(not necessarily in that order)
This really hit home for me.
There are
no yesterdays
or tomorrows
in your lungs.
There is only
This moment,
This breath.
I mean, “being present” is the whole point of all my meditation practices. And yet…this somehow made it more real for me.
Thanks once again to John Roedel, whose poetry resonates so deeply in my heart and soul.
I didn’t know what to write tonight, but then I happened upon this poem by Mary Oliver (thanks, Lisa!). It hit me like a ton of bricks.
Oh, how I crave this kind of “quiet as a feather” day off. One of these days…
TODAY
Today I’m flying low and I’m
not saying a word.
I’m letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I’m taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I’m traveling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
― Mary Oliver
It was quite windy when I took my walk this morning and I found myself stopping a few times to simply watch and listen to the wind in the trees.
Which got me to thinking about a half-remembered poem from childhood. The little bit I recalled spoke of how we know the wind is there even when we can’t see it, because of the effect it has on the things we can see.
And I realized that this also describes how I know God is there, because of the effect on things (especially myself and other people) that I can see. And by the changes I’ve experienced as a result.
I searched for the poem, of course! My recollection of it was pretty sketchy, but it might very well be the poem below.
BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON
I saw you toss the kites on high
And blow the birds about the sky;
And all around I heard you pass,
Like ladies’ skirts across the grass—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
I saw the different things you did,
But always you yourself you hid.
I felt you push, I heard you call,
I could not see yourself at all—
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
O you that are so strong and cold,
O blower, are you young or old?
Are you a beast of field and tree,
Or just a stronger child than me?
O wind, a-blowing all day long,
O wind, that sings so loud a song!
This one’s for my hubby, Ramesha. And me, too, of course. We’re both working on remembering that worrying and stressing about things never ever leads us to the superconscious solutions we seek.
So, time for some wisdom from Mary Oliver.
I Worried
I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall
I correct it?
Was I right, was I wrong, will I be forgiven,
can I do better?
Will I ever be able to sing, even the sparrows
can do it and I am, well,
hopeless.
Is my eyesight fading or am I just imagining it,
am I going to get rheumatism,
lockjaw, dementia?
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
—by Mary Oliver
Amazing to think that I recorded this back in January of 2000, when I was very new to Ananda. I still remember how the beauty of this melody transported me to someplace mystical and magical.
I didn’t really know the words then, but they’re wonderful poetry as well. You can hear Ramesha sing it here (lyrics are below):
EMERALD ISLE
Come hear, while I sing you of emerald hills,
Of valleys and meadows so fair
That all who have seen them have carried away
Memories in their hearts, friends, like the lilacs of May:
Oh, my song is the story of the lilacs of May.
My song is the story of deer on the hills,
Of larks that soar, seeking the sun,
Of nightingales lifting the curtain of night
As with music they bring down heaven’s blessing of light:
Oh, my song is the story of God’s blessing of light.
Come join me in singing of that emerald isle,
Of flow’rs that, like jewels, besprinkle the lea,
Of waterfalls eager to embrace the wide sea
As we with our Maker reunited would be.
Come hear, while I sing you of emerald hills,
Of valleys and meadows so fair
That all who have seen them have carried away
Memories in their hearts, friends, like the lilacs of May:
Oh, my song is the story of the lilacs of May.
–by Swami Kriyananda