A Migration

Wild Geese
by Mary Oliver

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 your 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.

I begin each year with students by reading this poem. Since I am on sabbatical this year, I missed this inaugural experience, this touchstone for the start of a new communal journey. I read this poem myself several times a year. I also read this poem just before we poured my father's ashes into the wind last October, just thirty seconds before two real live geese sprang from the side of the pond that our small group huddled around and flew off honking harshly and excitedly. Reminder, indeed.

It is easily one of my favorite discussions and classes of the year when I read this poem to students. We do the usual comprehension stuff just to make sure we're all picking up what Oliver is putting down: What words stick out to you? What is the meaning of the poem in your own words? How could we paraphrase these lines? What does this word mean given the line before it? Then, I tell them why I've chosen to open the year with this poem. It goes something like this:

"This is my promise to you. No matter what you have gone through, who you have been, any despair or repentance you hold for not being 'good' or good enough, you belong here--all of each of you. I hope as we spend time together 'loving what we love' or discovering those life passions that every one of you feels your place in the family of this classroom. Me, I love literature, and it's my hope that we can watch the world offer itself to our imaginations through literature and writing. What hopes does this poem raise for you?"

They write a bit, talk to a table partner, share out to the class as I take notes. We close out when I ask them to do a choral reading of the poem popping in to read a line, a word, a phrase as they are moved to do so but as seamlessly as possible. There is always a moment when two students pipe in at the same moment, an awkward .5 second pause to see if one will take the line, and they both read it together. I get chills. Hopeful tears push to the tiny corners of my eyes for another half second. Every time. These students are calling and honking back to me and each other, announcing their place in this family of a classroom.