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. 

Week 2 - Day 6 Jeremiah 18 1-6

The Potter's Vessel.

This word came to Jeremiah from the LORD: Arise and go down to the potter’s house; there you will hear my word. I went down to the potter’s house and there he was, working at the wheel. Whenever the vessel of clay he was making turned out badly in his hand, he tried again, making another vessel of whatever sort he pleased. Then the word of the LORD came to me: Can I not do to you, house of Israel, as this potter has done?—oracle of the LORD. Indeed, like clay in the hand of the potter, so are you in my hand, house of Israel.

Again we experience a parallel between ancient Celtic Spirituality and the Hebrew Testament on creation imagery. The clay begins as dirt moistened and sculpted into shape either on a table or potter's wheel. Whether the creator creates a shape to animate into a living being or throws a pot to serve as a body to serve as the dwelling for a soul, we have a clear understanding we come from dirt and to dirt we shall return. 

The important observation I have about the thrown pot is that while pots can be similar, no two are identical. I was recently at a craft market and observed a collection of clay cups offered for sale by a potter. They were enough like to suggest they were a set of the same kind but when each cup was carefully examined, more and more differences between each cup could but seen. So it is with humans.

We can appear enough like to be identical as in the case of twins but we are all still unique, individually made even if we all come the same lump of clay. 

What runs through my mind now are the words from Psalm 139. We are wonderfully made. We are. Truly. Whether we have handles or not or fluted sides or not we all have the same purpose to know, love and serve our creator. 

Another thought comes from Meister Eckhart. If we have been created to be vessels, what we hold as contents in the pot that represent ourselves defines how we serve him. If we fill the pot with water or fluids of our own choosing, how can we still have room to hold the living water offered by Jesus to the Samaritan Women. Eckhart would have us literally empty ourselves of what we think we are so there would be room to accept what God offers us, to be in union with him. 

Sometimes a pot can become broken so what we have placed inside it will drain away. We can no longer hold either ourselves or God and cannot do so until the potter repairs us. His hands can reshape the clay to where it can again hold life even if we appear differently that we did before being broken. Appearance is of no matter. That we can serve the purpose of the potter does matter. It is everything to the same broad expense defined by God when he tells us to call him "I am." He just is. There is no way to describe the full picture of a painting with no frame.

Week 2 - Day 5 Sunday Psalm 33

 Week 2 - Day 5 Sunday Psalm 33

Our soul waits for the LORD, he is our help and shield. For in him our hearts rejoice; in his holy name we trust. May your mercy, LORD, be upon us; as we put our hope in you.

I am more at peace today, not peaceful, mind you, but more at peace. I am still distracted and on edge. I long for silence, true exterior silence but it is not possible. The scratching of a pen on paper, and the clicking of the mouse and keyboard all seem disruptive and unwarranted. Other noises, sipping coffee, the cat eating and drinking all nudge from reaching a point of contemplation. Quiet has now settled around me but I am still wary, guarded for other sounds that may intrude on solitude.

Moving inside because of the chill in the morning is proving more difficult to adjust to than I would have expected. Natural sounds don't concern me and I can tune out the constant rumble of the distant traffic. Intermittent noises are what cause me issues. I know from reading and experience there is a difference between exterior and interior silence. Being able to immerse in interior silence is a gift that is elusive for me and sometimes completely unobtainable. To experience interior silence is the goal, to be able to accept the invitation to quiet spaces of the depth of being by the holy spirit but the battle between exterior and interior soundlessness renews in me from time to time. 

I ache to be able to be filled with gratitude at the sounds and activities around me. I am grateful for a wife who invites me into her prayer space, delights in sipping coffee in her way,

feeds me and tends to the kitchen, washes my clothes, and offers me her best. I hope for acceptance of the little stuff with no importance that I might offer loving appreciation for all that is done. I desire gratitude for a little cat who also delights in our presence, who is never more content than to be able to eat when we are nearby. There must be a way, there has to be a way to achieve a sense of appreciation of what is around me. Lord help me. 

My soul waits for the gift of tolerance who is my help and shield on this sabbath morning. I look up and away into the light of the sky but I cannot get there. I put on the noise noise-canceling headphones but by now I am rattled enough to not be able to settle in with the presence of birds, the sight of the cottonwood tree leaves fading from dense green to prepare for the coming of winter. 

This battle is not new. It has raged since the beginning of my movement to reflection, contemplation and meditation. It is likely the dark one who stirs up the angst and blocks my concentration. I trust that making the decision to turn toward holiness is the correct one and that slow progress is a hallmark of many spiritual journeys, perhaps all such journeys. My soul waits for you, Lord. In you I trust.