The sea says...

I'd been planning to post this particular Mary Oliver poem on the blog for a week or two, and it showed up in my inbox yesterday morning, so I figured it must be the time to post it here, too:

I Go Down To The Shore

I go down to the shore in the morning

and depending on the hour the waves

are rolling in or moving out,

and I say, oh, I am miserable,

what shall—

what should I do? And the sea says

in its lovely voice:

Excuse me, I have work to do.”

It certainly can't hurt to read those words more than once, or twice, or...

Of course, it's so easy to feel miserable these days, and yet, it also feels like there is more work to do than ever. How do we discern the part we are called to contribute when there is so much calling us? How do we not get overwhelmed by the enormity of it all?

These are questions that so many are asking right now.

I enjoyed my own little wake-up call on a long bike ride around the peninsula last week.

Let us continue the work of Love. Who is the voice of the sea for you these days?

Let us walk in the holy presence.

The Skies in Erie

One

Mary Oliver

The mosquito is so small

it takes almost nothing to ruin it.

Each leaf, the same.

And the black ant, hurrying.

So many lives, so many fortunes!

Every morning, I walk softly and with forward glances

down to the ponds and through the pinewoods.

Mushrooms, even, have but a brief hour

before the slug creeps to the feast,

before the pine needles hustle down

under the bundles of harsh, beneficent rain.

How many, how many, how many

make up a world!

And then I think of that old idea: the singular

and the eternal.

One cup, in which everything is swirled

back to the color of the sea and sky.

Imagine it!

A shining cup, surely!

In the moment in which there is no wind

over your shoulder,

you stare down into it,

and there you are,

your own darling face, your own eyes.

And then the wind, not thinking of you, just passes by,

touching the ant, the mosquito, the leaf,

and you know what else!

How blue is the sea, how blue is the sky,

how blue and tiny and redeemable everything is, even you,

even your eyes, even your imagination.

Let us walk in the holy presence.

Now, with hearts free from fear...

With my sisters I've proclaimed the Benedictus, Zechariah's Canticle, each morning for five years. And in these past few weeks, the words are hitting home in new ways. The canticle, based on Zechariah's prophesy in Luke 1:68-79, follows both Mary's own canticle, the Magnificat, and the birth of John the Baptist, his son.

With so many parts of life in transition, in liminal space, in uncertainty right now; the general state of affairs across the globe; as well as anything else that enters my heart-space at any given moment, anxiety and fear often creep in, too. I was feeling particularly anxious and fearful one morning the other week as we all made the Sign of the Cross and began singing in choruses. Then, in the third stanza of the Benedictus, it was our turn again. We proclaimed:

Now, with hearts free from fear,

we stand in your presence all our days,

holy and acceptable to you,

O loving Creator.

And that was it. That was the answer. We stand in God's presence, our hearts free from fear. As if I didn't already know that truth.

But, it's not really that easy. Yes, I know for certain that it's not that easy. Standing constantly in the Holy Presence, much less walking in it, is far from a given, even for those of us who commit our lives and make vows to try to do so faithfully and daily. But I wondered how I hadn't been touched by those words in such a significant way before...you know...having sung or heard them approximately 2,555 times prior.

Perhaps that's the gift of the quotidian practice of attentiveness and intentionality.

My freedom from fear, from useless worry, from anxiety comes when I live openly and honestly in God's presence. God acts as my salvation from the hands of anything less than Love. And even better than that, my open and honest and sometimes far-from-perfect living in that presence is both holy and acceptable. What a message to hear and savor each day during these months that have stretched us in copious demanding and unique ways.

But, it doesn't stop there. In this particular translation, the final stanza affirms the steadfastness of God's love this way:

In your tender compassion

the morning sun will rise upon us,

giving light to those in darkness

and guiding us in ways of peace.

(Text by Jean Wolbert, OSB)

Here comes the sun, indeed.

Let us walk in the holy presence.