Mary Oliver Monday - Don't tell the CDC we're starting an epidemic

Mozart, for Example by Mary Oliver from Thirst (Beacon Press)
All the quick notes
Mozart didn’t have time to use
before he entered the cloud boat

are falling now from the beaks
of the finches
that have gathered from the joyous summer

into the hard winter
and, like Mozart, they speak of nothingbut light and delight,

though it is true, the heavy blades of the world
are still pounding underneath.
And this is what you can do too, maybe,

if you live simply and with a lyrical heart
in the cumbered neighborhoods or even,
as Mozart sometimes managed to, in a palace,

offering tune after tune after tune,
making some hard-hearted prince
prudent and kind, just by being happy.


I'm posting this poem in honor of someone who will likely never see it.  I don't know much about him.  I don't know his name or where he lives.  I don't know who his friends or family are.  I don't even know if he has friends or family, although I can't imagine he doesn't.  I don't know if he's gay or straight, partnered or single.  I don't know if he's Christian or Muslim or Jewish or Buddhist or Hindu or Zoroastrian or unaffiliated or other.  

All I know is that just when I needed a shot of positive energy this weekend, there he was, bouncing down Connecticut Avenue by the firehouse in Kensington, beaming at everyone he saw.  He exuded joy and I found myself smiling as I drove past, infected by his contagious smile.  

So thank you, happy-guy-walking-down-the-street with your backpack on.  Today I'll do my best to help spread the epidemic of light and delight, just by being happy.  

In case you need a little motivation and don't have a bouncy guy in a backpack walking down the street to inspire you, here's a 30 second clip from the brilliant movie, Amadeus, of Tom Hulce as Mozart laughing. 

Looking at the grass on Mary Oliver Monday

The Singular and Cheerful Life by Mary Oliver from Evidence (Beacon Press)

The singular and cheerful life

of any flower

in anyone's garden

or any still unowned field--

if there are any--

catches me

by the heart,

by its color

by its obedience

to the holiest of laws:

be alive

until you are not.

Ragweed,

pale violet bull thistle,

morning glories curling

through the field corn;

those princes of everything green--

the grasses

of which there are truly

an uncountable company,

each on its singular stem

striving

to rise and ripen.

What, in the earth world,

is there not to be amazed by

and to be steadied by

and to cherish?

Oh, my dear heart,

my own dear heart,

full of hesitations,

questions, choice of directions,

look at the world.

Behold the morning glory,

the meanest flower, the ragweed, the thistle.

Look at the grass.

"Look at the grass." 

It was what I told myself as I stood on a narrow dirt path with the Irish Sea raging below me.  In the not-too-far-away distance was Middle Mouse, or Ynys Badrig (Patrick's Island), home to razorbills and cormorants and the northern most point in Wales.  But I couldn't pause to do any bird spotting or stop and take in the dramatic view.  My only focus was getting back the path I'd come across without being swept over the edge by the gale force winds or, more likely, stumbling over my own feet and tumbling down the rocky hill into the sea below me. 

The initial walk to where I was hadn't been nearly as petrifying.  I was wandering around the churchyard at Llanbadrig on Anglesey Island, trying to find a solitary place to perch when I first spied the path.

Many of my fellow pilgrims had gone away from the churchyard, up and over the hills to a bench where the Dalai Lama had reportedly sat for a while before proclaiming the seascape the most beautiful view he'd ever seen.  Others remained inside the sanctuary of the small church, admiring the Islamic inspired stained glass windows, chatting with the ladies filling the church with flowers for Sunday, and trying to stay out of the fierce wind. 

I was walking among the graves, as I often like to do, but even the presence of those dearly departed felt like too much company for me at the time.  So when I looked over the wall and saw the narrow grass and dirt path leading away from the church and the hill with the amazing view, I decided to follow it.

And follow it I did, marveling at the ombre of blues as sea met sky in the distance, wondering if the path really went through the mass of gorse ahead (as you can see by the picture it did), and wondering about the centuries of footsteps that had flattened and worn away the grass.  Perhaps even St. Patrick himself had walked along that very cliff after he'd recovered from his little ship wreck adventure. 

At the point where there was little spare land between my feet and a rocky cove below, the path turned away from the sea and wound its way up into green fields spotted with suspicious ewes who bleated warnings at their lambs as I approached. 

I debated walking further but decided not to disturb the sheep so I turned to head back and I froze.  For the first time I noticed how narrow the path was, how uneven, how undefined at places. And that wind!  Did it just start blowing that hard or had I not noticed the effort it took to remain upright as it howled around me?  I thought about turning around again and continuing along the path through the sheep fields but rather than heading back towards the road, it looked like it just continued along the sea, albeit at a safer distance from the rocks and water.

So I made my way back the way I came, placing one foot in front of the other, testing the sureness of the path, feeling for hidden dips or unseen stones that would send me careening down into the angry waters of the Irish Sea, the sight of which now caused my heart to quicken with fear.  I avoided looking at the drop by focusing my peripheral vision on the other side of the path.  "Look at the grass," I'd tell myself, look at the grass."  Of course, I made it back just fine and in one piece, albeit with my muscles a bit more tense than when I started.

It wasn't until I got home and was looking at the pictures from Llanbadrig that I realized the lesson for me in that walk.  Too often I embark upon a path with fear and hesitancy, rather than wonder and curiosity.  I get caught up in the narrowness of the track and the fierceness of the wind and when I do that, I expend much more energy-- mental and physical-- in inching forward than if I just trusted the way and admired the view.  Or even worse, I stay stuck where I am, in a place of perceived safety.  That walk along the path at St. Patrick's Church has become a touchstone for me, a reminder to act out of a place of trust and love rather than fear and doubt.  For as Mary Oliver writes, "What, in the earth world/is there not to be amazed by/and to be steadied by . . . Look at the grass."

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