Mary Oliver Monday - Breakage

BREAKAGE by Mary Oliver from Poetry (August 2003)

I go down to the edge of the sea.

How everything shines in the morning light!

The cusp of the whelk,

the broken cupboard of the clam,

the opened, blue mussels,

moon snails, pale pink and barnacle scarred—

and nothing at all whole or shut, but tattered, split,

dropped by the gulls onto the gray rocks and all the moisture gone.

It's like a schoolhouse

of little words,

thousands of words.

First you figure out what each one means by itself,

the jingle, the periwinkle, the scallop

full of moonlight.

Then you begin, slowly, to read the whole story.

“Seek no farther concerning God; for those who wish to know the great deep must first review the natural world . . . If then a man wishes to know the deepest ocean of divine understanding, let him first, if he is able, scan the visible sea . . .” Columbanus

I've been looking at the book of creation lately, not the part set by the sea (although I am having major beach withdrawal and long to get to that chapter soon) but the part of the story that takes place among the grass and garden and trees. 

For some reason this weekend I found myself spending a lot of time either staring out the window or taking a turn around the yard just to look at things . . . the tips of branches that have fallen off the maple tree as the female cicada lay their eggs there, the rosemary and parsley thriving in the neglected herb garden overrun by violets and morning glory vines, the twiggy legs of the young rabbit made visible as he stretches to reach a leaf or lifts a hind leg to scratch behind his ear, the furry bumblebees jumping from blossom to blossom in the wildflower garden, the swirl of fireflies that light up the backyard at like a twinkling cloud at dusk. 

As I walked and looked, stood and viewed, I found myself simply observing, not looking for metaphors and meanings as I so often do.  I was simply present. 

Mary Oliver and Columbanus are right about creation being a book to be read . . . but on some days, there are no words.  It is all a big picture book and I'm like a child, simply enjoying the shapes and colors. 

Lessons from a Neon Spider

Recently I took advantage of a gorgeous summer day to spread a blanket in my backyard and spend a few hours working in what I call my "summer office."  Armed with a stack of papers, my favourite pink Sharpie fine point pen and a lap top, my intention was to knock out the revisions on an essay I needed to complete before I left for my mini-vacation in Sin City (which last week they should have temporarily renamed Nap City or Read a Book City or Moan Because We're Visiting the One Week in the Year When it's Cloudy and Humid and I'm Not Getting Any Sun City-- but that's another story). 

Anyway, I spread out my Black Watch fleece blanket and was getting ready to uncap my editing pen when I noticed a speck of a neon green spider scuttling across the dark plaid.  She moved with purpose and as I'm not one of those human beings who is skittish around creepy crawly things, I scooted back to make more room for her to travel as I watched her journey.  When she got to the edge of the blanket, the spider hopped onto a blade of grass and clung to the underside with six of her eight legs as the other two were busy creating.  When the silvery thread she was spinning was long enough for her liking, she threw it to a frond about three inches away and hurried across the bridge she'd built.  She reached her destination and began spinning again, this time attaching one end of the silk to the blade of grass and then jumping into the breeze, letting the thread carry her another few centimeters across the lawn where she landed on yet another piece of grass. 

The spider continued to make her way across about a yard of yard, sometimes following a silk road she created while at others, jumping into the void and allowing the wind to carry her forward.  Eventually she made it to the base of the dogwood tree where she disappeared into the ivy encircling its trunk.

The Irish monk St. Columbanus said, and I'm paraphrasing here, if you want to know the Creator, you must first understand creation. Watching that day glo spider spin and soar made me realize that there are times, in my writing and in other areas of my life, when I feel like I need to construct bridges-- make outlines, establish safety nets, weave intricate webs to get to the next step on the journey.  There are other times, however, when I let go and jump, trusting that the ruah-- the wind or Spirit-- will take me where I need to go. Knowing when to spin and when to soar is the issue.  Watching the spider, I couldn't see any discernable rhyme or reason to which method she chose.  I finally just chalked it up to simple spider instinct.  Maybe learning to trust my own instincts was the lesson creation had for me that day.  Now to figure out what that has to teach me about the Creator . . .