Bird Migration, Squirrel Reaction, and How They Both Relate to Centering Prayer and Meditation

MINDFUL by Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early (Beacon Press)
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less

kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle

in the haystack
of light.
It was what I was born for—
to look, to listen,

to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over

in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,

the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,

the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help

but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light

of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?


Today was a day I woke early, although I stayed in bed until the light began to creep into the room.  While the darkness dissipated and shadows took on solid forms, I listened to the sounds coming through my open bedroom window.  I once heard that you can tell the temperature by how fast a cricket chirps.  This morning I listened as the sound of early commuters on Connecticut Avenue gradually silenced the slow stridation of cricket song in the pre-dawn chill and when I heard the trash and recycling trucks making their rounds, I finally roused myself out of bed.

Usually I'm so focused on looking for or at things that delight me that I don't pay attention to sounds.  But at this time of year, the sounds are what draw me to my window-- the footfall of an unknown animal creeping across the backyard in the middle of the night, rain drops rustling the burnished  leaves of the dogwood tree, the birds who take a mid-migration break like a busload of tourists on their journey south, foraging for food and using the facilities in the avian rest stop that is my yard. 

Last week it was a flock of grackles that swooped in, blanketing the trees and the grass with their iridescent bodies.  If I hadn't heard their shrieks and squawks I would have missed the ensuing scene when the black squirrel who likes to sit in the hollow of the maple tree scrambled down to chase them away.  He'd scurry up to a bird and chatter at it until it flew out of his reach whereupon he'd turn his attention to the next closest invader. 

Resist no bird, retain no bird,
react to no bird, return to your sacred word.

I was amused at the futility of the squirrel's actions until this morning when I was journaling about the congruence between writing and meditation.  I was in the midst of what I felt was a really good flow in my morning pages.  But as soon as I had that thought, the flock of thoughts came flying in, squawking and making a mess.  I tried to chase them away but that just created more noise and distraction.  The same thing happens to me sometimes during my centering prayer.  I sit down to meditate and think to myself, "I'm doing really well here . . ." which is an invitation for the thoughts to come and the chatter to begin. 

I've written about monkey or puppy mind before on this blog.  Maybe I need to start a bestiary for meditation and add bird thoughts and squirrel reaction to the compendium.  For now though, I'm going to go do my twenty minute sit and if the noisy bird thoughts do come, I'll try to remind myself if I can just stay in the cozy hollow of silence and presence, they'll eventually fly away.   

Bits of Beauty for an Autumn Sunday

silence
seeks the center
of every tree and rock,
that thing we hold closest-
the end of songs
          by Michael McClintock from Letters in Time (Hermitage West)


This morning I was looking through some autumn poems I have filed away in anticipation of a program I'm leading in a couple weeks, and came across Michael McClintock's poems.  Its simplicity struck me as the perfect words for a Sunday, especially combined with these images from a recent stroll I took in Brookside Gardens with my camera phone.  Enjoy!

Musings on Muses

WHEN I MET MY MUSE by William Stafford from The Way It Is:  New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press)
I glanced at her and took my glasses
off--they were still singing. They buzzed
like a locust on the coffee table and then
ceased. Her voice belled forth, and the
sunlight bent. I felt the ceiling arch, and
knew that nails up there took a new grip
on whatever they touched. "I am your own
way of looking at things," she said. "When
you allow me to live with you, every
glance at the world around you will be
a sort of salvation." And I took her hand.




Fresco of the muses from the Palazzo Schifanoia in Italy

I sometimes wonder if every artist has a muse.  The ancient Greeks believed that the Muses were the goddesses of inspiration-- for music, poetry, art, and literature to be sure but also science and even history.  And while Calliope and her gal pals may still be inspiring budding bards or biologists today, I'm more familiar with the tales of mere mortal muses and the artists they inspire.  Dante had two brief encounters, yet years of obsession, with the emerald eyed Beatrice.  Lewis Carroll had Alice Liddell, which has in itself inspired countless scholarly works exploring the nature of their relationship.   The painter Andrew Wyeth had his neighbor Helga unbeknownst to their respective spouses and of course John had Yoko to the chagrin of many Beatles fans.   

