July 22, 2018, Back Home in Princeton…

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I came down to my office a couple of weeks ago. It was early morning and I needed to get something. Once down here, I thought I’d check the AC filter. I was expecting dust and cat hair. What I found was a small handful of ants. A bit of a shock but nothing I couldn’t handle. I took the whole mess outside, sent them on their way, and slipped the filter back into place. Or tried to. Except I couldn’t get it back in. And since I’d turned the unit off before pulling out the filter, and since it was already hot and humid outside, the room was heating up.

It was only then, so intent had I been on the filter, that I noticed the real problem. A huge stream of ants was pouring in through a tiny opening at the seam where the window meets the wall. Hundreds of ants, winged and wingless, invading my now sweltering office.

I raced upstairs, grabbed the vacuum, brought it down, plugged it in, and began my attack. It was brutal. I was brutal. It was overwhelming. I was overwhelmed. And those ants kept coming. At a certain point, I had a moment of pure terror.

And that was when it hit me. I realized that what I was feeling was not so different from what people opposed to immigration feel. My border was breached and I was desperate to protect it.  That was the moment my heart opened.

Which is not to say  I’ve changed my position on immigration, refugee crises, and open borders. I have not. Closed borders make no sense to me. I’m as engaged as I can be in the fight to right what I believe is a terrible wrong. But those ants showed me I’m not so different from those “others” I tend to vilify. We may profoundly disagree. But I am damned if I’m going to let my heart close down. The ants taught me that.

There is no great moral to this story. I tell it to bear witness to my determination to stay open to people with whom I disagree. It’s really that simple. If I’ve learned one thing in seven decades of life, it’s that staying open is actually much safer than shutting down. And a whole lot more interesting.

I’ve been catching up on Krista Tippett’s On Being podcasts this week. If you’d like some excellent soul medicine for staying open, I highly recommend her conversation with Luis Alberto Urrea. Click here to listen.

 

A French Interlude, Part 3

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May 23 – June 5, Haut de Cagnes

This most recent trip to France was the first time I’ve returned to Europe in 50 years. I was last there in the summer of 1968. We travelled for a couple of months, driving from London to Rome and back up to Denmark and Sweden. I still remember key moments from that trip. But the one that’s haunted me ever since was my experience at the Foundation Maeght in St. Paul de Vence. I was twenty years old with no sense of who or what I was. But walking through the sculpture gardens there I felt a profound sense of self-recognition. It was years before I fully understood this experience. Which was an awakening of my artist mystic self. It was so powerful however, I never forgot the place or the way it felt inside me.

And this is the memory — what we’ve taken to calling my “through the stones” moment, that was the inspiration for this most recent journey. If you’re wondering if I felt the same mystical sense of aesthetic rapture in 2018, the answer is “Yes and perhaps even more.” If you’re wondering why it took so long to return, well, that’s a question for another time…

We decided to spend our first week in Paris because really, how can one go to France for the first time in half a century and not go to la Ville Lumière — and to then head south and spend two weeks in Provence. Ideally in a medieval village halfway between St. Paul and the Côte d’Azur. Which is how we ended up in Haut de Cagnes, a place neither of us had ever heard of. And hats off again to Coby, my amazing daughter who discovered this place so many artists call home, it’s been nicknamed the Montmartre of the Côte d’Azur. Talk about perfection…

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There is something exquisite about living in a medieval village. I think this has partly to do with the abundance of stones. One has the sense they’ve seen everything. Not just seen it. Sheltered it. Supported it. Protected it. Haut de Cagnes dates back to 1340. So  those stones have some stories to tell…

IMG_3691.JPGIMG_3686.JPGOne of my favorite activities was wandering around the village. I loved walking down to the market in the morning. Even loved walking back up the hill. Which was so steep that  depending on how full my basket was, required two or three rest stops. How great though, to sit for a moment to catch my breath and gaze at the Mediterranean. And then come home for le petit dejeuner and feast on warm croissants with butter and jam, apricots, peaches, and comte, the ubiquitous cheese of Provence. OMG. I never eat this way in the States. I’m allergic to wheat and have lactose intolerance… In France, we ate croissants in the morning, cheese and baguettes in the afternoon and evening. And I always felt great. Vive la France...IMG_3792

The doors in Paris blew me away. They are stunningly majestic. Clearly I am not the only person to think so. Check out Raquel Puig’s book, Doorways of Paris. She also has an Instagram account.

