A LITTLE MARY OLIVER WITH OUR EASTER

 

Common Bluets on a Rocky Hillside

"The Veil"

There are moments when the veil seems 

almost to lift, and we understand what 

the earth is meant to mean to us -- the 

trees in their docility, the hills in

their patience, the flowers and the 

vines in their wild, sweet vitality.  

Then the Word is within us, and the 

Book is put away.

Mary Oliver is a mystic poet, open and attentive to the presence of God in the world.  She calls the earth "God's body."   To wit, "It is not hard to understand / where God's body is. / It is everywhere and everything."  "The Veil" is a poem that helps us find God.  When I am in the woods or Duke Gardens or where the ground is soft with pine needles underfoot or leaf litter, or when I spy those tiny bluets that are waving on their fragile stems amongst the spongy moss right now, I can feel the Word within us.  God becomes accessible in our daily rounds.    

Oliver lives by curiosity and her image of death is breath-taking.  "When death comes / like an iceberg between the shoulder blades, / I want to step through the door full of curiosity . . . ." Using biblical language, in the same poem she writes:

When it's over, I want to say all my life

I was a bride married to amazement.

I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms. 

from "When Death Comes"

"I believe everything has a soul," she says.  Not a human soul, I expect she means, but its own soul.  The soul of something alive and precious to its Creator.  When we love the world, we please God and give God glory.  In the world's beauty we see the beauty of God.  If we all treated the earth as our sacred home, how healing that would be.  If we did that, we couldn't bomb our home into rubble or fail to respond to its needs. 

One more:

"In Blackwater Woods"

To live in this world

you must be able

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it 

against your bones knowing 

your own life depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.

Well, no words are truer than these.  We love what is mortal, ourselves and our dear ones, with our minds, hearts and souls.  Nothing is more precious than the body of someone we love.  We stay alive not only for our own sakes, but so as not to cause pain to those for whom we are the gift of life itself.  

But Christ also taught us to let go.  He was able to say, "It is finished" and relinquish himself to God.  Our faith helps us do the same.  Because what we have learned every Easter is that we move from our fragile mortality to our eternal immortality.  In the interim, I am grateful for Mary Oliver and her vision. 

Now, for all of life, let us give thanks.  

                                                                        HAPPY EASTER from Nina Naomi

 

DESPITE ALL ODDS, WE HAVE WONDERFUL DAYS

I've been finding wisdom everywhere these days.  It seems to seek me out.  Sometimes what we need finds us. Maybe what is finding me will resonate with you as well. 

This is from mid-nineteenth century poet, essayist and philosopher Ralph Waldo Emerson.  Perhaps you had to read him in school as I did.  He writes, 

“I have confidence in the laws of morals as of botany. I have planted maize in my field every June for seventeen years and I never knew it come up strychnine. My parsley, beet, turnip, carrot, buck-thorn, chestnut, acorn, are as sure. I believe that justice produces justice, and injustice injustice.” 

An entry from Emerson's Journal (1852)

I love the way he expresses this:  we grow what we sow.  Whether in our gardens or in our hearts.  Or in our national life, we might say as well.  I believe that's right.   That the laws of moral causation are as scientific as the laws of nature. We can trust our life to it.  So if we want to change what we grow we need only change what we sow.  Individually or as a community.  It may be a simplification, but isn't that what the summer protests over the suffocation of George Floyd at the knee of a police officer were trying to accomplish?  

This next thought is from poet Mary Oliver in her little book Upstream.  It seems profound to me, and applicable during this time of pandemic death.  She says, 

"In spiritual work with good luck (or grace) we come to accept life's brevity for ourselves." 

So many of us have been reminded of life's brevity this year.  It is my hope that our spiritual work prepares us for the end when it comes, even though we have done our best to live. That is my wish for the 426,000 souls who have died thus far in America from the coronavirus and the over 2 million world-wide. I remember how attuned my mother was in her last days, continuing to console those around her that we would survive the final beat of her heart.   

Oliver expresses another truth that has come home to those who mourn. 

"In the mystery and the energy of loving, we all view time's shadow upon the beloved.  We do not think of it every day, but we never forget it."

In some ways we spend our lives anticipating the deaths of those who are beloved to us, as they do ours. It is why we are so precious to each other. Because in the wide swath of time everything material and temporal must fail.   

