In the Darkness

At night the stars throw down their postcards of light.

Who are they that love me so much?...

I am grateful and faithful to this other romance

Though we will not ever know each other’s names, we will not ever

Touch.

.

I am reading John Donahue’s book, “Beauty – The Invisible Embrace.”  In the beginning pages he writes that if we can see beauty, we will feel like we belong on this planet and will be welcomed home with open arms.  He writes in prose as Mary does in poetry.

We are touched by beauty. Perhaps not as lovers in the night, or as friends on a walk, or children at bed time, but our soul is in contact with the All at times when wonder, awe, and splendor enter our days.  We are caressed, we are embraced, we are held.

At such times our faith is affirmed and feelings of gratitude emerge. 

How now can we open our eyes to see beauty more consistently, so that justice and peace may grow from our faith and gratitude?

The Poet Dreams of the Mountain

Sometimes I grow weary of the days, with all their fits and starts.

I want to climb some old gray mountain, slowly, taking

the rest of my lifetime to do it....

I want to look back at everything, forgiving it all,

and peaceful, knowing the last thing there is to know.

All that urgency! Not what the earth is about!...

In ten thousand years, maybe, a piece of the mountain will fall.

As so often happens when reading Mary's poem, the coincidence of her words with my life events startles me.  For instance, just this morning I was reviewing my itinerary for my trip to Guyana next week, and there in the middle of it is an overnight hike that gains 6,000 feet in elevation and ends at Jordan falls. 

Then not even 5 minutes later I read this poem about a slow, long climb up a mountain.

That image of me, walking up a winding path of a mountain path with nothing to do but to look, think, remember, and place one foot in front of the other brings me solace this Monday morning. 

How did Mary know that we ache for the sense of eternal wholeness that a long slow hike or a long slow life can bring?

Do you have this ache too?  How do you respond to it?

More of the Unfinishable Fox Story

Dear Readers,

I have been in touch with Beacon Press and I learned that by printing so much of the poem I might be infringing on copyright issues.  So from here until the end, I shall write only a few lines of each poem and encourage you to get the book.  It's so hard for me to only include such a small portion, because the poems in their entirety are so complete. I have loved to type each line  as a form of prayer - so instead let us whisper the words to one another through the ethernet. 

Today's Poem

And what did the fox look like?...

He was rough and smelled of skunk.

But he was beautiful,

and beauty is not to be taken lightly....

Mary is still on to that fox she saw. She doesn't remember where she was going and cannot imagine what the fox is doing on the road, but she does know what beauty is and for.  First and foremost we are to remember beauty. 

We are to remember that beauty exists.

We are to remember that it is all around us.

We are to remember that it is in us, is us, is everyone, is every being.

We are to remember that the story of beauty ever continues and never ends, so that our days may be finished in beauty.

What story do you have that is unfinished, or unfinishable?

To Begin With, the Sweet Grass

1.

Will the hungry ox stand in the field and not eat
of the sweet grass?
Will the owl bite off its own wings?
Will the lark forget to lift its body in the air or
forget to sing?
Will the rivers run upstream?

Behold, I say - behold
the reliability and the finery and the teachings
of this gritty earth gift.

2.

Eat bread and understand comfort.
Drink water, and understand delight.
Visit the garden where the scarlet trumpets
are opening their bodies for the hummingbirds
who are drinking the sweetness, who are
thrillingly gluttonous.

For one thing leads to another.
Soon you will notice how stones shine underfoot.
Eventually tides will be the only calendar you believe in.

And someone's face, whom you love, will be as a star
both intimate and ultimate,
and you will be both heart-shaken and respectful.
And you will hear the air itself, like a beloved, whisper:
oh, let me, for a while longer, enter the two
beautiful bodies of your lungs….

4.

Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,

The dancer, the potter,

To make me a begging bowl

Which I believe

My soul needs.

And if I come to you,

To the door of your comfortable house

With unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,

Will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.

I would like to give you this chance.

5.

We do one thing or another; we stay the same, or we change.

Congratulations, if

You have changed.

6.

Let me ask you this.

Do you also think that beauty exists for some fabulous reason?

And if you have not been enchanted by this adventure-

Your life-

What would do for you?

7.

What I loved in the beginning, I think, was mostly myself.
Never mind that I had to, since somebody had to.
That was many years ago.
Since then I have gone out from my confinements,
through with difficulty.
I mean the ones that thought to rule my heart.
I cast them out, I put them on the mush pile.
They will be nourishment somehow (everything is nourishment
somehow or another).
And I have become the child of the clouds, and of hope.
I have become the friend of the enemy, whoever that is.
I have become older and, cherishing what I have learned,
I have become younger.

And what do I risk to tell you this, which is all I know?
Love yourself.  Then forget it.  Then, love the world.

