It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it could be weeds in a vacant lot, or a few small stones; just pay attention, then patch a few words together and don’t try to make them elaborate. This isn’t a contest but the doorway into thanks, and a silence in which another voice may speak. ~Mary Oliver“Praying” from Thirst
Now that I’m free to be myself, who am I? Can’t fly, can’t run, and see how slowly I walk. Well, I think, I can read books.
Well, I can write down words, like these, softly.
It doesn’t happen all of a sudden, you know.
“Doesn’t it?” says the wind, and breaks open, releasing distillation of blue iris.
And my heart panics not to be, as I long to be, the empty, waiting, pure, speechless receptacle. ~Mary Oliver from The Blue Iris
To plunge headlong into the heart of a blossom, its amber eyes inscrutably focusing on your own, magnified by a lens of dew. Whose scent, invisible, drowns you in opulence, and for which you can find nothing adequate to say.
You sense that you are loved wholly, yet are quite unable to understand why. But then, you lift your face, creased with the ordinary, to a heaven that is breaking into blue, and find your contentment utterly beyond telling, unspeakable, uncontained. ~Luci Shaw from “Speechless” from Sea Glass
Now that I’m free to be myself, I’m also free to tell about how creased with the ordinary, I notice things I passed by before.
Fleeting moments become more precious, as I long to be – while time pours through my fingers.
It doesn’t have to be the blue iris, it doesn’t have to be glistening raindrops, but today it is both…
I fall headlong into their depths, through a doorway into thanks, lost in their earthbound ethereal beauty, to a heaven that is breaking into blue.
Oh, and so grateful to Mary and Luci, I am no longer a speechless receptacle without words…
Two roads diverged in a yellow wood, And sorry I could not travel both And be one traveler, long I stood And looked down one as far as I could To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair, And having perhaps the better claim, Because it was grassy and wanted wear; Though as for that the passing there Had worn them really about the same,
And both that morning equally lay In leaves no step had trodden black. Oh, I kept the first for another day! Yet knowing how way leads on to way, I doubted if I should ever come back. I shall be telling this with a sigh Somewhere ages and ages hence: Two roads diverged in a wood, and I— I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference. ~Robert Frost “The Road Not Taken”
Two lonely cross-roads that themselves cross each other I have walked several times this winter without meeting or overtaking so much as a single person on foot or on runners. The practically unbroken condition of both for several days after a snow or a blow proves that neither is much travelled.
Judge then how surprised I was the other evening as I came down one to see a man, who to my own unfamiliar eyes and in the dusk looked for all the world like myself, coming down the other, his approach to the point where our paths must intersect being so timed that unless one of us pulled up we must inevitably collide. I felt as if I was going to meet my own image in a slanting mirror. Or say I felt as we slowly converged on the same point with the same noiseless yet laborious stride as if we were two images about to float together with the uncrossing of someone’s eyes. I verily expected to take up or absorb this other self and feel the stronger by the addition for the three-mile journey home.
But I didn’t go forward to the touch. I stood still in wonderment and let him pass by; and that, too, with the fatal omission of not trying to find out by a comparison of lives and immediate and remote interests what could have brought us by crossing paths to the same point in a wilderness at the same moment of nightfall. Some purpose I doubt not, if we could but have made out.
I like a coincidence almost as well as an incongruity. ~Robert Frost from “Selected Letters”
What is there beyond knowing that keeps calling to me? I can’t
turn in any direction but it’s there. I don’t mean
the leaves’ grip and shine or even the thrush’s silk song, but the far-off
fires, for example, of the stars, heaven’s slowly turning
theater of light, or the wind playful with its breath;
or time that’s always rushing forward, or standing still
in the same — what shall I say — moment.
What I know
I could put into a pack
as if it were bread and cheese, and carry it on one shoulder,
important and honorable, but so small! While everything else continues, unexplained
and unexplainable.How wonderful it is to follow a thought quietlyto its logical end.
….mostly I just stand in the dark field, in the middle of the world, breathing in and out… ~Mary Oliver from “What is there beyond knowing”
When a man thinks happily, he finds no foot-track in the field he traverses. ~Ralph Waldo Emerson from “Quotation and Originality”
Robert Frost enjoyed how readers misinterpreted his ironic “The Road Not Taken” poem. His point was not the road less traveled “made all the difference” but that the roads were in fact the same.
As humans living our daily lives, we have to make decisions that take us one way or the other, uncertain where our choices may lead us and likely never knowing if that choice made a difference at all.