The doors in Haut de Cagnes are built on more of a human scale. Which makes them very welcoming. Even when they’re closed.

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On one of my first walks down to the market I discovered Modigliani’s house and garden. Just a few doors down from where we were staying. It’s not clear in this photo but if you peek through the arch and over the trees, that’s the Mediterranean off in the distance. I loved walking by this dreamscape every day and breathing in the creative magic still alive there…IMG_3632.JPG

Another thing about living in a medieval village is the sense of timelessness. There’ such a strong connection to the past. I mean really, it’s right there. Right here. Ancient past and immediate present have merged into one. Which has a very softening effect I think on that ego-driven sense of our own importance. Life comes into a much truer perspective I think in a place like this. I can only speak for myself but for me, there was such a comforting sense of my infinitesimal place in the great matrix of time and space.

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A French Interlude, Part 2.

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May 23, Paris – Nice – Haut de Cagnes

People talk about the haughty French, especially Parisians. This was so not our experience. Even Olivier, the meet and greet guy at our apartment warmed up after his initial disdain. My cousin Lorin (who manages this apartment for his in-laws) had warned us — Olivier is very punctual and has a very French way of being (this is a way of saying that he behaves somewhat like he’s annoyed all the time). Nevertheless, he will meet you at the apartment at a pre-established time, give you the keys, show you around, and reluctantly answer your questions — so we were appropriately zipped up and met his Parisian attitude with our own 😉

That first day in Paris we were in an “I simply cannot believe I am here” state.” Coby’s sixteen years of studying French 2nd grade through college came back within moments of landing at CDG. I’m in awe of her facility with this language. When I don’t understand someone or can’t communicate what I want or need, I just point to ma fille and she takes over.

Once Olivier had departed and we were all settled into the apartment, we went down to the street in search of le petit dejeuner. And right downstairs, among a plethora of boulangerie, was one with a line snaking into the street. Baguette and croissant perfection. A designed in heaven pear pistachio tarte. And a smoked salmon, creme fraiche, and cucumber sandwich to die for.

Although I have a great appreciation for food, I’m nowhere near foodie status. And  have realized on this trip that I am not an adventurous eater. In other words, I pass on organ meats, sweetbreads, rabbit, lamb, foie gras, and pigeon; am not a huge fan of goat cheese, even when it’s really really fresh; or truffles; or for that matter, caviar or cassoulet. That still leaves an abundance of plenty and walking through the markets here (les marchés) is like entering heaven.

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Every French market we visited was a feast for the senses and medicine for the soul.  So satisfying to walk through stalls laden with fruits and veggies, eggs, fish, cheeses, breads, meats, desserts, spices, dried fruits, nuts, flowers, on and on it goes. And to buy directly from another human being so there’s that moment of exchange between two people. It’s quite intimate really. Very different than shopping in the supermarket. There’s that sense of community, of camaraderie. Of we’re all in this together.

People generally thought I was British, not American. At the Bastille Market the day after Harry and Meghan’s wedding, every shopkeeper I spoke offered congratulations on the joyous event…

Here I am at the flower market in Nice. In all my years of buying and arranging flowers, these were possibly the freshest and most aromatic roses I’ve ever encountered. We walked all around Nice carrying that huge bouquet. Stopped for lunch, then a 40-minute bus ride back to Cagnes-sur-Mer, 15 minute shuttle up the hill in Haut de Cagnes, and the final walk from the shuttle stop to our house. I was concerned that so much walking and riding in the afternoon sun would take a toll on our roses. That they’d be wilted and sad when we finally got them home. Au contraire. These were, after all, French roses. They had attitude. They had joie de vivre. They had shakti!

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Late lunch in Nice and a glass of shimmering rosé.  I tried to drink a glass of rosé every day. Didn’t quite make it but came close. It really was like drinking sunlight. Then I came across this quote attributed to Galileo. Yes!!!

“Wine is sunlight, held together by water.”
                                                            -Galileo 

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A French Interlude…

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2 June. 2018. Haut de Cagnes.