Beatrice is that you?  I haven't seen you since you were eight!

When I first seriously considered incorporating writing into the tapestry of work from which I was make my living, I encountered my muse in a dream.  It was a few days before New Year's Eve and I had a nightmare from which I awoke shaking and sobbing.  A spin on my usual oh my gosh it's the end of the semester and there's a final exam in the physics class that I've skipped all year but need to pass to graduate dream, this time it was forty-five minutes before a writing class and I hadn't done the homework. 

And it wasn't just any writing class, it was the writing class that would make or break my writing career. The writing class where on the very first day I was told I'd never be more than mediocre at best, that I was a waste of the teacher's time, that I had no talent or skill with which she could work.  The rest of the class, however, were praised as gifted writers who would no doubt shower her with their sweet nectar of prose over the course of the semester.  At this point we hadn't written anything yet, she just somehow sniffed out their talent and my inferiority. 

So when one of the future Nobel/Pulitzer/Booker prize winners asked how I got on with the homework assignment the leaden legs of dreamtime immobilized me.  I didn't have an essay to turn in.  I didn't even have my lap top with me to pull up something I'd written previously to pass off as the assignment.   I debated racing to the computer lab to throw a few words on the page so I'd have something to turn in but I knew the professor would rip it to shreds, proving I was a terrible writer.  I could feign sudden illness and skip class, during which time I was sure she'd ridicule me for being too much of a coward to show up or attempt to do the assignment.  Or I could show up and admit I didn't have anything to turn in which meant being present for said public humiliation.  

Fortunately my psyche chose another option:  I woke up.  It took an hour of deep breathing and meditation to calm me enough that I could begin to drift back to sleep.  But somewhere in that threshold state between being fully awake and fully asleep, my muse appeared in the form of a smiling lanky Englishman.  I knew he was my muse because he introduced himself as such and said he was there to give me gifts designed to banish my inner critic and encourage me on the writing path. 



Huh?

 

He then went on to present me a pecan in a shell, a feather from an owl, a shiny saxophone and a red bicycle.  There was some argument around the owl feather because at first he wanted to give me a whole, live owl and I said I wouldn't accept it as that would probably constitute some form of animal cruelty.  I think I'd recently read the article about Indian children capturing owls to emulate Hogwarts students).  After some bickering we settled on one of the owl's feathers.  I wanted to argue about the saxophone too as I'd rather have a violin or cello but as it was just a matter of preference versus morals I figuerd I'd quite while I was ahead. 

I'm sure these things symbolize . .  . well something.  The writing teacher/inner critic part of the dream was easy to figure out in hindsight.  The owl's feather, and even the bicycle I sorta get.  The saxophone and especially the pecan have me stumped. 




Richard Armitage
(aka the actor who played my muse)

And while the inner critic sometimes still lurks in the shadowy recesses of my mind, I have been writing regularly.  My muse hasn't visited me again.  Perhaps he disappeared because I recognized him when watching BBC America one afternoon.  Realizing that your subconscious has surreptitiously filed away an image of an actor and later pulled him out to play the part of your muse somehow puts a different spin on the whole mystical inspiration experience.  Then again, what are subconsciouses for but to file things away for future use. 



 

Or maybe my muse hasn't appeared because over the past few years I've come to realize what William Stafford's muse told him is as true for him as it is for me, or for you.  We each have our own unique way of looking at the world, whether we call ourselves artists, writers, poets, musicians or simply human beings.  And perhaps it's not so much divine inspiration but human encouragement that we really need to help us embrace our voices and our stories.

_________________________________________________________________________________

In related news, if you're looking for a safe place to explore your own unique "way of looking at things" this upcoming retreat I'm leading might be for you. 

