There was a woman Who lived her gift fully Whose fingerprints on the world Helped to create the picture Of light Holding one sweet edge in place.
Whose breath Still brushes up against my heart Though she Herself No longer breathes.
There was a woman Who did not let The voices of disdain Stop her gift Even when her own doubts Too often echoed Those false frames.
She gifted her presence Flaws and all.
There was a woman Who gratefully accepted The gifts of a broken world And counted them sufficient To sustain the fillagree Of glistening life For just a while.
Counting her own brokenness Enough to offer In return
A reedy pipe With holes enough To let the tune. Sing through.
This is the anniversary of my mother’s death. She would have made it to 100 had she lived two more years but 98 was quite enough for her and she left us with a wink and a smile. The photo is my own.
The earth, it was said, Rested upon the back Of a giant turtle.
That turtle, in turn, Rested upon another, And another, And another - Turtles all the way down.
Others said it rested Upon a succession of elephants. For others, it was The shoulders of Atlas That held it firm.
But, of course, Now we know better. It is held by myriad attractions And by movement.
And my own particular world Is held by its own attractions, And repulsions, And mutual beliefs and stories.
We tell ourselves That there is such a thing As corporation, or school, or alliance Or country. We build walls around that idea - Actual walls of brick and mortar Or even steel.
We think those walls will hold it firm. For they rest upon the earth. Which rests, of course, Upon a giant turtle.
Or is it the shoulders of Atlas That will keep us from falling forever? Surely there is some strong man To whom we turn to make it all secure.
... I’m grateful that my kids Watched Ninja Turtles Rather than a Mighty Mouse, Who comes to save the day.
Turtles, seeking wisdom from a rat Working as a team, finding allies, Without a single hero - It’s the start of a better story.
Not so much turtles All the way down As turtles all around. Not perfect, But a step into a better myth.
… this is one of those moments when the strange and beautiful reality of the human condition rises in the face of what would deny it. – Kristi Tippett.
Below the loud and clamoring voices Beyond the angry fury Even beneath the clubs and pepper spray And bullets Runs the urgent Wistful Steadfast Song of community.
It is not about me. It is not about you. It is about us.
When I cower alone I find myself bereft Of courage, strength And hope
I am not enough Alone.
I cannot be me Without you. I cannot hold to hope Without your candle.
And yet I can see its flickering light. In Minnesota, In Ukraine, In Gaza.
This little light of yours. You let it shine. I dip my fragile wick Toward your flame.
You don’t ever know where a sentence will take you, depending on its roll and fold. -Mary Oliver
I’m truly surprised That I can surprise myself.
My fingers on the keyboard, My eyes closed, In that safe space I can let myself go.
I usually start with some word or phrase or image. I take a moment to embrace that kernel And then I drop it to the earth And let the soil blow over. The soft rains come. The sun’s warm cuddle Holds it close.
And I wait. It takes time. It takes release. (Ok, it takes time to release it.)
But, after a bit, It starts to grow. It pushes tiny leaves Above the earth’s crumble. They lift and expand Searching for the light That will touch The life within themselves.
That tiny seedling Grows within the soil Of who I am. It seeks a light To lift my life And connect it all: The earth, the sun, The tiny leaves of hope.
And so, it is surprising To find my thoughts Have gone somewhere unexpected And discovered Also, a surprise, That they are back Where they started But somehow richer Fuller, more complete.
I follow my words Down the path of my imagination And find myself At the end of the loop Smiling in surprise At a tiny seedling Growing Here Within.
Quotation from Devotions: The Selected Poems of Mary Oliver (p. 257). Kindle Edition.
In all this hubbub, I find that I’ve folded my small world around me Drawn in tightly Hunkered down.
My protective stance is to withdraw Rather than strike out. Yet that, too, is hurtful. A withdrawal from life diminishes More than just me.
I think of myself as too small. What use am I among the vastness A silly, mistake-prone, appendage, An intrusion in the flow?
And so, I discount myself. I think that any contribution I make Must somehow be perfect Or it is useless.
I forget that ‘perfection’ Is a process. It never starts at its culmination. Growth, itself, is one of the beauties of life. The unfolding is, itself, A slow and stately dance.
There is, you see, A humility that withdraws Ashamed of its very self But there is also quite another - A humility that offers itself Even knowing it is not perfect.
That is the gift of vulnerability. And mine invites yours.
My own thread Does not add much To the tapestry of life But I do love The flawed and nubby Pattern we make together.
It is not about winning Nor forcing the world into your frame Nor fixing another’s broken ideology Nor being right Or even figuring out what’s wrong.
A tight fist can never hold The true wonder of the world.
Only when you release Your hold, Your fierce determination, Your very self Can you let the dream begin.
Only when you release your breath Into the greater sigh Can you hope to notice That you are a tiny part Of something vastly more.
It is within the interplay of your desires To be both apart and a part Where you begin to dance Where the hand that is yours Can touch the hand of quite another
Sometimes, so they say, ‘you can’t see the forest for the trees.’
As of late, I think I have the opposite problem.
I need to look, really look, deeply look
At a single tree, a single branch, a single leaf.
I’ve been trying to figure it all out.
But the forest is much too big for me.
One tender leaf, with veins outspread to touch each cell
Is, perhaps, the correct perspective for me
At this one, perfect moment
In your universe of time and space.
I’ll leave the forest to you, just now.
And reach my tiny veins to those cells near me
-
The ones that I can touch.
[photo by eltpics per cc 2.0 hosted by flikr]
Quiet Hope 