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 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? ~Mary Oliver from “The Summer Day”
…perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. ~G.K. Chesterton
There is a flower, a little flower With silver crest and golden eye, That welcomes every changing hour, And weathers every sky. ~James Montgomery
Over the shoulders and slopes of the dune I saw the white daisies go down to the sea, A host in the sunshine, an army in June, The people God sends us to set our heart free. ~William Bliss Carman
Just as we lose hope she ambles in, a late guest dragging her hem of wildflowers, her torn veil of mist, of light rain, blowing her dandelion breath in our ears; and we forgive her, turning from chilly winter ways, we throw off our faithful sweaters and open our arms. ~Linda Pastan “Spring”
Brushy fencerows are in a sense a gift from man to nature — at least if, after the posts are dug in and the fence stapled to the posts, nature is given some free reign. Birds sitting on the fence and posts will pass undigested seeds in their droppings. Some of these seeds of blackberry, wild cherry, elderberry, bittersweet, sassafras, mulberry, and unfortunately, in some areas, multiflora rose, will take root in the loose soil around the posts and later in soil dug up by woodchucks. Chipmunks scurrying along the fence will bring and bury acorns and hickory nuts, while the wind will deliver dandelion, milkweed, and thistle seeds — all ingredients for a healthy fencerow. ~David Kline from Great Possessions
One day in summer when everything has already been more than enough the wild beds start exploding open along the berm of the sea; day after day you sit near them; day after day the honey keeps on coming in the red cups and the bees like amber drops roll in the petals: there is no end, believe me! to the inventions of summer, to the happiness your body is willing to bear.
“I had a dog who loved flowers. Briskly she went through the fields, …and easily she adored every blossom
not in the serious careful way that we choose this blossom or that blossom
the way we praise or don’t praise – the way we love or don’t love – but the way
we long to be – that happy in the heaven of earth – that wild, that loving.” —Mary Oliver
Why do we not feel the joiede vivre, the ebullience and fullness of every moment? What makes us hide ourselves rather than join the walk in the garden in the cool of the day? What makes us choose this blossom or that, this tree or that, this fruit or that, judging good, better and best? What has happened to wild loving appreciation of the heaven of earth?
We gave it up for one taste. Lost heaven and regretted it immediately.
Now joiede vivre awaits, beyond this, above this. Invited, all expenses paid, unearned, back to the way we long to be.