It’s Friday afternoon in Haut de Cagnes. I thought I’d take my laptop outside and finally do some blogging but the internet connection on the terrace is intermittent at best and it was impossible to motivate myself to stay indoors. Until I realized I could sit on the floor by the windows. Our house is called “La Grande Vue” and you can see from the above pic why…

We’ve been here for nearly two weeks. I sit on the terrace every morning, writing in my journal and gazing at the sea. More gazing, actually, than writing. More gazing actually, than just about anything. Including my intention to blog every day. The Mediterranean sings to me and her voice is so much more beautiful than my own, all I can do is imbibe it. I find myself unable to do much more than simply be…

I started a France Trip Blog when we were still in Paris and managed one post before the vortex of this journey swept me away.  Now that this journey is near its end, I’ve decided to bring that lonely post over here and create a French Interlude within the Monday Night Blog. And so, voila…

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19. May. 2018. Paris.

Four days in Paris and already the thought of leaving seems impossible. I knew this trip was important but thought my “through the stones” moment was more about Provence. Which may yet be the case. But for now, being in Paris has me in that same sense of wonder I experienced in St. Paul de Vence fifty years ago. That same sense of belonging. Why this is, je ne sais pas. And why it’s taken me fifty years to return is a question for another time. But here I am and what a joy it is.

In the months before leaving, everyone had suggestions of must-see must do’s in Paris. Being here though I have little interest in doing anything. Content to simply be here. Wandering the streets, soaking up l’esprit de Paris, stretching into the grace and light and beauty of this most magical city.

 

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20. May. 2018. Paris.

I can barely find words to express my experience of being in Paris. I walk around in awe, marveling at the beauty and grace of this icon of icons city. What has been most startling however is the deep sense of connection I feel.  The irony is, that when I look back at my life, I realize this city has been calling me forever.  And yet I never quite grasped what is now so startlingly clear.

When did I fall in love with the idea of Paris? Was it playing the music of Debussy, Ravel, and Satie, reading Stein and Toklas, Anderson, and Nin. Was it the magic of Cocteau, Picasso, Ionesco, and Duchamp. Or the philosophy of Sartre, de Beauvoir, and Gurdjieff. All of these and something else too. Some ineffable substance of soul. Way more mysterious I think than deja vue or past life impression. And it is a wonder and joy to rest in its embrace…

 

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21. May 2018. Paris.

We’re staying at an Air BnB in the 11th. Which was way off my radar in the planning stages of this trip. The word on the street was to stay in the Marais. Which is fabulous for sure. And I’ve loved every moment we spent there. But it’s quite nice in the 11th. Way more chill than the more interior parts of Paris. And I find I quite like it here. Always nice to get back to the relative calm of these streets…

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22. May. 2018. Paris.

I know people want to see photos. Alas, I’ve been very slow to shift into doing mode. Just can’t go for the phone when I’m walking around in a state of wonder. Fortunately we have Coby, my amazing daughter, who is the great documentarian of this journey. So it’s all there on Facebook.

Here’s a handful of Paris photos I do have…

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C’est moi sur le Pont Neuf (je crois)…

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Caron and Coby having a moment of joy at the Bastille Marche. I got separated from them and ended up at the honey man who tried to fix me up with his friend who was evidently a famous local actor who worked on The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel and Midnight in Paris. Alas, never occurred to me to get a photo of the three of us ;(  For that matter, I didn’t even get his name. Between my French and his English, it was a lot of smiles and laughter with not too much comprehension on either side… As I keep saying, etre seulement; pas assez de faire!! C’est domage….

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One of the many things that strikes me about Paris is the myriad monuments of and to the Sacred Feminine. Such a relief from the ubiquitous male war monuments we’re so used to in the USA…

Most tourists in Paris go to the Louvre and the Eiffel Tower. We did not. We did however go on an expedition in search of the sublime sandalwood perfume we kept smelling on the streets. Here’s Coby  hot on the trail at a parfumerie in the Marais…

We did go to to the Renoir Museum which is on la rive Gauche and has a sublime garden. Here’s Coby and Caron and the roses. Ooh la la. Speaking of flowers, France and flowers… OMG. The French really do know a few things about living the most beautiful life.

