Every year around this time, I remember Mary Oliver and her passing. She passed away January 17, 2019. I remember the day and the feeling, and that it had already been a long week, and the news of her passing felt like one more thing.

I know I often wax poetic about Oliver and her work, but the world feels different without her living presence. It feels different because she is no longer taking walks and noticing things and writing them and then giving it to us. It felt like such a gift to be alive at the same time as such a brilliant, generous mind as hers… and I miss knowing that she was somewhere– listening to the world.

But in many ways she is still alive. Her words live on. The change she made continues to ripple.

One of my favorites, The Fourth Sign of Zodiac, #2

2.
The question is,
what will it be like
after the last day?
Will I float
into the sky
or will I fray
within the earth or a river—
remembering nothing?
How desperate I would be
if I couldn’t remember
the sun rising, if I couldn’t
remember trees, rivers; if I couldn’t
even remember, beloved,
your beloved name.

Mary Oliver