Oh . . .
I cannot read Mary Oliver if someone is about to open my office door . . .
No, not when the door needs to open upon a still, calm Presence . . .
I could not bear to be laid bare before them; and this is what her words do to me . . .
When I read Mary Oliver all I am is a puddle of wordless wonder with a pile of discarded clothes, my exoskeleton, scattered about my feet . . .
Mindful, by Mary Oliver
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for -
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world –
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful,
the very extravagant -
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these -
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shrine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
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