What I Am Trying to Say...

This poem, by Mary Oliver, wraps up what I was trying to put into words yesterday... . 

Where Are You Now?

Instructions For Living A Life

I didn't write this. I found Michael Hudson's blog,'Ordinary Mindfulness' about a year ago, and have been a regular visitor ever since. What I feel about this post is ,that it points up a profound truth - you don't need to bej religious to be spiritual, and to be spiritual is simply to feed, rather than starve, the inner self that is the truest you. And to feed others too, if you like.

Instructions for Living a Life

Mary Oliver writes

Pay attention.

Be astonished.

Tell about it.I

These 7 words have potential to open hearts and resuscitate souls. Yet our tendency is to 'like' what Mary Oliver has written, to read it quickly, and move on.

Awareness practice will slow this process down--a lot--and teach us not only to like it but to stick with it till we metabolize it.

And as we metabolize it we also may come to understand that Something ELSE might be written and metabolized. Something about inviting others (with eyes and smile and body language and Presence) to do the same--to tell us what astonishes them.

And then to listen, listen, to practice listening, liking, savoring--and gentle prompting.

We could do a lot worse than go through a day, any day, THIS day:

Paying attention.

Being astonished.

Telling about it. 

And inviting others...

   to do the same.

Because Everyone Has a Soul

When Death Comes by Mary Oliver

When death comes
 like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse

 to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
 like the measle-pox

 when death comes
 like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,

 I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?

 And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,

 and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,

 and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,

 and each body a lion of courage, and something
 precious to the earth.

 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.

 When it's over, I don't want to wonder
 if I have made of my life something particular, and real.

 I don't want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.