Have you noticed?
on the lifeblood that is attention
I just re-listened to the unedited version of the On Being interview with the late, great Mary Oliver. This poem poured out on a walk (which is very Oliver!) thereafter. Check out her gorgeous poem. Add your “noticing” in comments?
Have you noticed?
For Mary & Krista
How fast the peach and the avocado turn, unworried about your reaction to their fussiness?
The new sound at dawn—birds landing on the cable that Sonic put in?
The fierce swing of that one quiet girl in the face of that fuchsia piñata?
The woman in the airport who wanted to find her pregnant wife the exact food she craved?
The way the artist grabbed the horny toad along the creek to show you how slow and sweet it was?
The old woman who dressed beautifully for lunch?
The fly in the lime ICEE?
How that family ignored the crying boy in the diner, the men’s jaws the most pained?
How the mother of four insisted they didn’t need the money?
The California sister butterfly?
The scar on her forehead—a story you craved to know, but resisted asking about for fear it was one of pain?
The wetness of his eyes?
The LOL doll’s hair change from blonde to pink when dipped in a plastic cup with palm trees on it?
The long memory of children?
The short memory of elders?
The stout, freaky carrot wrapped up in tissue paper for a six-year-old’s birthday?
How the migraine pain radiates from the bottom left around the base of the skull like a hungry octopus?
Your neighbor’s heavy energy as she carried the bin to the laundry room?
How hard it is to be understood sometimes by those that know you the best?
How loud and lonely the middle of the night in Oakland?
The lace under her coveralls?
All the Pokémon figurines in the bottom of the cedar hot tub?
The smell of the cedar?
The sound of the thunder?
The lightning cracking across the giant sky?
Make your worst days a minor theme, says Mary.
Make your noticing the whole plot, I think she meant.
Not because it’s comfort (though it sometimes is).
But because it’s miraculous—every last wound and whisper.
Fleeting. Yours to miss.
Or see and live for.
The resistant first step?
The power of momentum?
The hummingbird perched on the sage on my way to greet the hens at dawn?
Crackling of cooling loaves?
How a smile and hello can soften the intimidating?
The refuse in the gutter that begs to be picked up.
A 6-year old's righteousness?
The flour on the floor?
The clouds?
Your breath?
That voice that says, "Fuck it, I'll do it".
How a 4-year old's final proclamations before falling asleep sound like your best friend's drunken ramblings - "I love you critically critically, infinity infinity"
I loved everything about that unedited interview from the first time I heard it. But the funny, little thing I noticed the first time I listened to it-- something that got cut from the edited version-- was the background noise of Mary tapping a new pack of cigarettes against her palm before she opened them. I thought, as I was walking, wait! I know that sound! I didn't know Mary was such a heavy smoker then, though I looked it up afterwards and found out. But somehow that familiar, every day sound humanized her in a way that was very tender for my heart.