The world is tough.
Sometimes we fall foul of others.
Sometimes they don’t intend to be mean.
Other times they mean exactly that.
It’s always hard: always shocking.
We lick our wounds and wonder about our own value.
Don’t wonder. Believe. Know.
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.
Wild Geese, by Mary Oliver
For Helen
me, mine, and other bits 