Our assurance lies in understanding the Hand that guides us, should we allow Him to do so. We may choose a path that leads us astray; God continually puts up signposts that will guide us home. Our journey may be arduous, we may get terribly lost, we may walk alone for long stretches, we may end up crushed and bleeding in the ditch.
He follows the footprints we have left behind, so we that we may be found, rescued and brought home, no matter what.
And that — not the road we chose at the beginning — is what makes all the difference.
Lyrics
Those lives were mine to love and cherish To guard and guide along life’s way Oh God forbid that one should perish That one alas should go astray
Back in the years with all together Around the place we’d romp and play So lonely now and oft’ times wonder Oh will they come back home some day
I’m lonesome for my precious children They live so far away Oh may they hear my calling… calling.and come back home some day
I gave my all for my dear children Their problems still with love I share I’d brave life’s storm, defy the tempest To bring them home from anywhere
I lived my life my love I gave them, to guide them through this world of strife I hope and pray we’ll live together In that great glad here after life
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Night after night darkness enters the face of the lily which, lightly, closes its five walls around itself, and its purse of honey, and its fragrance, and is content to stand there in the garden, not quite sleeping, and, maybe, saying in lily language some small words we can’t hear even when there is no wind anywhere, its lips are so secret, its tongue is so hidden – or, maybe, it says nothing at all but just stands there with the patience of vegetables and saints until the whole earth has turned around and the silver moon becomes the golden sun – as the lily absolutely knew it would, which is itself, isn’t it, the perfect prayer? ~Mary Oliver “The Lily”
Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they neither toil nor spin;yet I tell you, even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Matthew 6:28b-29
I have been thinking about living like the lilies that blow in the fields.
They rise and fall in the edge of the wind, and have no shelter from the tongues of the cattle,
and have no closets or cupboards, and have no legs. Still I would like to be as wonderful
as the old idea. But if I were a lily I think I would wait all day for the green face
of the hummingbird to touch me. What I mean is, could I forget myself
even in those feathery fields? When Van Gogh preached to the poor of course he wanted to save someone–
most of all himself. He wasn’t a lily, and wandering through the bright fields only gave him more ideas
it would take his life to solve. I think I will always be lonely in this world, where the cattle graze like a black and white river–
where the vanishing lilies melt, without protest, on their tongues– where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss, just rises and floats away. ~Mary Oliver “Lilies”
From the simplest lyric to the most complex novel and densest drama, literature is asking us to pay attention… pay attention to the world and all that dwells therein and thereby learn at last to pay attention to yourself and all that dwells therein.
Literature, painting, music— the most basic lesson that all art teaches us is to stop, look, and listen to life on this planet, including our own lives, as a vastly richer, deeper, more mysterious business as we bumble along from day to day on automatic pilot. In a world that for the most part steers clear of the whole idea of holiness, art is one of the few places left where we can speak to each other of holy things.
Is it too much to say that Stop, Look, and Listen is also the most basic lesson that the Judeo-Christian tradition teaches us? Listen to history is the cry of the ancient prophets of Israel. Listen to social injustice, says Amos; to head-in-the-sand religiosity, says Jeremiah; to international treacheries and power-plays, says Isaiah; because it is precisely through them that God speaks his word of judgment and command.
In a letter to a friend Emily Dickinson wrote that “Consider the lilies of the field” was the only commandment she never broke. She could have done a lot worse. Consider the lilies. It is the sine qua non of art and religion both. ~Frederick Buechner from Whistling in the Dark
I have failed to “consider the lilies” way too many times.
In my daily life, I am considering my own worries and concerns as I walk past beauty and purpose and holiness. My mind turns inward, often blind and deaf to what is outside me.
It is necessary to be reminded every day that I need to pay attention beyond myself, to love my neighbor, to remember what history has to teach us, to search for the sacred in all things.
Stop, Look, Listen, Consider: all is grace, all is gift, all is holiness brought to life – so stunning, so amazing, so wondrous.
Thank you to David and Lynne Nelson, David Vos of VanderGiessen Nursery, Arlene Van Ry, Tennant Lake Park and Western Washington University for making their lovely lilies available to me to photograph.
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The moon drops one or two feathers into the field. The dark wheat listens. Be still. Now. There they are, the moon’s young, trying Their wings.
I stand alone by an elder tree, I do not dare breathe Or move. I listen. The wheat leans back toward its own darkness, And I lean toward mine. ~James Wright from “Beginning”
photo by Bob Tjoelker
Wherever it was I was supposed to be this morning— whatever it was I said I would be doing— I was standing at the edge of the field— I was hurrying through my own soul, opening its dark doors— I was leaning out; I was listening. — Mary Oliver from “Mockingbirds” from New and Selected Poems, Volume 2
“Hope” is the thing with feathers – That perches in the soul – And sings the tune without the words – And never stops – at all – ~Emily Dickinson
Some days warrant stillness. Today is one.
