March 31st, 20223/31/2022  Mary Oliver:
Every day I see or I hear something that more or less kills me with delight . . . It is what I was born for . . . 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? March 21st, 20223/21/2022  Thomas Merton: "Cutting wood, clearing ground, cutting grass, cooking soup, drinking fruit juice, sweating, washing, making fire, smelling smoke, sweeping, etc. This is religion. The further one gets away from this, the more one sinks in the mud of words and gestures. The flies gather."
March 17th, 20223/17/2022  David Budbill:
Oh, this life, the now, this morning which I can turn into forever by simply loving what is here . . . March 14th, 20223/14/2022  Mary Oliver:
I would like to write a poem about the world that has in it nothing fancy. But it seems impossible. Whatever the subject, the morning sun glimmers it. The tulip feels the heat and flaps its petals open and becomes a star. The ants bore into the peony bud and there is the dark pinprick well of sweetness. As for the stones on the beach, forget it. Each one could be set in gold. So I tried with my eyes shut, but of course the birds were singing. And the aspen trees were shaking the sweetest music out of their leaves. And that was followed by, guess what, a momentous and beautiful silence. Categories |
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