sunrise

You can
die for it--
an idea,
or the world. People

have done so,
brilliantly,
letting
their small bodies be bound

to the stake,
creating
an unforgettable
fury of light. But

this morning,
climbing the familiar hills
in the familiar
fabric of dawn, I thought

of China,
and India
and Europe, and I thought
how the sun

blazes
for everyone just
so joyfully
as it rises

under the lashes
of my own eyes, and I thought
I am so many!
What is my name?

What is the name
of the deep breath I would take
over and over
for all of us? Call it

whatever you want, it is
happiness, it is another one
of the ways to enter
fire.

(mary oliver)

happy mother's day

TO WASH A CHILD
by Pablo Neruda

Only the most ancient love on earth
will wash and comb the statue of the children,
straighten the feet and knees.
The water rises, the soap slithers,
and the pure body comes up to breathe
the air of flowers and motherhood.

Oh, the sharp watchfulness,
the sweet deception,
the lukewarm struggle!

Now the hair is a tangled
pelt criscrossed by charcoal,
by sawdust and oil,
soot, wiring, crabs,
until love, in its patience,
sets up buckets and sponges,
combs and towels,
and, out of scrubbing and combing, amber,
primal scrupulousness, jasmines,
has emerged the child, newer still,
running from the mother's arms
to clamber again on its cyclone,
go looking for mud, oil, urine and ink,
hurt itself, roll about on the stones.
Thus, newly washed, the child springs into life,
for later, it will have time for nothing more
than keeping clean, but with the life lacking.

i have found such joy

I have found such joy in simple things;
A plain, clean room, a nut-brown loaf of bread
A cup of milk, a kettle as it sings,
The shelter of a roof above my head,
And in a leaf-laced square along the floor,
Where yellow sunlight glimmers through a door.



I have found such joy in things that fill
My quiet days: a curtain's blowing grace,
A potted plant upon my window sill,
A rose, fresh-cut and placed within a vase;
A table cleared, a lamp beside a chair,
And books I long have loved beside me there.



Oh, I have found such joys I wish I might
Tell every woman who goes seeking far
For some elusive, feverish delight,
That very close to home the great joys are:
The elemental things-- old as the race,
Yet never, through the ages, commonplace.



(Grace Noll Crowell)

the wish to be generous

ALL that I serve will die, all my delights,
the flesh kindled from my flesh, garden and field,
the silent lilies standing in the woods,
the woods, the hill, the whole earth, all
will burn in man's evil, or dwindle
in its own age. Let the world bring on me
the sleep of darkness without stars, so I may know
my little light taken from me into the seed
of the beginning and the end, so I may bow
to mystery, and take my stand on the earth
like a tree in a field, passing without haste
or regret toward what will be, my life
a patient willing descent into the grass.

-wendell berry-

waiting.

Waiting

Dear Baby, here beneath my heart,
I thought that you might come today;
The timing seemed just right.

But the stars are out
And the moon is high
And sheepishly I wonder why
I try to arrange the plans
Of God.

For now I know
You will not come
Until the One who holds eternity
Rustles your soft cocoon
And whispers in tones that I will not hear,
“It’s time, precious gift.”

“Now it’s time.”

-by Robin Jones Gunn




:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

i did not think ruby was coming tonight, but i've entered that state of waiting. of doing the dishes, and waiting. doing the laundry, taking walks, playing, coloring, sleeping, bathing, cooking, eating, praying, and waiting. it is a holy time.

sabbath VII

The clearing rests in song and shade.
It is a creature made
By old light held in soil and leaf,
By human joy and grief,
By human work,
Fidelity of sight and stroke,
By rain, by water on
The parent stone.
We join our work to Heaven's gift,
Our hope to what is left,
That field and woods at last agree
In an economy
Of widest worth.
High Heaven's Kingdom come on earth.
Imagine Paradise.
O Dust, arise!

