Junior year was the year that students were allowed to begin driving cars to school. My father, being the creative and pragmatic accountant that he is, figured it would be more cost effective for the family and he would be able to lend me the car if he rode the bus downtown to work everyday instead of driving, paying for parking, and driving back. In fact, we would probably save money on gas!
An unforeseen byproduct of this was that his commute enabled him to read more. (And please remember that I am talking about a bus ride in Knoxville, TN not Chicago so it was much longer and just getting to the bus stop required a half mile walk every morning and evening.) So at first he read the paper, but then he realized that the paper was not the most suitable reading material and he went through it very quickly. He started checking out library books from the main branch downtown every week. At first he read only nonfiction/history books and then one day...he picked up a poetry book. My father! Reading a Poetry book! Every so often he would point one out to me or read it to me or talk to me about it. It was a new thing we could talk about because he never really liked fiction and still doesn't so Mom had always been and still is the one I talk to about plot lines and character.
But this poetry thing...it was something new.
Fast forward a few years - I'm in college and Dad is still taking the bus even though I left the car at home along with my family. He is still reading poetry.
Fast forward a few more - he's still reading on the bus and after being hit by a car my parents promptly give me a used one so that I can drive myself around to doctors appointments. My dad's silver sedan still sits in the driveway.
Go forward a few months - I'm graduating and moving home, only to work a 9-5 until one day I get my acceptance letter from Columbia. I start planning and packing.
The day before we leave my dad reads to me a new poem that he absolutely loves and thinks applies to my life: The Journey by Mary Oliver. The way he reads it is beautiful, sometimes stumbling over a word here and there and tearing up towards the end. I will never forget this.
I move to Chicago with my family's help. They leave 3 days later. I start classes in 3 weeks.
I walk in to my first Visual Images class with Joan Dickinson and she hands out xeroxed reading packets - one of the first things in the packet is a copy of The Journey. I tear up a little and know I am in the right place.
I go home and inscribe the poem in my bathroom above my toilet, next to my mirror in black sharpie marker. Every time I read it I am reminded of why I live in Chicago and what I am supposed to be doing.
When I move out of my studio to a larger apartment with my boyfriend I have to paint over it so that I will not lose my security deposit. It takes three coats of Klutz white primer to cover it completely. I cry when I can't see it anymore, but am comforted that it will always be there.
I'm sure if some scientists wanted to go all DaVinci Code on my old studio they could use special imaging equipment to read the poem written on the wall in my own hand. Why didn't I take a picture of it before I painted it over?
Recently I went to a bookstore that was going out of business and stumbled over a Mary Oliver book. I bought it as a gift for Dad.
This poem still resonates and has a special relationship between my father and myself. I think it will always resonate. I include it here for you:
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,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save
Mary Oliver
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,
though the wind pried
with its stiff fingers
at the very foundations,
though their melancholy
was terrible.
It was already late
enough, and a wild night,
and the road full of fallen
branches and stones.
But little by little,
as you left their voices behind,
the stars began to burn
through the sheets of clouds,
and there was a new voice
which you slowly
recognized as your own,
that kept you company
as you strode deeper and deeper
into the world,
determined to do
the only thing you could do --
determined to save
the only life you could save
Mary Oliver
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