Someday I feel like a child playing in the meadow, while bombs fly over head and digging parties put friends into the ground next to where I stare in wonder at the trees.  What do I mean by this?  Some days I grow weary of fighting – I just want to love the world. 

For instance I am at a bird conference now.  Many of these people, if not most, have wild parrots as companions in their home, or raise them for various reasons, including making a livelihood.  I am mostly of the clan, “mutual other” where I see birds as beings with their own inherent worth and dignity. After years of studying them in the wild, my heart hurts to have them in captivity where we humans make most of the choices for them.  Those surrounding me are mostly of the clan, “utilitarian.”  Humans have ultimate control over birds and it is not an ethical dilemma to control them and place them into our lives, where the birds live quite differently from their natural and evolved behavior.  Truly I guess that all of us belong to both clans, to the one clan called earth.

So I find myself torn – is it possible to fight with one’s self for any worthwhile reason? How do I speak of my truth, of my longing, and of my pain while letting the other know that I hold their needs tenderly and that we are of the family of things?

I go to the other, hold out my begging bowl, and ask them to fill it with their beauty.

As our cups fill together, may we forget to love only ourselves, and instead love the world.

Love the world…them’s good fighting words!

To whom or to what do you hold out your begging bowl today?

Gethsemane - October 5, 2010

The grass never sleeps.
Or the roses.
Nor does the lily have a secret eye that shuts until morning.

Jesus said, wait with me. But the disciples slept.

The cricket has such splendid fringe on its feet,
and it sings, have you noticed, with its whole body,
and heaven knows if it ever sleeps.

Jesus said, wait with me. And maybe the stars did, maybe
the wind wound itself into a silver tree, and didn't move,
maybe
the lake far away, where once he walked as on a
blue pavement,
lay still and waited, wild awake.

Oh the dear bodies, slumped and eye-shut, that could not
keep that vigil, how they must have wept,
so utterly human, knowing this too
must be a part of the story.

In the movie, JC Superstar, Jesus sings:

Will no one stay awake with me

Peter, John, James

Will none of you wait with me

Peter, John, James

This has always haunted me. What would I do? Sleep through the night while Jesus asks "Why should I die?" I am also haunted by the question - what will I do today? Will I be asleep as the multitudes ask "Why should I die?" What if I were to awake and ponder that question throughout the day with all beings?

Towards the end of Jesus' prayer to God, he says:

Just watch me die!

See how I die!

Take me now, before I change my mind.

How many times today will I change my mind and not ask this question, wanting reasons for dying instead of looking to the beauty and tragedy of those around me, and knowing that is enough of an answer.

Musical Notation: 2

Everything is His.

the door, the door jamb.

The wood stacked near the door.

The leaves blown upon the path

that leads to the door.

The trees that are dropping their leaves

the wind that is tripping them this way and that way,

the clouds that are high above them,

the stars that are sleeping now beyond the clouds

and, simply said, all the rest.

When I open the door I am so sure so sure

all this will be there, and it is.

I look around.

I fill my arms with the firewood.

I turn and enter His house, and close His door.

Everything is His.

Everything is Hers.

The bore, the log jamb

The wood lying in the field

The forest dying to make us doors

The trees are dropping into oblivion

Wind of change are tripping beings this way and that way

The storm of human conflict not above us

the gods that are sleeping now beyond prayers

And, simply said, there is no rest.

When a child moves aside the plastic door she is so sure

that the garbage dump will be there, and it is.

She looks around

And fills her arms with toys made of trash

And turns to enter His house, Her house.

Do we close the doors of our hearts?

Everything is His.

Everything is Hers.

Everything is Ours.

What tragedy calls out to you this morning and is it yours?

Walking Home from Oak-Head

There is something
about the snow-laden sky
in winter
in the late afternoon

that brings to the heart elation
and the lovely meaninglessness
of time.
Whenever I get home - whenever -

somebody loves me there.
Meanwhile
I stand in the same dark peace
as any pine tree,

or wander on slowly
like the still unhurried wind,
waiting,
as for a gift,

for the snow to begin
which it does
at first casually,
then, irrepressibly.

Wherever else I live -
in music, in words,
in the fires of the heart,
I abide just as deeply

in this nameless, indivisible place,
this world,
which is falling apart now,
which is white and wild,

which is faithful beyond all our expressions of faith,
our deepest prayers.
Don't worry, sooner or later I'll be home.
Red-cheeked from the roused wind,

I'll stand in the doorway
stamping my boots and slapping my hands,
my shoulders
covered with stars.

keywords: snow, sky, winter, time love, dark, peace, tree, wind, gift, music, word, fire, heart, world, star

I have been told that in this book we see a shift of Mary, perhaps towards religion or God. I'm not quite clear what discontent exactly some of my acquaintances portend when they say "Mary changes" in her later books. It's hard for me to imagine that she could be much more religious, much more of the suffering seeker, or more the one totally committed to growing her faith in the world than she has been. I certainly know that she brings out the hunger in me for faith in earth and her beings. Just beyond her words and often beyond my reach is the nameless, the indivisible, to which she temporarily gives the names of tree or bird. Maybe later she'll take the risk and call this God. It's all the same to me, for my struggle will not change. With this world falling apart now, how might I still see the light and grow a faith that is ultimately beyond me. For me, part of this answer is becoming, read a poem from Mary.

