Easy Love (Kendra)

Mary Oliver’s work was such an important part of my own grief. I read so many of her books and found that so many of her poems spoke to me. Poems that gave me comfort and ones that left me aching, but grateful to know that I wasn’t the only one. 

Her attentiveness to the natural world brought me back into the world eventually because I wanted to see it and appreciate it again. 

Her poetry also helped me name and understand something important about my relationship with Magnolia.

A few days after Magnolia died we received a sympathy card in the mail. I don’t remember who it was from, but the card had Oliver’s poem “Wild Geese” on the front. It was a poem I was already familiar with, but of course everything was different. I only read a few lines before I had to stop. I was suddenly choked with sobs, unable to breathe and hiccupping with the effort. It was the first time I had cried since the morning we found her body. Wet, snotty and shaking it was a while before I could even talk. 

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.

That line.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

My love for magnolia was so primal and easy. It happened without any thought at all. It was consuming and brilliant. It was this: letting the soft animal of my body love what it loves.  

It was a revelation to me after Delphinium, who felt like so much work. I couldn’t seem to get out of my own way in the early part of Delphinium’s life. She was only the second newborn that I had ever held. I didn’t know what to do with her. There was no swell of violins and magical bonding moment where my maternal instincts kicked in. There were sleepless nights and painful breastfeeding and feeling incredibly overwhelmed with the enormity of becoming a parent and the responsibility of it all. 

Thankfully, Sasha was everything Delphinium needed him to be. He was comfortable and confident, sure that he could take care of whatever she needed. While I struggled to figure out breastfeeding he did everything else. He held her between feedings, comforted her when she was fussy, changed all her diapers and dressed her. It got to the point where I realized that I was only holding Delphinium and interacting with her when I was feeding her, which was painful and frustrating. Not the best way to trigger strong maternal feelings of love. I’m sure she was aware of all my anxiety and fear and pain. Just like she was clearly aware of her father’s warmth and relaxation and confidence. 

I grew into loving Delphinium. I spent more time gazing at her and holding her when I wasn’t feeding, just to marvel at her tiny magnificence and create some positive associations. I became more comfortable with handling her, less anxious that I would hurt her or do something wrong. The breastfeeding got better and feeding her became a nice cozy time for the two of us. But it took work and intentional effort to figure out how to bond with her and get past my own anxiety. 

When Magnolia was born I was confident and comfortable. I was ready in an entirely different way to be someone’s mama. I heard violins and the love swelled and overflowed when I gazed at her. The breastfeeding was hard again, but it didn’t matter. It was just a small frustration in the midst of a fast and furious love that was growing without any work. It amazed me, how wholly and completely I was able to love her. I didn’t know I could do that.

I was ready to be a better mama to Magnolia because Delphinium had already done the hard work of raising me up and teaching me how to be there. 

Magnolia reaped the benefits of all the breaking-in Delphinium did with me. My connection with Magnolia was easy and intuitive. Our life together had never been anything but wonderful—she was only 22 months and still a bubbly, happy delightful toddler. She was incredibly satisfying. 

I reveled in our shared easy love. I would hold her little body while I rocked her and sang at bedtime, or listened to her chatter to her sister during the day, or watched her discover something new with a huge grin on her face and my heart would ache with the loveliness of it all. 

 You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

And then she was gone. And it was like a limb had been ripped from my body. 

The shock of that earliest grief was broken by that line. 

You only have to let the soft animal of your body

love what it loves.

I cried hot sad and heartbroken tears for what was taken from me. I have read “Wild Geese” many, many times since Magnolia died and I return to that moment every time. The pain of not only losing a beloved child, but also losing the experience of that easy, deep and instinctual love. 

It is January and Magnolia has been more present in these weeks and days leading up to the 27th. 

This week, I am rereading many poems and feeling especially thankful for Mary Oliver and the gift of her words in my grief. 

I mourn for her and for all the things we lose to death.