Yes, I’m the last person on the planet to find Mary Oliver’s poems. And here’s one I want to share today from, “Evidence,” one of her fabulous collections. It’s as true a poem for a 49-year-old as for a 60+-year-old.
Everyone should be born into this world happy
and loving everything.
But in truth it rarely works that way.
For myself, I have spent my life clamoring toward it.
Halleluiah, anyway I’m not where I started.
And have you too been trudging like that, sometimes
almost forgetting how wondrous the world is
and how miraculously kind some people can be?
And have you decided that probably nothing important
is every easy?
Not, say, for the first sixty years.
Halleluiah, I’m sixty now, and even a little more,
and some days I feel I have wings.