Mary Oliver Monday - The Summer Day for a perfect summer day

THE SUMMER DAY by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems:  Volume One (Beacon Press)
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?

Sometimes it's a good idea to hold on to a thing, to keep the obvious tucked away until the time isn't merely good, rather, exquisitely perfect, to make your oblation.  Then, you can pull out what has been saved with a flourish and cry, "Voila!" turning something ubiquitous into something magical.

In as many times as I've posted a Mary Oliver poem on this blog, I've shied away from "The Summer Day,"  preferring to offer poems that are less well known and definitely less well quoted.  But something about this morning's clear blue sky, the breeze ruffling the grass, the sound of the cicadas in the maple tree outside my bedroom window, and the work I have to do the rest of the day made me realize it is indeed the perfect day for "The Summer Day."

Voila!  I give you the magic of Mary Oliver.

A particular eastern tiger swallow tail
visiting my wildflower garden

The magic for me this morning comes in hearing something new in a poem that I've read a gazillion
times before.  As with many people, I'm often left pondering the punch of the poem's last lines.  What captured my attention today though were the stepping stones of the first lines, that movement from the universal (literally) to the particularity of one specific grasshopper.

So, rather than viewing little details as distractions that lead me away from the picture work I have to do today, the invitation to me is to see in the particulars the opportunity to pay attention.  Quite a challenge for an Enneagram 7 and a Myers Briggs INFP but I'll give it a go, because who am I to argue with a Mary Oliver poem?

Mary Oliver Monday - A Lot of Images Meaning "Thanks"

THE MORNING WALK by Mary Oliver from Long Life:  Essays and Other Writings
(Da Capo Press)

There are a lot of words meaning thanks.
Some you can only whisper.
Others you can only sing.
The pewee whistles instead.
The snake turns in circles,
the beaver slaps his tail
on the surface of the pond.
The deer in the pinewoods stamps his hoof.
Goldfinches shine as they float through the air.
A person, sometimes, will hum a little Mahler.
Or put arms around old oak tree.
Or take out lovely pencil and notebook and find a few
touching, kissing words.


Or a person, sometimes, will pull out her camera and try to capture moments that inspired such overwhelming feelings of gratitude, perhaps in order to return to those images with a notebook and pencil at a later date, inviting the words to come after they've had some time to simmer. 

That's the work I find I'm doing now so I thought on this Mary Oliver Monday I'd share some images of thanks with you and invite you to share what has you saying, "Thanks," lately.



The resilience of nature
 

Doors opening
 

The survival of ancient wisdom


 




The beauty of perspective
 



Firm footholds on bumpy paths

                     

 



Blue sky, blue sea, blue bell . . . so many shades of blue.



This view



Curiosity and Daring



Artistic whimsy



The pleasure of discovering small surprises



Connecting with the ancestors

Vibrant colors



Acting without fear





Revisiting thin places

Carpe Libris - The Where I've Been Edition

I know it's been a while since I've posted here but until I signed on Blogger today, I didn't realize that I hadn't blogged since I've been back from Wales.  But I have a good excuse.  A few good excuses, in fact. 

The first week I got back I was doing this . . .


Frederick Leighton - Flaming June
 

 

 Then I was busy doing this . . .

George Seurat - Farm Women Working
(I was working, but not on a farm.)

 



 And for the past four weeks I've been feeling like this . . .

 

John Everett Millais - The Death of Ophelia

OK, so maybe not as close to death as Ophelia but a lingering sinus infection combined with poison ivy and an upper respiratory virus had me sicker than I've been in four years. 

 

And although I didn't have enough mental or creative energy to blog, I did have the wherewithal to enjoy the Miss Fisher Murder Mysteries, courtesy of a recommendation from my dear friend Elizabeth.  A recommendation in which she said, and I quote, "Trust me as you have never trusted me before . . . "

Oh Elizabeth, I did trust you and I wasn't disappointed.  The clothes!  The music!  The murders!  What's not to love about Phryne (pronounced Fry-Knee for those who don't know their ancient Greek courtesans) Fisher? 

Well, the fact that there's only been one season of the series produced so far, as I learned after I'd finished watching all three discs in a matter of days-- days because I had to go the old fashioned route and get the DVDs from Netflix via the old fashioned USPS.

Even the covers of the Phryne Fisher
books are reminiscent of the
Nancy Drew covers of my childhood.

As I was looking up the series on IMDB to see when season two would be released I happened to notice that the Miss Fisher TV series is based on the series of Phryne Fisher mysteries by Australian writer Kerry Greenwood. And thus we get to the summer version of Carpe Libris. 

You may recall from last summer's Carpe Libris post, that I like to re-read the Mary Poppins series each summer. There's something about long hot days that make me yearn for the company of  literary heroines from my childhood.  After I'd finished reading the third book in Greenwood's series, I was struck at how much the Phryne Fisher books brought back memories of Nancy Drew. 

The first few books in the series are written on about the same level as the better Nancy Drew books (don't even get me started on the newer Nancy Drews where they say George's name is really Georgia-- I refused to read any more after that fiasco).  Fortunately, Greenwood"s writing and plots get more complex as the series progresses.  While many of the books I've read so far are those on which the TV series was based, there are enough changes in the subplots and characters that even when I recall who the murderer was in a specific story, the details have changed enough to keep me interested in reading to the end. 

One thing I especially love about both the TV and the books is the attention to detail.  Greenwood has a knack for  recreating the Melbourne of the 1920's and has evidently done copious research into the era that comes through in her writing, especially when it comes to describing Phryne's wardrobe and baths.  Yes, I said baths.  Miss Fisher is fond of her bubble baths and Greenwood's descriptions of scented soaks had me perusing the internet one night for hours on end trying to find chestnut blossom bubble bath. 

I didn't have any luck so I went and go my hair bobbed instead.  I'm about half way through the series.  Who knows what other actions Phryne will inspire in the future?  I'll keep you posted . . .