Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.
It's one of those days where I feel like I'm wearing my skin inside out and everything is irritating me-- the frenetic Schumann violin piece on the radio that scrambled my energy like a sous chef beating an omelet, the keyboard of my lap top which seems to extend just a quarter inch too far so I can't find a comfortable place for my wrists, the apple I cut up for breakfast that developed a thin layer of slimy juice on it in the trip from the kitchen to my desk. Even the work I have to do that had me energized last week seems like a nuisance today, little biting flies buzzing around the corner of my mind as I try to get in my two hours of morning writing.Before Schumann got me riled up, I already knew I was having an off day. It took perusing five books and countless on-line collections of Mary Oliver's poetry before I found a poem that elicited more than an, "Eh," from me this morning. The one I finally chose got a, "Hmmm," which I figured was the best I could muster today. The "hmmm" came as I was thinking about the world and its busyness. Does it really come after me or is it just there and I react to it, accept its invitation, sometimes even seek it out?
Maybe the mountain wasn't the important thing for the old poets, but the mist that covered them with a soft grey blanket of obscurity so all they could do was snuggle up to what was right in front of them and enjoy the present moment.
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