You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
through the desert for a hundred miles, repenting.
You only have to let the small animal of your body love what it loves. {...}                                                                       Mary Oliver, "Wild Geese"

I

Mary Oliver’s famous poem has been going through your head this week, the small, heretical “only” haunting you from its perch, calling like an owl in the deepest hours of the night.

For as long as you can remember, you have distrusted your desires. The fruit of highly principled, nonconformist loins, you were ashamed by your wish to fit in with your peers, the tingling sensation that traveled through your body in response the vibrant pulse of the city, and your longing for the secret, unnamed power bestowed by garter belts and fishnet stockings. You were only 8, years from breasts and boys and sexual desire, but you knew it was wrong to prefer a crowded street to a silent forest, go-go boots to lug soles and 16oz denim.

And so it became clear that just because you wanted something did not mean you should want it; just because you felt something did not mean you should feel it. Just because you preferred something did not mean your preference should be taken seriously.

You only have to let the small animal of your body love what it loves.

When you first read the poem, in your 30’s, the line made you angry. “Oh, really?" you thought sarcastically, "Just let your body love what it loves? Yeah, right. That’ll work out well.” The line seemed cruel in its simplicity, so at odds with your life.

Now, you hear the same words as an urgent dispatch to pay attention to the way your loves, desires and preferences reveal what gives your life meaning and happiness. They are a personal, red phone emergency call to take your self seriously, before it is too late.

You only have to let the small animal of your body love what it loves. 

You get to that line in the poem and pause, unable to continue. You drag yourself back from the edge of an abyss of regret that it has taken you so long to understand. No. You will not go down. Instead, you become very still. In the backyard, a mother deer and her two still-spotted fawns are grazing.

II

I want to be nice. I have the requisite traits: I’m generally accommodating and easygoing, I get pleasure from making people happy and I want them to think well of me. (If they don’t, I assume it is my fault, although this hardly ever happens because I am, well, nice.)

There is nothing wrong with this, except when it is given top priority and enlisted in the habitual subjugation of my own desires. In my first marriage, I spent 16 years accommodating the rock formations of my husband’s preferences like a finalist in a Twister tournament. I was divorced for years before I realized my contortions had about as much effect as pouring the Pacific Ocean into a colander. Some people’s container cannot be filled; consistent dampness is the best you can hope for.

When my daughters took turns being mean-spirited, scary-drug-experimenting teenagers, I spent nearly a decade earnestly auditioning for Nice, Reasonable and Very Understanding Parent of All Time (NRVUPAT). The main thing I learned from this was that it is a difficult award to win without someone ending up incarcerated. 

Because I doubt the justifiability of my wishes, I am most comfortable making a request from a position of unassailable moral high ground. At one point, with two children under the age of 4, I was sleep deprived to the point of desperation. My husband was oblivious, carrying on with whatever projects he wanted to accomplish each weekend. When I couldn’t stand it any longer, I asked that he look after the children for a couple of hours because That’s What Good Fathers Do, rather than because I was about to have a nervous breakdown. While this is arguably a true statement, it would have been better to state my own need. Also probably less annoying.

III

In which I have an argument with myself, and win.

Do not ask for help. Do not inconvenience anyone. It is always better to do everything yourself.

Giving and receiving is what makes us part of the human community. It’s wrong to always position yourself so that you are the giver. Receiving requires humility – an excellent experience for grandiose, "oh-no-I'm-fine" types. Not mentioning any names.

You are a better person if you like to farm, work the land, or at least grow some edible stuff.

At this very moment, there are two people weeding, raking and mulching my yard, and since they are not related to me, I am going to give them money. I allowed myself to hire them because I am incapacitated for the summer. The truth, however, is that I don’t enjoy gardening. I find it screamingly tedious. To review: two very nice people are earning money, and later I get to sit on my porch with a glass of wine and enjoy the result. What’s wrong with this picture? Nothing.

You are a better person if you make your own birthday cards.

I like making cards, but I don’t always feel like it. Sometimes I just want to go to the store and pick one out. But then I feel I am being lazy and letting everyone down, starting with myself. I would like to think I am better than this. But then, I would also like to think my ass isn’t sagging. Get over it.

Morally and spiritually evolved people let their hair go gray.

I was gray, and then I colored my hair, only to be told by a number of friends – all of whom color their hair - that they were disappointed in me. Apparently I was a role model for bravely letting one’s self go. To which I respond: be your own damned role model.

All clothing must be practical, or you are being frivolous and shallow. Your one pair of shoes should be suitable for backpacking. Everything should have pockets large enough to hold a small emergency kit.

You only have to let the small animal of your body love what it loves.