, I feel marginally better. Something akin to a runner’s high. Placebo? Perhaps. Anecdotal? Clearly. But I’ll take it. And they gift me a degree of agency over my days and mind. That alone is worth the shower shivers.

Now on to the delights! Cuz despite all the efforts of my brain saying otherwise, they’re all around me. It’s up to me to search for and sit with them. And it’s with great gratitude that I get to share them: Mary Oliver, Fahrenheit 451, musical horse rides, and a winter walk in the woods

Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver

Where do I start with my accolades? Stunningly beautiful. Wise. A celebration of attentiveness and the natural world. This collection, curated by Mary Oliver herself, features over 200 of her favorite poems during her illustrious, five-decade career.

While well-celebrated and beloved for her poignant observations of the physical world, Devotions also shines a light on sadness and grief, on companionship, joy, and heartache. On life. The full rollercoaster ride of it. But she skillfully slows that ride down, magnifies the beauty in the ordinary, providing solace and guidance and empathy along the way. However you choose to read this collection—from start to finish or by opening it up on a random poem each day—her voice and observations will enrich your soul. Perhaps trigger those tear ducts as her poems have done to mine. 

Here’s one of my favorites of hers: Wild Geese.

Wild Geese

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body 

love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain

are moving across the landscapes,

Over the prairies and the deep trees,

The mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,

Are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, 

the world offers itself to your imagination, 

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.

Mary Oliver is a treasure, her poetry, observations, and wisdom a gift.

Ray Bradbury’s Farenheit 451

If push came to shove, I’d blurt out that Fahrenheit 451 is my all-time favorite novel. Once blurted, while probably panting, likely smarting some, I’d then ask you why you were pushing and shoving me. Probably smugly say something about being a pacifist. Then run away. And I’m quick. For a 40-year old, that is. I can still out-sprint my 9-year old, something I incessantly remind him because instilling humility in youth is important, right?  

But dang. This book is amazing, dripping with so much that I adore in a story. Poetic Prose. Captivating story. And like most great artwork, this story raises questions. Posits a warning, too, as the greatest works within the science fiction tradition do, a warning that’s frustratingly timely as our society continues to wrestle with the ever-constant siren calls of censorship and book bans. Oh, & Fahrenheit’s opening? Pure fire. Pun purely intentional. But more on that in a hot sec. 

In Fahrenheit 451, so named because that’s the temperature paper burns at, Guy Montag is a fireman. Nope. Not that kind. He burns books. Houses, too, if they are where the books are hidden. Lucky for us readers, he begins to question his vocation. And so begins his and the story’s unraveling. It’s a sci-fi classic, most worthy of all its acclaim, and one I’ll revisit throughout the years as I will with most of what Ray Bradbury has written. He sits up high for me. How he writes. What he writes about. It’s fantastical. It’s beautiful. And damn does he wield a metaphor like the best knights do a sword. Oh? You want an example. I got you. Here’s the story’s opening:

“It was a pleasure to burn.

It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed. With the brass nozzle in his fists, with this great python spitting its venomous kerosene upon the world, the blood pounded in his head, and his hands were the hands of some amazing conductor playing all the symphonies of blazing and burning to bring down the tatters and charcoal ruins of history. With his symbolic helmet numbered 451 on his stolid head, and his eyes all orange flame with the thought of what came next, he flicked the igniter and the house jumped up in a gorging fire that burned the evening sky red and yellow and black. He strode in a swarm of fireflies. He wanted above all, like the old joke, to shove a marshmallow on a stick in the furnace, while the flapping pigeon-winged books died on the porch and lawn of the house. While the books went up in sparkling whirls and blew away on a wind turned dark with burning.

Montag grinned the fierce grin of all men singed and driven back by flame.

He knew that when he returned to the firehouse, he might wink at himself, a minstrel man, burnt-corked, in the mirror. Later, going to sleep, he would feel the fiery smile still gripped by his face muscles, in the dark. It never went away, that smile, it never ever went away, as long as he remembered.”

Hooked? Thought you might be. It gets me every time. And doesn’t let go.

Missoula’s Carousel

Spending time with my kiddo is a tried and true way for me to short-circuit my rumination. There and then, with him, I’m often able to plant myself firmly in the present moment and quiet my internal critical voice that does no one any good, certainly not me. For this reason, amongst many others, I’m fortunate to call Missoula home. Here, as a parent, delights abound me. 

And a go-to delight of both the kiddo and me is the local carousel. It has 38 hand-carved horses, two chariots (so accessible for those less mobile), is open year-round, plays calliope-style music, and is fun for all ages. When my wife and I first visited Missoula, a recon trip before our move, it was a memorable attraction. The kiddo was yet two-years old then and easily mesmerized by the colors and music and movement. A delicious feast for the senses, no matter the age. 

Now being a nine-year-old, and with a competitive edge he gets from his mom and me, he races others to mount the tallest horse with the aim of grabbing the brass ring from an overhead, dispensing dragon, a feat that wins him a free ride. Now, he’s snatched more brass rings than I have but has much work ahead if he’s to match his mom’s impressive stats. Her form. Her determination. Her celebrations whenever she snags that brass ring. She’s a legend. More myth than human, some might say. I would. Just did. 

A Winter Walk in the Woods

A winter hike in Missoula, Montana

Nature grounds me. The mountains call for me. They are a place I can find transcendence, my insignificance amongst so much beauty confronting my depression. On Sunday, feeling down, feeling low of energy, I set off for the woods to meander around a snow-packed trail and was gifted for my efforts. A comforting solitude found me. Perhaps I it. Winter does wonders to a well-known trail. Transforms it. Makes it new, its differing characteristics willing to be discovered. Up to me to look. To feel. To listen. Hear the echoes of a distant raven. See the evidence of another mountain resident. A hare. Its tracks fresh. Must have passed that day earlier. Inhale the frost-filled air. See each frozen exhalation. Crunch old snow, packed and walked on over. Or break through fresh snow, loose and light. All lovely. A winter walk in the woods. A delight, full of magic and white wonder.