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Posts Tagged ‘Mary Oliver’

Truth

Click here to read more #spiritualjourney posts.  Thanks Holly for hosting this roundup!

Click here to read more #spiritualjourney posts. Thanks Holly for hosting this roundup!

Holly Meuller invites fellow bloggers to reflect on our spiritual journey each week. The theme this week is TRUTH.

I am not a true believer. I do not believe that everything happens for a reason. I do not believe that God has total control. I believe that God is real and true. I believe that we are given free will and with that gift, we can make the choice to nurture the God within.

Morning moon

Morning moon

Morning moon glow

Morning moon glow

I started the day thinking about truth. Looking into the sky before dawn, the full harvest moon looked down on me. My camera in my phone could not tell the truth. These photos do not show what I saw. Are these photos a lie? My husband and I discussed this dilemma. He said that now that he has had cataract surgery and has lens implants, everything he sees is a lie. Actually, everything we all see is only true to us, clouded by our vision or our perception.

The Bible is full of metaphor. Metaphor points to truth, but the message is not always visible.

The kingdom of God is…
a mustard seed,
a pearl,
a lost coin.

The Good Shepherd watches over his sheep,
knows them by name,
and goes out to look for the lost one.

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver. She writes with precise simplicity that speaks volumes. In A Thousand Mornings, she brings us into her daily morning meditations. Her poem “On Traveling to Beautiful Places” speaks of the search for God and for truth.

Every day I’m still looking for God
and I’m still finding him everywhere,
in the dust, in the flowerbeds.
Certainly in the oceans,
in the islands that lay in the distance
continents of ice, countries of sand
each with its own set of creatures
and God, by whatever name.
How perfect to be aboard a ship with
maybe a hundred years still in my pocket.
But it’s late, for all of us,
and in truth the only ship there is
is the ship we are all on
burning the world as we go.

-Mary Oliver, A Thousand Mornings, New York: Penguin Press, 2012. 67.

As I contemplate truth, I realize that there is no real truth. We are on a journey of discovery, doing the best we can with what we have. Truth is blurry, hard to see, like the moon in a photograph. Yet, it is there waiting to be discovered.

(After I finished writing this post, serendipity sent me the message that it was Mary Oliver’s birthday.)

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Join the Poetry Friday Round up at I think in Poems hosted by Betsy.

Join the Poetry Friday Round up at I think in Poems hosted by Betsy.

My handmade book of poems

My handmade book of poems

One thing I enjoy about a long break is the time to be creative. I learned how to make a book recently and tried it out on Christmas Day using some paper my daughter gave me as a gift, covering mat-board, sewing pages together, and binding with colorful duct tape. Inside, I have glued copies of the poems I have written this winter break.

I challenged myself to write 10 poems over 2 weeks. I’m up to seven and have 3 more days. This challenge makes me look at life as a poet, finding poems everywhere. I wish I could live like this everyday, but most days the stresses of life get in the way.

Between Christmas and New Year’s Day, I spent some time with my family in Mississippi. My sister took some pictures of the lake. I borrowed this one of two white egrets wading and wrote a poem to the image. I cannot seem to write a poem about nature without mentioning the Great Creator. I also grabbed some inspiration from this site, The Heron and Egret Society, that includes Mary Oliver poems about egrets. I borrowed the word scumbled and began, as Mary Oliver did, with the phrase, “Where the”

Photo by Beth Saxena

Photo by Beth Saxena

Egrets

Where the shoreline turns
hiding among the scumbled weeds,
two white egrets
take stealthy steps on stick-like legs.

The wind passes them by.
The canopy of orange maple leaves
ignore this lightning flash of beauty.

I observe them from a safe distance,
not sure if a prayer is waiting,
I release a breath: “Ah, me!”

I can pay attention, say grace,
and praise you,
twin brush strokes of God.

–Margaret Simon

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

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.
–Mary Oliver
View the entire poem here.

My mother sent me a book. This book came from Amazon during Easter break, so I sat in the cool grass enjoying a spring day, and read the Introduction. I felt an immediate connection to Father Ed Bacon and thought, “I know him from somewhere.” I went to my closet to find a journal from the summer of 1993 when I attended a workshop at Camp Kanuga in North Carolina. A coinciding workshop on Art and Spirituality was being led by a team from St. Andrews Cathedral in Jackson, MS. One evening at dinner (family style) Ed Bacon, the leader of the Art and Spirituality workshop, invited us to join one of the sessions. I remember thinking then (and writing about it in my journal) how generous this man was to let us join their group and enjoy their fellowship as well as experience art and spirituality. And now, 20 years later, I was reading his book “8 Habits of Love.”

The first habit is The Habit of Generosity. Fr. Ed writes, “The human spirit, just like the seas, needs both inflow and outflow in order to foster life and create energy.” We need generosity as much as we need the air we breathe. The more we give, the greater our life becomes with deeper meaning and growth of our spirit.