 

 

 

 

 

December 4, 2017, Monday Night Class: “Not-knowing is true knowledge. Presuming to know is a disease…”

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March 11, 2018.  A week ago, it seemed like Spring. And then a wild crazy nor’easter blew in. The Mother of All Storms. Thick heavy snow coming down a mile a minute. Thunder and lightning adding to the show. Trees down, power out, and the time that rules the dance of daily life stood still. Truth be told, I rather like these times that are, in their way, outside of time. In the space between…

Years ago I was in a meditation retreat with Baba Muktananda. He was teaching the ham-sa mantra. Part of the practice was to focus our awareness on the space between the breaths. To remain in that spaciousness for as long as we could, Four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, maybe ten seconds. He showed us how in that space between the breaths, we touch eternity, poised outside the limiting constructs of time…

One of the curious experiences I had during that weekend retreat was excruciating pain in my left hip. Which began in the Saturday morning session and continued through the closing on Sunday night. Ardent yogini that I was, I soldiered through. And here’s the thing. At the end of the retreat, the pain was gone. Gone. And has never returned…

Was the pain — and I am talking about 48 hours of non-stop physical agony — a kriya, an illusion, something burning up? I will never know. But it did teach me that what I perceive and what is actually happening are not necessarily the same. That when I think I know, or as the Tao Te Ching verse quoted above says, when I presume to know, the odds are, knowledge is not happening….

It’s a tricky business, this knowing and not-knowing, this “I” with all its presumptions, agendas, associations, projections, and attachments. It really does close up the space. And I won’t say I know this. But I sure do feel it in my bones. The spaciousness of that space between the breaths, that’s where it’s all happening. Or not-happening. That is where I want to live.

Here’s my dharma talk from Monday, December 4th. It could be called, What we are is so much more interesting than what we think we should be…. This is a rather freewheeling talk with a handful of LOL moments.

AUDIO OF DECEMBER 4, 2017 DHARMA TALK

AUDIO OF ON TARA TUTTARE TURE SWAHA OPENING OF CLASS

AUDIO OF NAVARNA AND OM NAMAH SHIVAYA MANTRAS

THE TEXTS 

We were reading this text back-to-front but this verse called for a front-to-back context so I also read the two preceding verses. I’m copying them here in that order…

72.
When they lose their sense of awe,
people turn to religion.
When they no longer trust themselves,
they begin to depend upon authority.

Therefore the Master steps back
so that people won’t be confused.
He teaches without teaching,
so that people will have nothing to learn.

70.
My teachings are easy to understand
and easy to put into practice.
Yet your intellect will never grasp them,
and if you try to practice them, you’ll fail.

My teachings are older than the world.
How can you grasp their meaning?

If you want to know me,
look inside your heart.

71.
Not-knowing is true knowledge.
Presuming to know is a disease.
First realize that you are sick;
then you can move towards health.

The Master is her own physician.
She has healed herself of all knowing.
Thus she is truly whole.

Prepping for this class which happened to fall on a Super Moon evening, this poem from Lex Hixon’s Mother of the Universe, jumped out off the page.  This book used to be my go-to text. As I’ve grown simpler with age however, Lex’s versions of Ramprasad strike me as being a bit too thick. I want everything pared down to its essence. Reading this poem over and over though and typing it out just now, well, let me say that myriad adjectives not withstanding, it’s a rather potent map. And quite soaring.

I am a child reaching out to catch the moon
Ramprasad/Lex Hixon 

Who in the world can know what Mother Kali really is?
She is beyond the reach of every scripture,
every system of philosophy.

As the radiant blackness of divine mystery,
she plays through the lotus wilderness of the sacred human body.
The practitioner of meditation encounters her power
deep in the blossom of primordial awareness
and within the thousand-petal lotus
that floats far above the mind.

Kali is the conscious core,
shining through every awakened sage
who delights in oneness.
This has been demonstrated by countless realized beings.
Ma Tara is the queen of freedom within all hears.
She reigns timelessly and tenderly.
Planes and dimensions of being
more vast and subtle than anyone can imagine
are found within her womb of encompassing wisdom.
The Goddess alone knows the extent of her power.
Who else could possibly know?