Writing from the Heart

A Weekend of Writing and Spiritual Practice 

                               6 pm, Friday, October 5 through  2 pm, Sunday, October 7

Join us as we breathe new life into our writing and prayer during this weekend retreat.  Explore how spiritual practices open our minds to allow the words of our hearts to flow in our writing.  Be encouraged by a community of kindred spirits as we gather to hear and share our stories.  Learn take-home tools to allow you to continue to engage the spirit in your writing. 

 

 

Non-Residential Rate of $175.00    (retreat and meals)

 Residential Rate* of $275.00        (retreat, meals and lodging)

 *Limited overnight accommodations available.

For more information or to register contact Deeanna Burleson
The Serendipity House

"A gathering place for creative and healing arts."

Phone:  703-303-6143

Email:  theserendipityhouse116@gmail.com

116 Charlotte Street, Washington, North Carolina 27889

 

Superficially Autumn, Deeply Liminal

SONG FOR AUTUMN by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems:  Volume II  (Beacon Press) In the deep fall

don’t you imagine the leaves think how

comfortable it will be to touch

the earth instead of the

nothingness of air and the endless

freshets of wind? And don’t you think

the trees themselves, especially those with mossy,

warm caves, begin to think

of the birds that will come — six, a dozen — to sleep

inside their bodies? And don’t you hear

the goldenrod whispering goodbye,

the everlasting being crowned with the first

tuffets of snow? The pond

vanishes, and the white field over which

the fox runs so quickly brings out

its blue shadows. And the wind pumps its

bellows. And at evening especially,

the piled firewood shifts a little,

longing to be on its way.

 

Okay so technically it's not deep fall, although it is superficially fall here in the mid-Atlantic states.  For the past month the red tinge has crept from the tips to the base of the leaves on the dogwood tree in my yard while the cherry in our neighbors' yard is embarrassingly bare.  Maybe all the crazy storms we had this summer made its leaves want to jump ship and feel the comfort of the earth early this year. 

I've welcomed the early taste of autumn myself, with open arms and open windows.  I fall asleep to the song of the crickets and wake up snuggled underneath the comforter after nights of fairy-tale like dreams that have drifted in past the curtains on the back of the north wind.  I put sweaters on in the morning and drink a cup of tea or coffee with cinnamon in it to warm me up but by the afternoon I stand in front of the open freezer in my shirt sleeves to get ice for my water.

Autumn is my favorite season and it can't get here for good soon enough for me.  Yet yesterday at my favorite farmers' market I was  reminded of what a liminal time of year this is, an epilogue to summer and prologue to autumn at the same time.  Produce tables were laden with cucumbers, zucchini and peppers as well as kale, beets, and apples.  A smattering of melons and tomatoes were holding on as the winter squash and broccoli jostled for table space at a few booths.  I bought kale and acorn squash to make the first white bean and winter squash stew of the season and tomatoes and basil for a farewell to summer caprese salad.

Many people I know have remarked that this summer was over in the blink of an eye and I feel the same way.  I have a hard time remembering what activity filled my days from June - August, nor can I recall the sensations that usually signal summer-- the smell of newly mown grass, the taste of a ripe tomato warmed by the sun, the heat rising from the pavement scorching the soles of my bare feet.  Maybe I didn't actually experience these things this year.  Did I go outside barefoot?  Was my window open on every other Tuesday morning when the grass was cut? Perhaps not but more likely I just wasn't paying attention.  And as much as I love autumn, that realization is enough to make me want to hold on tightly to these last few threads of summer in the hope I can follow them back to some recollection of the past couple months.  

Liminal times are like open doorways that invite me to a particular kind of mindfulness where I am aware that I'm moving from one way of being to another.  One foot is in the past and one foot is in the future, and in the midst of the two is the present.  I can put my weight on one foot or another, superficially living in the past or the future, but true balance comes only when I live deeply in the moment. 

