If I wanted a boat

IF I WANTED A BOAT by Mary Oliver

I would want a boat, if I wanted a
boat, that bounded hard on the waves,
that didn’t know starboard from port
and wouldn’t learn, that welcomed
dolphins and headed straight for the
whales, that, when rocks were close,
would slide in for a touch or two,
that wouldn’t keep land in sight and
went fast, that leaped into the spray.
What kind of life is it always to plan
and do, to promise and finish, to wish
for the near and the safe? Yes, by the
heavens, if I wanted a boat I would want
a boat I couldn’t steer.

I found this easily enough: it was someone else’s favorite too.  I cried again, reading it again, then laughed at myself for immediately wanting to post on it.  I mock myself, too.  I warrant mockery.  My children make fun of me too.

Here is the thing, with me: I have tried so hard for so long to walk a straight line.  I can’t do it.  I get distracted.  I start wandering around like a puppy.  I get excited like a puppy by random things.  

Then I try so hard to get back on track again, and it never works for long.

There is no doubt I can do BETTER.  But some part of me will always dream of a rudderless boat, adrift on God’s ocean. I can’t see anything.  I can’t see or know where it is going.  But here I am, and I’m alive for the ride.