Mindful

I'm actually a bit on the fence about Mary Oliver. She is a wonderful crafter of words, and her poems about nature can provide a powerful entryway into a deeper level of relating to a very alive, active Universe. But if you stop with her poetry, you haven't quite gotten there yet, and I think too many people do just that -- read one of her pieces, sigh, and say, "Ah, that's so true!" without walking through the door she has opened to continue on a deeper journey that might actually change them.

However, I do like this poem, because it is SUCH an inviting doorway to the act of being present and the habit of joy. And in our culture, even noticing that door, let alone putting one's hand upon its lichen-encrusted knob, is a fairly revolutionary act. It's called "Mindful."

Every Day
   I see or hear
       something
            that more or less

kills me
    with delight,
        that leaves me
            like a needle

in the haystack
    of light.
        It is what I was born for--
            to look, to listen,

to lose myself
    inside this soft world --
        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?