Week 2 - Day 7 "Messenger"

 “Messenger” by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here is the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,
which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,
which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

As keen as I am about lyrical prose, it is a surprise to that many I am not a great lover of poetry, at least not to the extent that I will choose to just grab a book of poetry and dive in headfirst and come out of the other side deeply moved. Yes, of course, I have read and enjoyed poetry over the year but I prefer prose. Some of the poets said to be the best can be as opaque as a new moon night. Some things obvious to others are simply unknowable and beyond my ability to understand. 

The first Mary Oliver poem I remember reading was "Wild Geese." I was impressed and moved but I did not see or experience the depth of emotion and insight so many people have described. The irony comes from the fact that later in the day I read she had died the previous day. How strange that felt. There was e also a sense of loss for me when I first encountered John O'Donohue in March of 2008, less than two months after his passing during the night while in France. 

Since Mary wrote often using the same kind of emotional impact of nature and the world, I have taken the time to read and enjoy much of her work. This poem strikes me in a visceral way. I yearn to step right through the page into the world she illuminated with her words. I shall, in a way do just that. 

"My work is loving the world," she begins. Her beginning and my beginning are the same but I also add that I love the world our creator created for us to love. I start with an acknowledgment of a created world but the point is the same. My response to revelation is to love the world but the love does not start with me. Ancient Celts and the tribes of Judah also love the world and love the creator. Neither specifically name God in the sense we do today but the ancient's psalms referred to a creator they could not name. We begin with love. We might always start with love. 

My view has improved today. I can look out with a sense of wonder at the world. I, too, have sunflowers and hummingbirds in my world. The sunflowers have grown so abundantly they have nearly blocked the back door by growing over and beyond the walk and stair rails. The hummingbirds have dwindled as we slide toward fall and the birds who still visit are passersby from further north who stop at my feeders for a little sip of energy to nourish them for the great migration south. The blue plums are nearly gone but there are still some on the tree waiting to be discovered with patient search. 

Unfortunately, I must take a break from prayer today - I did not get up in time to finish the time I want to devote to prayer and study before leaving for town for an appointment with Luke. 8:15

2:43 I am no longer young, there is not even a smidgen of pretense left, and perfection has long ceased to be an imagined potential. Measurable progress is my best chance of seeing change but measurable regression is still a possibility some days. 

There is not just a sense of change caused by aging in her words but also a declaration of optimism. There is also a sense of ongoing purpose in the poem, aged or not the work is still there to be done. This work we do of standing around and embracing astonishment Is simple but not always easy. Sometimes the world beyond can cloud the eyes, muffle the ears and deaden the aroma of pine after a rain. 

Still, we are figures made of clay, set to dancing by the breath of life, eternal but changing. We are invited, lured into the world to live in wonder, in awe and, yes, astonishment.