As I walked our farm driveway, I found this barn owl feather, dropped from a passing wing overnight –
The past months have echoed loudly with ruckus and noise — much too overwhelming and almost deafening.
Today I seek to be quiet as this feather, lying silently in place, not saying a word.
I might actually begin to listen and hear again.
A funny thing about feathers: alone, each one is mere fluff. Together — feathers create lift and power, the strength and will to soar beyond the tether of gravity and the pull of our inevitable mortality.
Joined and united, we can rise above and fly away as far as our life and breath can take us.
May peace be still.
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Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods. Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt. But there’s music in us. Hope is pushed down but the angel flies up again taking us with her. It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us. What astonishes is the singing. We know the horses are there in the dark meadow because we can smell them, can hear them breathing. Our spirit persists like a man struggling through the frozen valley who suddenly smells flowers and realizes the snow is melting out of sight on top of the mountain, knows that spring has begun. ~Jack Gilbert from “Horses at Midnight Without a Moon”
In trees still dripping night some nameless birds Woke, shook out their arrowy wings, and sang, Slowly, like finches sifting through a dream. The pink sun fell, like glass, into the fields. Two chestnuts, and a dapple gray, Their shoulders wet with light, their dark hair streaming, Climbed the hill. The last mist fell away.
And under the trees, beyond time’s brittle drift, I stood like Adam in his lonely garden On that first morning, shaken out of sleep, Rubbing his eyes, listening, parting the leaves, Like tissue on some vast, incredible gift. ~Mary Oliver “Morning In a New Land”from New and Selected Poems
As if — we are walking through the darkest woods, still stuck in the throes of winter, and catch a whiff of a floral scent, or a hint of green grass, or hear the early jingle bells song of peeper frogs in the wetlands, or feel the warm breath of horses puffing steam at night.
As if — there is hope on the other side, refreshment and renewal and rejoicing just around the corner.
As if — things won’t always be frozen or muddy or barren, that something is coming behind the snowdrops and crocus.
The snow is melting, imperceptibly, but melting nonetheless. And that vast incredible gift thaws what is frozen in me…
photo by Emily Dieleman
This year’s Lenten theme:
…where you go I will go… Ruth 1:16
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How granular they feel—grief and regret, arriving, as they do, in the sharp particularities of distress. Inserting themselves— cunning, intricate, subversive—into our discourse.
In the long night, grievances seem to multiply. Old dreams mingling with new. Disappointment and regret bludgeon the soul, your best imaginings bruised, your hopes ragged.
Yet wait, watch. From the skylight the room is filling with soft early sun, slowly sifting its light on the bed, on your head, a shower of fine particles. How welcome. And how reliable. ~Luci Shaw“Sorrow”
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me a box full of darkness.
We are given a box full of darkness by someone who loves us, and we can’t help but open it, weeping.
It takes a lifetime to understand, if we ever do, we will inevitably hand off this gift to others we love.
Opening the box allows the Light in where none existed before.
Light pours into our brokenness.
Sorrow ends up shining through our tears: we reach out from a deep well of need. Because we are loved so thoroughly, we too love deeply beyond ourselves.
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Another year gone, leaving everywhere its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,
the uneaten fruits crumbling damply in the shadows…
I try to remember when time’s measure painfully chafes, for instance when autumn
flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing to stay – how everything lives, shifting
from one bright vision to another, forever in these momentary pastures. ~Mary Oliver from Fall Song
To let your body love this world that gave itself to your care in all of its ripeness, with ease, and will take itself from you in equal ripeness and ease, is also harvest. And however sharply you are tested – this sorrow, that great love – it too will leave on that clean knife. ~Jane Hirshfield from “Ripeness” from “The October Palace”
What is left in the trees in November is crumbling away: bright while fading, dimpling and softening, composted in the rain.
Perhaps this describes me too.
More than just spicy residue dangling by a stem, let me still feed whoever is hungry, to thrive on what little I have left to offer.
Might I ripen a bit at harvest before the inevitable drop, to sleep enveloped by the ground.