Laments the singer of this mystic hymn:
“Everyone will laugh at my attempt to swim
the shoreless sea of her reality,
but my soul belongs to her
and my heart delights in longing.
I am a child reaching out to catch the moon.”

As usual, the final word goes to Mary Oliver. This poem is vast. We can read it over and over again, and always discover something new…

The Mockingbird
Mary Oliver

All summer
the mocking bird
in his pearl-gray coat
and his white-windowed wings

flies
from the hedge to the top of the pine
and begins to sing, but it’s neither
lilting nor lovely,

for he is the thief of other sounds–
whistles and truck brakes and dry hinges
plus all the songs
of other birds in his neighborhood;

mimicking and elaborating,
he sings with humor and bravado
so I have to wait a long time
for the softer voice of his own life

to come through. He begins
by giving up all his usual flutter
and setting down on the pine’s forelock
then looking around

as though to make sure he’s alone;
then he slaps each wing against his breast,
where his heart is,
and, copying nothing, begins

easing into it
as though it was not half so easy
as rollicking,
as though his subject now

was his true self,
which of course was as dark and secret,
as anyone else’s
and it was too hard—
perhaps you understand—
to speak or to sing it
to anything or anyone
but the sky.

November 20 & 27, 2017 Monday Night Classes: “She Who Is Tranquility Itself…”

SeatedKYSeated Kuan Yin from the Princeton University Art Museum’s permanent collection.

Life’s been so sped up these last few months, it’s been impossible to keep this blog current. My heartfelt apologies to everyone who looks forward to new content.  This post should fill some of that long gap. I’m including audio from the last two classes of November.

Class on November 20th was a rather free-wheeling journey that wove the Tao Te Ching, Sri Lalita Sahasranama, and a Mary Oliver poem. It’s all there in the talk. Text of readings below. And scroll down below that for audio of mantra chanting…

11.20.17 OPENING DHARANA AND DHARMA TALK

 

READINGS FROM DHARMA TALK

 

From the Tao Te Ching

73.
The Tao is always at ease.
It overcomes without competing,
answers without speaking a word,
arrives without being summoned,
accomplishes without a plan.

Its net covers the whole universe,

And though its meshes are wide,
it doesn’t let a thing slip through.

* * * *

From the Sri Lalita Sahasranama

447.
Shanti
She who is tranquility itself.

Shanti is evenness of mind in happiness and in sorrow, in profit and in loss, in victory and in defeat.

According to Shaivagam, Shanti is… that kala which dispels the three major types of impurities, anava, maya, and karma… It shows the way for those who are struggling in the illusion of maya and in actions contrary to one’s karma, forsaking one’s own dharma and embracing that of someone else.

Slipping away from one’s own dharma will not bring prosperity; it causes loss of shanti. The declaration in the Gita that “better is death following one’s own dharma; following another’s dharma leads to fear” is indeed a cornerstone for building a righteous life.

* * * *

from Mary Oliver’s A Thousand Mornings

HUM, HUM

1.

One summer afternoon I heard
a looming, mysterious hum
high in the air; then came something

like a small planet flying past –
something

not at all interested in me but on its own
way somewhere, all anointed with excitement:
bees, swarming,

not to be held back.

Nothing could hold them back.

2.

Gannets diving.
Black snake wrapped in a tree, our eyes
meeting.
The grass singing
as it sipped up the summer rain.
The owl in the darkness, that good darkness
under the stars.

The child that was myself, that kept running away
to the also running creek,
to colt’s foot and trilliams,
to the effortless prattle of the birds.

3.  SAID THE MOTHER

You are going to grow up
and in order for that to happen
I am going to have to grow old
and then I will die, and the blame
will be yours.

4.  OF THE FATHER

He wanted a body
so he took mine.
Some wounds never vanish.

Yet little by little

I learned to love my life.

Though sometimes I had to run hard –
especially from melancholy –

not to be held back.

5.

I think there ought to be
a little music here:
hum, hum.

6.

The resurrection of the morning.
The mystery of the night.
The hummingbird’s wings.
The excitement of thunder.
The rainbow in the waterfall.
Wild mustard, that rough blaze of the fields.

The mockingbird, replaying the songs of his
neighbors.
The bluebird with its unambitious warble
simple yet sufficient.