You who read Mary regularly, what is happening with your faith and in your prayers?

What the Body Says - August 30, 2010

I was born here, and

I belong here, and

I will never leave.

The blue heron's

gray smoke will flow over me

for years

and the wind will decide

all directions

until I am safely and entirely

something else.

I am thinking this

this winter morning...

of transformation

Of course

I wonder about

the mystery

that is surely up there

in starry space

and how some part of me

will go there at last.

But I am talking now

of the way the body speaks,

and the wind, that keeps saying,

firmly, lovingly:

a little while and then this body

will be stone; then

it will be water; then

it will be air.

I am thinking about yesterday morning when I was swimming in the Ichetucknee river. While in that cold water that carried me and my burdens, I transformed. For the nearly two hours of snorkeling and flowing with all we saw, I knew that I belonged as surely as did the blue heron preening amidst the storks on the river side. This was not a cognitive knowing, for there is no thinking other than marvel and wonder as we swam down river. The body, though, merges into one just as this river will merge into one via the Sante Fe, Suwanne, Gulf, and Atlantic Ocean. With turtles and Ibis at nose level only a few feet away I become bird and reptile. Floating under a cypress tree where an Osprey has just taken an unlucky perch, I become fish. Eyes nearly as wide open as the family of otters snacking on river bottom mussels, I am bivalve and mammal.

Upon exiting the river, reluctantly, I shiver for nearly an hour as my core temperature returns to normal, especially difficult as a wind has come up. This wind wings a message out from my heart of love and gratitude that at least for a short while yesterday I knew no separate self.

Where do you experience flow in your life?

What Is There Beyond Knowing

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

In Mary we see such consistent homage to pantheism – the mystery and sacred interconnection is here in the life before us. In this poem I see emerging a thread of panentheism – god is all around us and beyond us as well – in time, in the sky and wind, and in the mystery. Perhaps it is a relief to be able to turn away from the face of god as she comes to us in insect and bird song and towering tree. We just need a break from all the glory so that we may be empty and therefore be vessels ready to fill up with what is. For if we try to know what is, we have sealed our soul’s containers. I myself am like a Starbucks coffee cup – I do place a lid on my spirit by wanting to know and to control, but then an accident comes my way, I tip, I leak, and I spill myself out. It’s a terrible mess, believe me, and often the catastrophe happens in public. But what could be more pleasurable than to be holding an empty cup, headed towards the coffee urn to be filled up with the stimulating unexplainable? - The natural stimulant of not knowing – and accepting our lot, eh?

What do you accept or resist not knowing, or knowing?

White Eyes

White Eyes

July 14, 2010

In winter

all the singing is in

the tops of the trees

where the wind-bird

with its white eyes

shoves and pushes

among the branches.

Like any of us

he wants to go to sleep

but he's restless-

he has an idea,

and slowly it unfolds

from under his beating wings

as long as he stays awake...

so it's over

In the pine-crown

he makes his nest,

he's done all he can.

I don't know the name of this bird,

I only imagine his glittering beak

tucked in a white wing

while the clouds...

thicken, and begin to fall

into the world below

like stars, or the feathers

of some unimaginable bird

that loves us,

that is asleep now, and silent-

that has turned itself

into snow.

Animistic trees, gods and goddesses, wind spirits, and totems birds. Mary has met them all and they are hers. How many peoples have looked to the stars and storms and known giant birds that love us, protect us, and challenge us? There is one large bird that comes to me in my dreams and in my longings. She is a large albatross and she wings over me, ready to alight if I should call out and need wisdom, comfort, or beauty close to me. Because this bird is always with me, I wish to see albatrosses in the flesh and have been scheming for years on how to get to Midway Island, where hundreds of thousands breed. Just this past week I attended a conference where there were two presentations on albatrosses on Midway. One scientist told of how the lead paint on the abandoned military buildings on the island poisons albatross chicks, killing approximately 10,000 of them a year! They began a cleanup of this lead paint, but ran out of money to protect and care for this endangered bird. But I have an idea that is slowly unfolding - a visit to the island for research, to care for the ailing chicks, and also to write and tell others what is happening. So I turn my focus to the far west of Midway, awake to the tragedy of my bird, loving and loved.

What is your response when you hear of tragedy so far from your home?