I drove through the waning colors of fall today on my way to see my horses. Despite the haze of jet lag, I was astonished by the rise and fall of the landscape, the smells, the warmth of the sun. This is what I love, what I appreciate, every day.
It feels important to stretch toward that appreciation, to make a point of opening to it. I am overwhelmed by the absence of my youngest daughter, by the emptiness at the heart in the place that she occupied. That emptiness feels cellular, like the smallest parts of me have lost their resonance and sweet comfort. When I am overwhelmed by all of that loss, there is this.
Morning Poem, by Mary Oliver
Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun
the heaped
ashes of the night
turn into leaves again
and fasten themselves to the high branches —
and the ponds appear
like black cloth
on which are painted islands
of summer lilies.
If it is your nature
to be happy
you will swim away along the soft trails
for hours, your imagination
alighting everywhere.
And if your spirit
carries within it
the thorn
that is heavier than lead —
if it’s all you can do
to keep on trudging —
there is still
somewhere deep within you
a beast shouting that the earth
is exactly what it wanted —
each pond with its blazing lilies
is a prayer heard and answered
lavishly,
every morning,
whether or not
you have ever dared to be happy,
whether or not
you have ever dared to pray.