I do not see these thoughts as depressing, merely dark, quiet and gentle.  Each of us has been wounded at some time and place, if not now.  A wound may be secret or not.  It may be held private or shared for solace. But whether our traumas lie in shadow or sunlight, are old or new, our wounded brains still have the capacity to partake in wonder and joy.  Every day we find the good that takes us forward. We know this to be true. Despite all odds, we have wonderful days.  That is our glory, yours and mine. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

MARY OLIVER SPEAKS TO US, TODAY

"The Uses of Sorrow"
(In my sleep I dreamed this poem)
Someone I loved once gave me
a box full of darkness.
It took me years to understand
that this, too, was a gift. 


Right now many of us may feel as if our arms are full of darkness.  Or if not yet, this darkness may be closer than we're used to.  In our sleep we may feel this way. Or as we waken--disoriented, a little edgy, or even depressed. It takes awhile for our wonderful ways of coping to comfort us.  A cup of coffee perhaps, a look out our window, the voices of our children, a cuddle or two. Whatever routine we've adopted during these at-home times.  

This poet believes we can learn from sorrow, we can learn from grief, we can learn from our losses.  We can choose to be softened, to keep going, to find whatever gifts there are in our communities and togetherness even while physically apart.  Mary Oliver lived a long time.  She died before this pandemic but at age 83 would have known others.  The longer we live the more inevitable it is that there be darkness with the light.  I find comfort here.  I hope those nurses and doctors and all who are keeping us alive are finding their bit of comfort too.  

"In Blackwater Woods"

To live in this world

you must be able
to do three things:
to love what is mortal;
to hold it

against your bones knowing
your own life depends on it;
and, when the time comes to let it go,
to let it go. 

These lines are from the last three stanzas of Oliver's poem about (inevitably) losing something that you love. She uses the burning of a forest that had sustained her as the vehicle for what she wants to express. The poem begins with flames from the trees turning their own bodies into pillars of light; next the cattails on fire; then the cinnamon smell of charred pine cones.  

In these final stanzas she tells us how to live in such a world:  a world that is mortal, where everything, everything, dies.  Love it, hold it, hold it close against our bones--that close--and then when we have to, let go.  So simply said, words that a child would know.  When a poet starts with "To live in this world . . . " she needs insight greater than most.  That Mary Oliver has.  I can't explain why this brings comfort except that the truth almost always does.  The truth, whatever it may be, sows its own kind of peace. 
 

"The Veil"
There are moments when the veil seems
almost to lift, and we understand what
the earth is meant to mean to us -- the
trees in their docility, the hills in
their patience, the flowers and the
vines in their wild, sweet vitality.
Then the Word is within us, and the
Book is put away.

I bet we all have these moments more and more often as we rely upon nature for solace.  Appreciating--no loving-- the trees, the hills, the flowers and vines.  But the trees aren't always docile, we might say.  Sometimes they bend frighteningly close to our shelter in the March winds.  The hills aren't always patient; sometimes they send water and rock where we don't want it.  And the vines aren't always sweet.  Some, hairy and toxic, try to choke whatever they can.  Still we recognize what Oliver is saying.  When she writes, "[W]e understand what the earth is meant to mean to us," a special place might come to mind for each of us.  Then God is with us too.  Perhaps so close as to feel within.      

In the beginning was the Word, 
and the Word was with God, 
and the Word was God. 
He was in the beginning with God. 
All things were made through him, 
and without him was not any thing made that was made.
John 1:1-3

God bless us one and all, Nina Naomi                
                                      





  

ONE WORLD ONE DAY AT A TIME

"It is a serious thing

 Just to be alive

 On this fresh morning

 In this broken world.
. . .
It could mean something.
It could mean everything.
It could be what Rilke meant when he wrote:
You must change your life."

Mary Oliver

If ever there was a time to live one day at a time this is it.  China, Italy, the US, France, the whole world. Every one of us is affected, some worse than others.  I have a friend in intensive care, test not back yet. Yet here I am blogging; here you are reading.  Life goes on.

I'm taking Mary Oliver's words out of context I know.  She was writing a poem about the natural world not a pandemic.  She was admonishing us to interrupt our "busy and very important" day to listen to the song of a riotous goldfinch.  There are other things now that interrupt our fresh mornings.  I can't help but see these words applying to us in a different way.  It is a serious thing just to be alive with all our world is going through.  

All of us people with a common interest.  And most of us today likely at home.  Unless you're a health care or other essential worker.  Or unless you are hospitalized like my friend. Or without a home in a shelter. Otherwise, like me, you're probably practicing social distancing by staying put.  In some areas we're ordered to stay put.  It's a serious thing.  We are changing our lives.  