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Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. ― Mary Oliver
Hello, sun in my face. Hello you who made the morning and spread it over the fields… Watch, now, how I start the day in happiness, in kindness. ~Mary Oliver from “Why I Wake Early”
(to remind myself)
i
Make a place to sit down. Sit down. Be quiet. You must depend upon affection, reading, knowledge, skill—more of each than you have—inspiration, work, growing older, patience, for patience joins time to eternity.
ii
Breathe with unconditional breath the unconditioned air. Stay away from anything that obscures the place it is in. There are no unsacred places; there are only sacred places and desecrated places.
iii
Accept what comes from silence. Make the best you can of it. Of the little words that come out of the silence, like prayers prayed back to the one who prays, make a poem that does not disturb the silence from which it came. ~Wendell Berry from “How to Be a Poet”
Here I am, telling you what I pluck out of silence every morning, tossing my prayer to the world to share what is astonishing to me so as not to forget each moment.
Here you are, listening to this silence every morning, reacting with kindness, receiving my heart – this is even more astonishing to me and sacred.
Thank you for being here to see what I find. Thank you for sharing with others in your life. Thank you for letting me know it makes a difference. Thank you for making the best of my little words and pictures.
Welcome back, each and every day. Happy you are here.
If you are interested in receiving some newly created photo note cards as a thank you gift for your financial support of this website, the new cards and donation information can be found here.
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Between the March and April line — That magical frontier Beyond which summer hesitates, Almost too heavenly near. The saddest noise, the sweetest noise, The maddest noise that grows, — The birds, they make it in the spring, At night’s delicious close. It makes us think of all the dead That sauntered with us here, By separation’s sorcery Made cruelly more dear. It makes us think of what we had, And what we now deplore. We almost wish those siren throats Would go and sing no more. An ear can break a human heart As quickly as a spear, We wish the ear had not a heart So dangerously near. ~Emily Dickinson“The Saddest Noise”
Every spring I hear the thrush singing in the glowing woods he is only passing through. His voice is deep, then he lifts it until it seems to fall from the sky. I am thrilled. I am grateful. Then, by the end of morning, he’s gone, nothing but silence out of the tree where he rested for a night. And this I find acceptable. Not enough is a poor life. But too much is, well, too much. Imagine Verdi or Mahler every day, all day. It would exhaust anyone. ~Mary Oliver “In Our Woods, Sometimes a Rare Music ” from “A Thousand Mornings”
What does it say about me that a only a few months ago, in the inky darkness of December mornings, I was yearning for the earlier sunrises of spring. Once we’re well into April, the birdsong symphony alarm clock each morning is no longer so compelling.
This confirms my suspicion that I’m incapable of reveling in the moment at hand, something that would likely take years of therapy to undo. I’m sure there is some deep seated issue here, but I’m too sleep deprived to pursue it.
My eyes pop open earlier than I wish, aided and abetted by vigorous birdsong in the trees surrounding our farm house. Daylight sneaks through the venetian blinds. Once the bird chorus starts, with one lone chirpy voice in the apple tree by our bedroom window, it rapidly becomes a full frontal onslaught orchestra from all manner of avian life-forms, singing from the plum, cherry, walnut, fir and chestnut. Sleep is irretrievable.
Yet it would be such a poor life without the birdsong. Even so, too much is … a bit too much.
I already need a nap.
photo by Harry Rodenberger
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I don’t know where prayers go, or what they do. Do cats pray, while they sleep half-asleep in the sun? Does the opossum pray as it crosses the street? The sunflowers? The old black oak growing older every year? I know I can walk through the world, along the shore or under the trees, with my mind filled with things of little importance, in full self-attendance. A condition I can’t really call being alive. Is a prayer a gift, or a petition, or does it matter? The sunflowers blaze, maybe that’s their way. Maybe the cats are sound asleep. Maybe not.
While I was thinking this I happened to be standing just outside my door, with my notebook open, which is the way I begin every morning. Then a wren in the privet began to sing. He was positively drenched in enthusiasm, I don’t know why. And yet, why not. I wouldn’t persuade you from whatever you believe or whatever you don’t. That’s your business. But I thought, of the wren’s singing, what could this be if it isn’t a prayer? So I just listened, my pen in the air. ~Mary Oliver “I Happened to be Standing” from A Thousand Mornings
Each morning, I say a prayer that I might find something of value to share here.
Maybe what I offer is a bit of glue to help heal a broken heart, or a balm to soothe a worried mind, or it touches a place of pain so it might hurt less.
Maybe a song becomes a poignant reminder, or an image might capture the eye.
What might the beauty in the world and in words be but a kind of prayer offered to our Creator? Why not listen, even for a moment, to the purring cat and the singing wren to hear a prayer of thanks and joy they offer in their own way?
Prayer is breath combined with need.
We are capable of just such a silent dialogue with God, breathed out in thanksgiving and breathed in deep during desperate times.
I too know about worry, and hurting, and the need for glue. Within prayer is a trace of peace. So I listen, waiting.
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