 

Happy Birthday Mary Oliver

Of all the books by Mary Oliver that I own, the one I keep going back to over and over again isn't a volume of poetry, rather a volume about poetry.  A Poetry Handbooks:  A Prose Guide to Understanding and Writing Poetry is ostensibly a book for those who want to hone their craft.  Elements such as diction, voice, tone, imagery, sound, meter are discussed in surprising depth for such a short book-- a mere 122 pages excluding acknowledgments and the index.  Understanding these elements not only makes for better writers of any sort, it also makes for better readers.  Just as my art history professor in university said she was going to teach us the basic elements of art so that we could verbalize why we liked or disliked a particular painting, so does grasping the elements of a poem allows readers/hearers to understand why a particular poem does or doesn't work for them. 

And yes, all that's wonderful and reason enough to return to A Poetry Handbook but what really keeps this book on my bed-side table and has me underlining passages in different colors each time I read it are the words of wisdom that go beyond the sitting-at-a-desk-putting-words-on-paper work of a writer and get to the body/mind/heart of writing.  The way we are in and with the world impacts the way were are in and with words.  

So in honor of her birthday today, rather than a poem for Mary Oliver Monday, I thought I'd share some of my favorite lines from A Poetry Handbook (Harcourt, Inc.). 



"Poetry is a river, many voices travel in it; poem after poem moves along in the exciting crests and falls of the river waves.  None is timeless; each arrives in an historical context; almost everything, in the end, passes.  But the desire to make a poem, and the world's willingness to receive it-- indeed the world's need of it-- these never pass." 

"To write well, it is entirely necessary to read widely and deeply."

" . . . the space between daily language and literature is neither terribly deep nor wide, but it does contain a vital difference-- of intent and intensity."

"A 'rock' is not a 'stone'.  But why is a rock not a stone?"

"Language is rich, and malleable.  It is a living, vibrant material . . . "

"Rhythm underlies everything."

"The language of the poem is the language of particulars."

"Poetry is one of the ancient arts, and it began, as did all the fine arts, within the original wilderness of the earth.  Also, it began through the process of seeing, and feeling, and hearing, and smelling, and touching, and then remembering-- I mean remembering in words--what these perceptual experiences were like, while trying to describe the endless invisible fears and desires of our inner lives."

Henri Rousseau - The Dream

"To interrupt the writer from a line of thought is to wake the dreamer from the dream."

"No one can tell you how to make the best writing happen.  For one poet at least, short naps have proved helpful; for him, leaving consciousness for a brief time is invitational to the inner, 'poetic' voice.  For myself, walking works in a similar way.  I walk slowly, and not to get anywhere in particular, but because the motion somehow helps the poem to begin.  I end up, usually standing still, writing something down in the small notebook I always have with me.  For yourself, neither napping nor walking has to be the answer.  But, something is.  The point is to try various activities or arrangements until you find out what works for you."

"Athletes take care of their bodies.  Writers must similarly take care of the sensibility that houses the possibility of poems.  There is nourishment in books, other art, history, philosophies-- in holiness and mirth.  It is an honest hands-on-labor also; I don't mean to indicate a preference for the scholarly life.  And it is in the green world-- among people, and animals, and trees for that matter, if one genuinely cares about trees.  A mind that is lively and inquiring, compassionate, curious, angry, full of music, full of feeling, is a mind full of possible poetry."

"For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.  Yes, indeed."

Mary Oliver Monday - Song of the Builders

SONG OF THE BUILDERS by Mary Oliver from Why I Wake Early (Beacon Press)

The Red Vineyard - Vincent Van Gogh

On a summer morning
I sat down
on a hillside
to think about God -

a worthy pastime.
Near me, I saw
a single cricket;
it was moving the grains of the hillside

this way and that way.
How great was its energy,
how humble its effort.
Let us hope

it will always be like this,
each of us going on
in our inexplicable ways
building the universe.

 

 

What are the ways in which you are building the universe?  Something to ponder this Labor Day . . .