Some days ago I started a post about all the free time we now magically have, now that our calendars are wiped clean.  Looking for the positive side of social distancing, a term we never even used before. The post was triggered by the cancellation of sports events and concerts.  Then the schools closed. Now movie houses, bars, restaurants, shops, malls . . . .  It's become hard to think of something that isn't closed, cancelled or should be.   

How to respond?  I think we're all doing it right.  We're following best practices and staying apart.  We're not hoarding. (The on-line seller who stripped three states of necessary sanitizing supplies has donated them.)  We're supporting each other.  I love that I've been getting phone calls rather than texts.  We have time to chat.  I love that we have time.  The excuse, "I'm too busy," is gone. 

So my To-Do and Could-Do lists are all different.  Yesterday my husband and I had time for a walk together around the Duke East Campus track.  It drizzled but so what?  Last night I watched Puccini's La Boheme; the NY Metropolitan Opera has launched a free "Nightly Met Opera" stream of encore live HD performances on their website. How I love that score!  The music soars, giving Mary Oliver's goldfinch a run for its money for sure.  What a creative gift to the world during this stressful time.    

Today I'll start on the de-cluttering I sort-of-enjoy-but-can-put-off-indefinitely.  It stares at me from every shelf and closet and I can't say I don't have time to tackle it. Not for the foreseeable future.  So . . . old clothes, frayed linens, mystery photos; closets and cabinets; all are in my sights. Cans of dried paint, used florescent lights, rusty chicken wire, leaves and dirt; the garage will be next.  

Like all of us, I'm also cooking more.  At our house that's a plus and a minus.  Saves money, which is good. But my heritage is English and German cooking.  Diner food.  How I envy those raised by French and Italian mamas and grandmas  There are times we want to eat something I just can't cook. Still, a chance to learn.  I just looked up recipes for a Classic Aioli: I've got an egg, olive oil, garlic, lemon, salt and pepper. Simple.  Good on chicken, fish, veggies.
 

A trip to the UK has been cancelled so that's a savings too.  Though I had it all planned, staying where we lived when our daughter was born.  Hard to forego.  It's our favorite place. But haven't I been learning how to better cope with disappointment?  These downsides are a chance to put mindfulness to the test.  And prayer.  Both calm anxiety and fear. That's been shown.  

Keeping the kids on task, working from home, or coping with furlough and less income.  It is one day at a time, isn't it?  It is "we're all in this together."  It is a time to do all those things at home that in normal times we save for our day off. And to be creative, in every way.  To love each other.  

I have a feeling this is Part I of a series.  Take care please everyone,  Nina Naomi

  

IN THE ARMS OF THE WINTER SEA

Winter Sea 5 p.m. 2/5/2020, Pine Knoll Shores, NC

February 6, 2020
We continue at the beach in the arms of the winter sea.  It is dark now with the swells invisible except to the ear.  There they sing louder than thunder.  Sing or crash, more like it.  More like cacophony. Coming from all sides.  The ocean is not soothing tonight.  Bundled up we can sit on the deck and listen.  We're not close enough to feel the spray.  There's a storm coming.  

Earlier today there was no delineation between sand, sea and sky.  A canvas of unpolished pearl.  On days like today even the shore birds stay home.  We saw one lonely Eastern Willet feeding in the surf.  And a splayed pelican not as fortunate, having finished its cycle of life.  Nary a seagull circling nor a crab digging. Everything sheltered. Only surfers who in fact looked like pelicans crouched on their boards as they were and out where the birds usually bob.    


February 7, 2020
It's not just the ocean that's different everyday.  All of nature is.  We never awaken to the same morning as the one before.  Today the froth settled on the sand and at my feet. The wind had brought it in.  
 

Winter Sea 8 a.m. 2/7/2020

A strong wind and red flag, whipping in a brief and sudden moment of clear sky. High Hazard.

I was pelted by sand as I walked.  It's still in my pores hours later.  Poor Mr. Wiggles lifting his leg to pee was blown over.  Embarrassed he tried again and then gave up and squatted.

I thought of the poem:

for whatever we lose (like a you or a me)

it's always our self we find in the sea.

E.E.Cummings (1894-1962)

Our house at home has lost power twice this week.  It's without power now.  A good week to have missed.  The wind has been strong enough to close schools; not safe for those who walk, between classes or to and from school.  Imagine if the little ones blew over like Mr. Wiggles! But not hurricane-force winds, not like the Fall.  We can still enjoy the bit of chaos it brings.  Our granddaughter and her dad are spending their off-day together. 

