SEPTEMBER 7
Snail, snail, glister me forward,
Bird, soft-sigh me home,
Worm, be with me.
This is my hard time.
—THEODORE ROETHKESometimes when we are sad, we have no interest in large-
scale cosmic issues or in sweeping panoramas. Our affinities
are with the small and intimate—the birds that flit through
the trees, the snails and worms that live and work in the
ground.
I don’t know why these small creatures are a comfort to
us, but they are. Perhaps it is their vulnerability, that they
exist amidst the threats from larger elements—the vagaries
of wind and water, the stomp of a foot or a shovel. We know
what it is to feel small and struggling, and so do they. If they
can go forth with resoluteness in the face of such odds
against their survival—well, maybe we can, too.
For whatever reason, these lines from Roethke stayed with
me through the darkest hours of my own loss, and even
now I welcome the creatures—snail, bird, worm—as cohorts
in the ongoing struggle and joy of life.
We are creatures, and we need one another.