, , , ,

I’ve been restless. Searching for something that satisfies.  Blindly.   And in the wrong spots.

Yet in this morning’s reading, I’ve stumbled upon hope.  Which quickly grew to excitement.  With a wish to shout out, Eureka!  Loud.  Enough to wake up those Greek ancestors and who ever else sleeps in late Saturday mornings.

This will have to do.

It’s not that I think all my answers lie within this particular book of prose written by Mary Oliver.   But there is something breathing upon these pages beckoning me forward to take a look.  It came when reading these few lines flowing from the Forward to Long Life just now.  And in reading, I felt a need to respond — as I felt these more eloquent words respond to mine yesterday.

“Poets must read and study, but also they must learn to tilt and whisper, shout, or dance, each in his or her own way, or we might just as well copy the old books.  But, no, that would never do, for always the new self swimming around in the old world feels itself uniquely verbal.  And that is just the point: how the world, moist and bountiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response.  That’s the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning.  “Here you are, alive.  Would you like to make a comment?”


And with “show and tell” now over, I’m going back for more of what Mary’s served up.  And there I’ll read and live toward my next response.