wendell berry

it all muddles together

up & being silly with jonah & noah at 430 this morning, waking matthew up so we can take him to work today. feeling good, feeling Very Pregnant in every way, feel sort of productive even though my day seems to have slipped from me & i barely accomplished the things i wanted to. i put ruby's carseat in the car, and boy it is snug but the boys will just have to adjust. trying to feather my nest a little bit, get more mentally focused for the coming of this little girl. the thunderstorms bring on contractions, and so do the late nights at work. ((well, i guess 8 o'clock really isn't Late, but when you've been up for 14+ hours and you're just about 37 weeks pregnant it definitely feels late.)) curious why brita doesn't make a glass pitcher, why my aunt doesn't want me to use a rocking chair that's been sitting downstairs since we moved in, why anything i drink gives me heartburn, if dreadlocks would really work in my hair... i could go on & on & on. it's an intense time of year, we are in the middle of lent, & a day doesn't pass that i don't feel the pulling, the darkness that comes before the Light, & that these are the final days of this pregnancy, & that there is so much work to do. inside, outside, Inside, Outside.

& how i've come to the conclusion that my all-time favorite flower is the peony. & suddenly i want to plant my entire front yard in them.

PEONIES
by mary oliver

This morning the green fists of the peonies are getting ready
to break my heart
as the sun rises,
as the sun strokes them with his old, buttery fingers

and they open ---
pools of lace,
white and pink ---
and all day the black ants climb over them,

boring their deep and mysterious holes
into the curls,
craving the sweet sap,
taking it away

to their dark, underground cities ---
and all day
under the shifty wind,
as in a dance to the great wedding,

the flowers bend their bright bodies,
and tip their fragrance to the air,
and rise,
their red stems holding

all that dampness and recklessness
gladly and lightly,
and there it is again ---
beauty the brave, the exemplary,

blazing open.
Do you love this world?
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?

Do you also hurry, half-dressed and barefoot, into the garden,
and softly,
and exclaiming of their dearness,
fill your arms with the white and pink flowers,

with their honeyed heaviness, their lush trembling,
their eagerness
to be wild and perfect for a moment, before they are
nothing, forever?

trusting the snow.

two minutes after leaving for work i knew i probably shouldn't have been on the road, the snow was so thick & our roads had not been plowed yet. but, i made it to work & it only took a few hours for me to convince ruby that all was well & mama just needed some tea. came home early, same crazy drive home, same small test for me in truly trusting God, in truly, really, giving Him my worries & my concerns & letting that be It... letting them be His & resting in the peace that Is. it is a small thing for some but a huge thing for me, wrestling with total trust when it comes to some things. i often see problems that aren't even there, that just may Happen To Be. i tend to visit the worst case scenarios First, and then work my way backwards. i internalize other people's realities sometimes & let that affect the perspective of my own. so today i am praying that i get over my fear of my due date, which is the same day that a good friend lost her own little one in birth. i don't believe the day to be jinxed or to be anything other than Her day, really. i don't want to touch that sacred time. so any day other than that one, i ask ruby, i ask God. but the day & the time is Their decision, not mine. i am merely supposed to be present, to be open, to embrace the process & to Trust. & to once again remember that my children are not My children, they are God's.


Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.
They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

You are the bows from which your children
as living arrows are sent forth.
The archer sees the mark upon the path of the infinite,
and He bends you with His might
that His arrows may go swift and far.
Let your bending in the archer's hand be for gladness;
For even as He loves the arrow that flies,
so He loves also the bow that is stable.

(kahlil gibran)



& how heavy, how thick the snow is outside. more snow than i can remember over the last few years, maybe even since we've been here. grateful for matthew being home this week, for mySelf not having to go to work tomorrow, for hot coffee & warm dinners & for singing my babies to sleep.

& so grateful that each day has enough worry of its own, & how i am learning to rest in that, in being Right Here, in being as present as i can, for whatever the day brings. & allowing tomorrow to be tomorrow.

mindful.

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 was 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 shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?

~ Mary Oliver