Snow Goose by Yoshiki Nakamura

First, I would think of the wild geese. Not the poem—the actual birds themselves, cutting their black paths through the dawn sky, crying out to one another in voices that sound like longing. I would remember how I learned to see them differently, to hear in their calls not just noise but a fierce joy in being alive.

Osprey by Holly Fasching

I would sit with my betrayal like a stone in my throat. How many mornings had I carried her words like talismans? How many times had I pressed them into the hands of friends who were drowning in grief or doubt? The grasshopper, the swan, the lily—these were more than just images. They were keys that unlocked something vital in me, something I had forgotten how to name.

But then I would remember: the truth about teachers is that they are always human first. Their genius and their darkness flow from the same well. We drink what nourishes us and leave the rest. The greatest gift a teacher offers isn’t their perfection but their ability to illuminate the path—even if they themselves have stumbled on it.

Great Horned Owl by Kshanti Greene

So I would begin the careful work of separation, like sorting grain from chaff. I would spread out all I had learned about attention, about the sacred in the ordinary, about the weight of a single moment held up to the light. These truths remain true, regardless of their messenger. The lily still opens in its own time. The swan still curves her neck toward her reflection. The grasshopper still fills her body with the day’s sweet excess.

What we learn about beauty doesn’t become ugly just because the one who taught us was flawed. The wild geese still know their way home. They never needed anyone to write them into meaning—they carried it all along, as do we all, waiting for someone or something to teach us how to see it.

Barred Owl by Kelley Luikey

In the end, I would keep the lessons and release the teacher. I would thank her, not for being perfect, but for showing me how to look at the world with eyes hungry for wonder. And then I would go walking in the woods, watching for movement in the underbrush, listening for the sounds of small things going about their vital, ordinary lives. Like the great owl moving through darkness, its wings deadly and silent, I would learn to navigate by instinct through this tangle of meaning and messenger.

Because that’s what she taught me, after all—not to worship her, but to worship this: the unfolding miracle of each moment, whether we deserve it or not. And maybe that would be the final lesson—that beauty and truth can flow through crooked vessels, that we are all both monstrous and divine, that the world goes on offering itself to our imagination despite our failings. The wild geese still fly overhead, crying out their harsh and exciting notes, and we still have the choice to look up.

P.S. As far as I know, Mary Oliver was not a monster! But I’ve been thinking lately about what we do with beautiful things we’ve learned from flawed teachers, and how we might salvage the lessons from the borrowed lenses through which we learned to see—even if we have to leave their messenger behind

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Deirdre says

This might be the single best thing I have ever read regarding this topic.

S. Elizabeth says

It's a struggle...and I I don't know that I could adopt this attitude in every circumstance. But I feel like I would have to make it work for Mary Oliver!

Krista says

"The greatest gift a teacher offers isn’t their perfection but their ability to illuminate the path—even if they themselves have stumbled on it." -- This sentence stopped me in my tracks. So much truth packed in there! Sorting through the sins of our heroes is such a difficult task. I agree that I would definitely have to follow this stance if it ever came out that Mary Oliver was a horrible person!

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