So this has been a lovely winter break. In Mary Oliver's poem about "Winter" she writes, "in this world I am as rich / as I need to be."  That's how I feel.

CONTENTMENT BY THE WINTER SEA

Today the sea is loud. I took Mr. Wiggles for his walk.  He's a malti-poo who was in foster care here when I found him.  So he's not afraid of the ocean, little guy that he is.  Off-leash, that's his treat.  

The noise comes from every direction.  The crashing right in front of me with the gray waves curling up and over, but then different sounds, deeper and steadier to the left and right, up and down the beach. Synchronized.  The air is damp and cool and close.  I didn't need my scarf or gloves.  I hope you're someplace today that you like, where you can have a short (or long) walk or run. Or something to listen to or watch that takes your attention and holds it. Something in nature.  Winter is good for that.  

Mary Oliver (1935-2019) says,

The sea is the most beautiful face in the universe.

She wrote, 

The sea can do craziness, it can do smooth, it can lie down like silk breathing or toss havoc shoreward; it can give gifts or withhold all; it can rise, ebb, froth like an incoming frenzy of fountains, or it can sweet-talk entirely.  As I can too, and so, no doubt, can you, and you. 

So I'm content again and hope you are too.  Contentment is richer than joy, that comes in spurts, surprising us.  Contentment I think builds and is more likely to last. It's part of our relationship with ourselves. I'm thinking we can even be content, so to speak, if we're not happy.  There are times, events that we don't expect to be happy about but may still be content knowing that we are doing the best we can, or that someone else is. Or that the unhappiness is a natural part of life. 

When I saw those dolphin leaping, tail and all (Post,"Happening All at Once," 12/8/19), I felt an instant response, a reaction to the moment--happiness.  A kind of giddiness almost.  Today is more serene.  Does the distinction matter?  Both are good.  One enfolds, one lifts.  Both are blessings, all are blessings--joy, happiness, satisfaction, contentment.  And at least this weekend all have been here at the sea, overlapping like the waves themselves.  I didn't have to do anything, just walk the dog and look and listen.  I bet looking and listening is the key.  As we learn in mindfulness training, keeping an open heart.  




 

IN THE MOOD FOR BEGINNING FRESH?

It's almost Easter.  Today is Holy Saturday, for Christians a day of waiting while Jesus remains in the tomb.  The crucifixion of Good Friday is over.  At sundown the Easter vigil begins, the wait for the Resurrection.  A lot happened on this day over 2,000 years ago.  Just as a lot happened yesterday on the Friday called Good.

Tomorrow is a day for new beginnings. Easter always is.  Everyone has ordered lilies to adorn the sanctuary, many in memory of loved ones who have died, us included.  I have a ham in the fridge waiting to be baked,  Easter baskets shopped at Five Below filled with non-traditional things like sound-activated LED lights and a hands-free iPhone neck mount (for the teenagers) and chocolate. Yesterday we had readings about the Stations of the Cross and left the church in silence. We sang the hymns sung only once a year yet known by heart. "Oh Sacred Head Now Wounded," a bit gruesome, like hanging on a cross.  The church lost power because we were under tornado warnings, but it didn't matter.  Darkness was good.   

Last year and this year Passover fell on Good Friday. Last year we shared a Passover meal with Jewish friends.  It was a perfect transition--service at Friday noon, Passover meal in the evening, Holy Saturday then Easter Sunday.  This year again it's a special time around the world.  If you are one of these religions I hope for you all the blessings of your faith.  For me that means chastened, watchful, hopeful, attuned to grief yet waiting on tiptoe in anticipation of resplendence.  Spring must be a metaphor for all this!

In my mood for beginning fresh I've turned to Mary Oliver.  Many of us feel that poets know more about us than we do ourselves.  The only other poet Oliver reminds me of is Emily Dickinson.  Christian imagery everywhere, but not confessions of faith, not like we see in Dante or Milton or Hopkins or Donne or the other great Christian poets.  If you feel like reading about her, try "Why We Need Mary Oliver's Poems" by Debra Dean Murphy in The Christian Century, April 13, 2017 (www.christiancentury.org).  In the meantime, here's an Oliver poem that I think offers just the freshness we might be longing for this special time of year.  

WILD GEESE

You do not have to be good.

You do not have to walk on your knees

for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.

You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.

Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.

Meanwhile the world goes on.

Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain 

are moving across the landscapes, 

over the prairies and the deep trees,

the mountains and the rivers.

Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, 

are heading home again.

Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,

 the world offers itself to your imagination, 

calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting--

over and over announcing your place

in the family of things.