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 . . .

Pondering Pilgrimage

Now that the pilgrimage is a few days behind me and I've caught up on my sleep (mornings come early in northern Wales . . . even earlier when there's a tree full of wood doves nesting outside your bedroom window) I'm finally having some time to reflect on my experience.   

Like many of the pilgrims, I embarked on this journey with some specific intentions, hopes and dreams.  I don't know if I found any answers along the way.  I think I gave up any need to find them fairly early on as I let myself just be fully present in each moment, not holding onto the perceived need to be still and silent.  Instead, I let myself wander and let the landscape speak to me.  What I did find, in looking back on the pictures I took, was that the images I captured seemed to focus mainly on doors and paths leading to who knows where.  Perhaps the perfect metaphor for the journey . . .

Off to Wales. . .

LINKS by Ruth Bidgood from Symbols of Plenty (Canterbury Press)
Some have said that by the pillar
where Becket was struck down,
they felt not pain but a derangement
of nerve-ends, a distant echo of blows,
enervation like blood-loss.

                             And I

in a windbitten valley have laid my hand
on stone of old walls, and felt a held life,
all the remembering there is
of what was made in that starved place,
a barely accessible material memory
woken with a touch.

In twenty-four hours I'm off to Wales-- first for a few days in Betws-y-Coed with a dear friend and then at the end of the week to Hawarden to meet up with the rest of the pilgrimage group.  I'm hoping to touch a lot of stones along the way-- in abbey ruins and ancient churches, in Norman cathedrals and underfoot on rocky beaches.   And along the way I will be inviting the 25 other pilgrims from Washington National Cathedral to do the same, being open to what memories wake for them.

If you'd like to follow us on our journey, check out our official pilgrimage blog for Lives, Legends and Landscapes:  A Pilgrimage to Northern Wales. Throughout the trip, members of the community will be sharing their reflections and recollections of our journey.

I am hoping to post on this blog as well if my mobile devices cooperate.  Post-pilgrimage I'm heading to London for a few days to visit friends.  Then it's back to the lovely Gladstone's Library for a self-imposed writing retreat, unless of course the weather is sunny and warm in which case you'll find me here, although I think I'll opt for the best strawberry ice cream in the world on the pier in lieu of the fish and chips. 

Llandudno Pier

A Glimmer of Light for a Rainy Mary Oliver Monday

Poppies by Mary Oliver from New and Selected Poems:  Volume One (Beacon Press)
The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation

of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage

shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,

black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.

But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,

when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,

touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—

and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?

So many invitations to be happy and opportunities to be washed in the river of earthly delight this rainy Monday morning . . . the moment early this morning when there was a sudden absence of noise-- no traffic, no birds-- and all I could hear was the rain hitting the leaves on the maple tree outside my bedroom window, looking out that same window when I got out of bed an hour later and seeing a teeny tiny rabbit eating violets in the back yard, a breakfast of strong coffee and good watermelon and a morning of quiet writing time at my desk.  Oh-- and of course the poppies I planted last weekend nodding their red-heads in the rain.

What is inviting you to delight, to holiness, to redemption today?

A Poem for Earth Day

'Nature' Is What We See by Emily Dickinson
'Nature' is what we see--
The Hill-- the Afternoon--
Squirrel--Eclipse--the Bumble bee--
Nay--Nature is Heaven--
Nature is what we hear--
The Boblink--the Sea--
Thunder--the Cricket--
Nay--Nature is Harmony--
Natures is what we know--
Yet have no art to say--
So impotent Our Wisdom is
To her Simplicity.

This weekend I spent part of each day playing in the dirt-- planting poppies, herbs and a rose bush, sowing seeds in the wildflower and butterfly garden, digging up and moving rogue lilies to place where they can actually get some sun and blossom.  While my hands were busy digging, my eyes and ears were open. 

If nature is what I saw while I was engaged in this work of co-creating, it's the broken robin's egg under the flowering pink dogwood, sprouts of lily of the valley poking up through the mud, a rabbit pulling up dried grass to make a nest by the front porch, the blue and yellow blossoms of forget-me-nots.

If nature is what I heard, it was the chatter and creaks of a pair of rusty blackbirds warning me away from their nest in my neighbor's yard, the rustle of wind blowing through the new leaves on the maple trees, the buzz of a bumble bee hovering over fragrant white alyssum.

I read Emily Dickinson's poem as an invitation to attentiveness, an encouragement to be in the present moment, an act which, for me, often leads to gratitude.  When I go out for a walk later this afternoon I'll again have my eyes and ears open and come back with a different litany of what nature is. 

So on this Earth Day, I invite you to join Emily and I looking and listening, in considering what nature is for you . . .