Winter in the Country - January 29, 2010

The Terror of the country

Is not the easy death,...

...The terror is that nothing

Laments the narrow span...

..The terror of the country

Is prey and hawk together,

Still flying, both exhausted,

In the blue sack of weather.

We, away from the country, so little know of the prey and hawk together. I dreamt last night of sleeping with tigers, of longing for that hunter to be close to my skin, in my skin, to be me. Yet it is that very longing that would kill me if I were in tiger's country. It seems too that if I were always to have a tiger on my tail, that fear itself would kill me. How can we live with predatory death echoing our every foot step forward?

We, here in the suburbs, have death all round us, but it's harder to see perhaps in these Florida winters. Along my path of gym, work, and home there is a dried out shell of a sea gull on the sidewalk's margin near a busy road. It's been there for over a month. Does anyone else notice it as they fly by? Do these battered feathers herald our own death, or a life lived on the edge of knowing that hardship is the standard of our evolved state, only now we can now it and lament our narrow years upon this planet. I wonder if Mary is saying that if we just fly, though it exhausts us, we would not have time for terror and fear except in the ultimate exquisite moment? That we should try to catch a tiger by the tail and let the wings of death liberate us.

What are you afraid of? Does this fear keep you from really living?

Encounter - January 21, 2010

I lift the small brown mouse..

..He has no more to say..

.."Poor creature" I might say,

but what's the use of that.

The clock in him is broken.

And for ceremony,

Already the leaves have swirled

Over, the wind has spoken.

So many speaking, not speaking. The mouse is quiet, the poet is quiet in the poem, the wind speaks, the poet speaks in writing the poem, I speak now, and you listen. Maybe there isn't really anything to say, for no matter what we say our bodies keep track of the passing of the seasons and our lives. The great orator and poet of this existence is not any of us singled out on the path, dead, not-dead, but the winds of change that move us in our daily encounters with one another and a harsh, exciting reality.

How does the wind of change, chaos, and death move you? For you, today, is it a fierce wind or gentle breeze, or are you becalmed?

The Eskimos Have No Word for War - January 20, 1010

Trying to explain it to them

Leaves one feeling ridiculous and obscene....

They listen politely, and stride away

with spears and sleds and barking dogs

To hunt for food....

....Later, by fires and boiling bones

In steaming kettles, they welcome me,...

To share what they have in a hungry time

In a difficult land. While I talk on

Of the southern kingdoms, cannon, armies

Shifting alliances, airplanes, power,

They chew their bones, and smile at one another.

How many words for war does our language have? Looking into a thesaurus I see:

conflict

combat

warfare

fighting

confrontation

hostilities

battle

campaign

struggle

crusade

competition

rivalry

feud

battle

struggle

I add these words to this heavy list from my own life and experiences:

ego

spiritual practice

letting go and letting love

fear

desire

blame

judgment

letting the beauty I love be what I do (Rumi)

Mary speaks of the rhythm of the Eskimo's life - hunting, maintaining the village, cooking, and sharing meals. In their simplicity, in their acceptance of a harsh life, they have rid themselves of our species' propensity for war. I wonder how a daily rhythm under the firm hand of reality could shape us so that there was a constant knocking upon the door of joy, which with the sun's rise, might just open.

What words do you have for what wars within you and without? How do you build peace to the rhythm of life and not to the rhythm to the drums of war?

Answers - January 19, 2010

..I sat in the kitchen sorting through volumes of answers

That could not solve the mystery of the trees.

My grandmother stood among her kettles and ladles.

Smiling, in faulty grammar,

She praised my fortune and urged my lofty career,

So to please her I studied - but I will remember always

How she poured confusion out, how she cooled and labeled

All the wild sauces of the brimming year.

My goal is to read one Mary Oliver poem before the sun rises each day of this year 2010. I was a little later today than usual as the sun just topped the horizon and came pouring through my back porch window after the light wove through the welcoming woods behind our house. That light, filtered by the trees and an ample night's rest, seemed so simple, so complete, seemed to answer questions I had not even formed yet.

Spending these 19 days with Mary, this poem and the previous others speak to what might be Mary's answer to the unsolvable mystery of life.

· Rhythm of reality (of life, death, seasons, nature, pain, light, dark)

· Harvest (intimate embrace of reality, bringing reality into your being, home, and house, be strong and try to hold reality)

· Abundance/wildness (love is all around)

· Simplicity (be here now)

How do you answer life when circumstances demand your attention to seek meaning?