When I was a senior in high school, my house flooded 5 feet. The exact measurement sticks in my head because that was the height of the top of my closet, so I knew whatever I stored in that space was saved. Everything else was full of mud and soaking wet. This experience was profound for my family as tragedies often are. It was the opening of our hearts to the generosity of others. And there was so much overflowing of generosity, greater than the 5 feet of flood waters. Twenty-one people from our church community showed up to clean out the house. We received donations as well as emotional support from so many. Generosity of spirit overcame the loss of material things.

And today, when we hear about tragedies such as the tornadoes in Oklahoma, we hear, too, the stories of generosity and how that grows and holds up the victims. Generosity knows no limits. It is not bounded by anything because the human heart holds the Beloved.

Sometimes we hit upon road blocks, things that steer us away from a generous spirit. We get busy with the day to day work. And sometimes fear seeps in. We cannot function outside of ourselves when we give in to fear. We must open ourselves up by giving. When we connect with others in a generous way, the walls are broken down. We find love.

Every week, I wake up early on Tuesday morning and go to serve at Solomon House, our church’s outreach mission. We hand out bags of groceries to the needy. But I hate to even use that word…needy, because I may be feeding them physically, but they feed me emotionally. They show me who the Beloved is, in their gentle touch, their laughter, their kindness, their humbleness. Many of these faces are faces of friends.

“The Habit of Generosity is often as much about giving emotional or spiritual support as it is about giving money. At its core, it is about communicating kinship with others.” –Ed Bacon

No matter what the situation, who we come into contact with, if we approach them with loving generosity, we can find a way to connect. And this is what love is all about-connecting one heart to another.

I’ve decided that this summer my Tuesday Slices will be in response to “8 Habits of Love.” Next week the habit is one of stillness.

Please share in the comments how the Habit of Generosity has worked in your life.

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

One of my favorite poets is Mary Oliver. She writes accessible, simple nature poetry. She recently published a new collection, A Thousand Mornings. When it came up on Amazon as a suggestion (how do they know me so well?), I had to buy it. This book was so special I had to go to the post office to pick it up. When I opened the package, I lifted the book to my cheek. It felt like silk. Seriously, soft and smooth like a silk blouse! Mary Oliver’s poetry is so clear that even elementary students can understand it. I wanted to share her with my students. Of course, first I let them feel the cover. They knew immediately that magical poetry lay within.

I read aloud Mary Oliver’s words, “This morning the beautiful white heron was floating along above the water.” My students know what this looks like, a common scene here in South Louisiana. I read a few more poems. But they were getting anxious.

“What are we going to do with the shells, Mrs. Simon?”

On the table, I had placed a plastic container of shells, real beach-collected shells from the storage closet. I dumped them out on the table with these instructions, “Find a shell that you like. Draw it slowly, paying attention to the details. Then write a poem.”

I played classical music and wrote along with my students. Some beautiful poetry emerged. Taking time to slow down, enjoy the beauty that nature creates, and to listen to simple true words, that is the joy of writing work.

My poem: Broken

My heart bubbles
like the shell in my hand
when air pours through
its tiny holes,

Shaped as a mountain
with jagged incuts
and paths of lined creation.

I am imperfect
battered by crashing waves like
this shell torn from the sea

collected by a child
who knows how to love
imperfection.

by Matthew (3rd grade)

I taste the sea in me,
the ocean of wonders I smell,
the bumpy texture sends chills down
my spine, the echo of the ocean awakens
me, I see the sea’s symbol,
it is in my possession,
shell

by Kylon (4th grade)

A spirit, a dead, lost spirit
a lost stray child, who cannot find her mother
no hope, no life, just darkness,
dark like a night sky with no stars,
a smooth seashell,
it’s washed up- the ocean didn’t want it,
but I did, and it’s safe with me.

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Join the Tuesday Slice of Life

Ever since this old oak fell more than a week ago, I knew it had a poem to give me. I have learned and continue to learn to wait for writing. First, I walked down to the empty lot where it lay and took pictures. I played with Instagram for the one here. Then I sat with a favorite poet, Mary Oliver. Mary doesn’t fail me. I felt like we were writing side by side. I opened her book, Red Bird, to the poem Night Herons, and one line jumped off the page, “what do we know/ except that death/ is so everywhere and so entire–” Using her form of four lines per stanza and borrowing this line, I wrote a poem about the tree.

An oak tree
fell in the night
while we were sleeping,
unknowing.

Its body broken
by invisible flames,
trunk separated
from leaves, from life.

Happy resurrection fern
clings, even as
clouds form
rain again.

This keeper of stories,
survivor of hurricanes,
fell in a summer storm,
just tired, I guess.

That was the end of growing
as we know it, yet
what do we know
except that death

is so everywhere and so entire–
culling and clearing,
sometimes taking
an old friend.

One strike, one boom,
and the lot fills up
with sprawling branches.
How long

will we walk by
and watch the decomposing?
How long until the chainsaw
destroys?

Until then, I will stay
pray to this sacred sculpture
and to its sculptor:
Rise and sow again.

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