wild and precious

Maybe it might appear to be a cop out to post someone else's writing on the first day of my own attempt to spend a little bit of time writing every day but I assure you it is not. For one thing, Mary Oliver is brilliant and inspired and you should read her poetry anyway. But the other thing is that I stare at this poem every day. It's written on a trail of post-its next to my computer at work, and copied on a tattered notecard that sits on my dresser at home. At some point in college I copied the last line onto a post-it and it has gone with me from place to place since, recopied every once in a while. As jobs and friends and homes have transitioned, and seasons of life have ebbed and flowed, Mary Oliver has been there looking me in the eye and challenging me with those words. Sometimes the challenge is to slow down, stop and smell the roses, ponder the eternal and lay in the grass for a few minutes. Other times it seems that her words are prodding me to seize the moment, take a risk, or rebuking me for my lack of patience. Each time I read these words my restless heart is soothed. I think of what it is like to live in grace each day, to appreciate the beauty of the small things that knit together our daily lives and our very existence that often are taken for granted. Those words have encouraged me to listen more carefully, prioritize my time and energy, push myself to new heights, and love the people in my life stronger, deeper, more openly and intentionally. They are simple words, but they are beautiful, honest words. So today, for my half hour of quality time spent with the English language, I am choosing to breathe and live in these familiar words of Mary Oliver.

The Summer Day

Mary Oliver

Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean-

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down

-who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed,

how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?