Thursday Poem - Mornings At Blackwater Pond

For years, every morning,
I drank from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, 

no doubt, the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me

from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,

darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,

or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.

And live

your life.

Mary Oliver, from Red Bird

Sunday, Saying Yes to the World

Statistically, the probability of any one of us being here is so small that you'd think the mere fact of existing would keep us all in a contented dazzlement of surprise. We are alive against the stupendous odds of genetics, infinitely outnumbered by all the alternates who might, except for luck, be in our places.

Even more astounding is our statistical improbability in physical terms. The normal, predictable state of matter throughout the universe is randomness, a relaxed sort of equilibrium, with atoms and their particles scattered around in an amorphous muddle. We, in brilliant contrast, are completely organized structures, squirming with information at every covalent bond. We make our living by catching electrons at the moment of their excitement by solar photons, swiping the energy released at the instant of each jump and storing it up in intricate loops for ourselves.

We violate probability, by our nature. To be able to do this systematically, and in such wild varieties of form, from viruses to whales, is extremely unlikely; to have sustained the effort successfully for the several billion years of our existence, without drifting back into randomness, was nearly a mathematical impossibility.

Add to this the biological improbability that makes each member of our own species unique. Everyone is one in 3 billion at the moment, which describes the odds. Each of us is a self-contained, free-standing individual, labeled by specific protein configurations at the surfaces of cells, identifiable by whorls of fingertip skin, maybe even by special medleys of fragrance. You'd think we'd never stop dancing.

Lewis Thomas,The Lives of a Cell: Notes of a Biology Watcher

Thursday Poem - Fall Song

Another year gone, leaving everywhere
its rich spiced residues: vines, leaves,

the uneaten fruits crumbling damply
in the shadows, unmattering back

from the particular island
of this summer, this NOW, that now is nowhere

except underfoot, moldering
in that black subterranean castle

of unobservable mysteries - roots and sealed seeds
and the wanderings of water. This

I try to remember when time's measure
painfully chafes, for instance when autumn

flares out at the last, boisterous and like us longing
to stay - how everything lives, shifting

from one bright vision to another, forever
in these momentary pastures.

Mary Oliver
from American Primitive)

A Little Snow in Late April

Beau and I were the only hardy souls in the park at such an early hour, and so we had the entire place to ourselves.

Ankle deep in last autumn's beech leaves, the ground crackled wonderfully underfoot, branches sparkled, and the roots of the old trees were outlined in light. The dusting of new snow had a wonderful fragrance.

Winter is a long old season this far north, and through it all, we long for springtime and greening and warmth. We are, however, boreal creatures of the first order, and revisiting the long white season for a few minutes on a cold morning in late April is a fine thing.

How can one not love the world on such a morning?

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

You cannot buy the revolution.
You cannot make the revolution.

You can only be the revolution.
It is in your spirit or it is nowhere.

Ursula K. LeGuin, The Dispossessed

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

I am standing in the midst of an aliveness, and that aliveness deserves my attention, my respect and my care. It deserves my awe and my reverence. The stars are no longer cold, unknowable objects, scattered shining but ultimately lifeless across the vast empty distances of black space. They are active participants in their own journey of becoming.  The insects and birds and animals are singing themselves into being. This autumn land is dreaming, and I am a part of that dreaming ... The world is alive, and in the infinite extravagance of its multi-faceted aliveness, it is full of mystery again.
Sharon Blackie, The Enchanted Life: Unlocking the Magic of the Everyday

Thursday Poem - Mornings at Blackwater Pond

For years, every morning, I drank
from Blackwater Pond.
It was flavored with oak leaves and also, no doubt,
the feet of ducks.

And always it assuaged me
from the dry bowl of the very far past.

What I want to say is
that the past is the past,
and the present is what your life is,
and you are capable
of choosing what that will be,
darling citizen.

So come to the pond,
or the river of your imagination,
or the harbor of your longing,

and put your lips to the world.
And live
your life.

Mary Oliver, from Red Bird

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

When the journey you are presently on seems to be over, remember that there is no real end. There may be new journeys ahead; there may be journeys-within-journeys.  There is always something new to learn, always another gift to be be brought out into the world. Embrace each new cycle; welcome every twist and turn. It is how we know we are alive.
Sharon Blackie, If Women Rose Rooted

Thursday Poem - In Passing

How swiftly the strained honey
of afternoon light
flows into darkness

and the closed bud shrugs off
its special mystery
in order to break into blossom:

as if what exists, exists
so that it can be lost
and become precious

Lisel Mueller, from Alive Together

Sunday - Saying Yes to the World

It is a serious thing just to be alive on this fresh morning in this broken world.

Mary Oliver