The shining fish. The beak of the crow.
The new colt who came to me and leaned
against the fence
that I might put my hands upon his warm body
and know no fear.

Also the words of poets
a hundred or hundreds of years dead —
their words that would not be held back.

7.

Oh the house of denial has thick walls
and very small windows
and whoever lives there, little by little,
will turn to stone.

In those years I did everything I could do
and I did it in the dark –
I mean, without understanding.

I ran away.
I ran away again.
Then, again, I ran away.

They were awfully little, those bees,
and maybe frightened,
yet unstoppably they flew on, somewhere,
to live their life.

Hum, hum, hum.

[Please note I’m unable to input proper transliteration of Sanskrit and formatting of Oliver’s poem.]

 

AUDIO OF CLASS CHANTING SARASWATI AND OM NAMAH SHIVAYA MANTRAS

 

AUDIO OF CLASS CHANTING GAYATRI MANTRA WITH CLOSING DHARANA 

 

AUDIO OF SG SOLO CHANTING BEFORE CLASS

 

11.27.17 AUDIO OF ENTIRE CLASS

November 27 was an all-chant class. Here’s the live recording from that. If you’ve never been to Monday Night Class, this will give you a sense of what it’s like to be in the room. This is very low-tech recording for music so do listen with gentle ears…

 

Finally, although I’ve stopped writing political commentary here, the age of Trump continues. Wreaking havoc on our democracy, international relations, the planet, and even outer space. If you want to embody Kuan Yin, whose name means, She Who Hears the Cries of the World, do click here to read Nicholas Kristof’s recent piece in the New York Times, and if you can, please make a donation to the Jamal family.  Along with that, if you’ve not seen Ai Weiwei’s extraordinary film, Human Flow, it’s essential education for anyone who cares about life on this amazing extraordinary planet we all call home…

November 13, 2017 Monday Night Class: Being in Reality as Opposed to Being in Whatever We Think Reality Is…

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“Out beyond ideas of wrongdoing and rightdoing there is a field. I’ll meet you there…” 
                                                                                                              –Rumi

It’s been quite a month and I am way behind posting classes here. Fortunately the wisdom teachings have no expiration date…

November 13’s Monday Night Class continued our immersion in the deity field personified as the goddess Saraswati, who in “her” most sublime possibility might be understood as that field of which Rumi sings.

This is a field we all do well to live in….

The Tao Te Ching verses for this week were 75 and 74. However, since neither struck me as being rooted in that field, I found I could not speak about them with integrity or authenticity. Two more qualities we can associate with Saraswati. Rather than go against the dharma of speech, I spoke instead about why I could not speak about them…

DHARMA TALK

SARASWATI AND OM NAMAH SHIVAYA MANTRAS

SG SOLO SARASWATI AND ONS MANTRAS BEFORE CLASS

Here are the Mary Oliver poems I read.
These are from her collection, Blue Horses.

SUCH SILENCE

As deep as I ever went into the forest
I came upon an old stone bench, very, very old,
and around it a clearing, and beyond that
trees taller and older than I had ever seen.

Such silence!
It really wasn’t so far from a town, but it seemed
all the clocks in the world had stopped counting.
So it was hard to suppose the usual rules applied.

Sometimes there’s only a hint, a possibility.
What’s magical, sometimes, has deeper roots
than reason.
I hope everyone knows that.

I sat on the bench, waiting for something.
An angel perhaps.
Or dancers with the legs of goats.

No, I didn’t see either. But only, I think, because
I didn’t stay long enough.

WATERING THE STONES

Every summer I gather a few stones from
the beach and keep them in a glass bowl.
Now and again I cover them with water,
and they drink. There’s not questions about
this; I put tinfoil over the bowl, tightly,
yet the water disappears. This doesn’t
mean we ever have a conversation, or that
they have the kind of feelings we do, yet
it might mean something. Whatever the
stones are, they don’t lie in the water
and do nothing.

Some of my friends refuse too believe it
happens, even though they’ve seen it. But
a few others—I’ve seen them walking down
the beach holding a few stones, and they
look at them rather more closely now.
Once in a while, I swear, I’ve even heard
one or two of them saying, “Hello.”
Which, I think, does not harm to anyone or
anything, does it?

FRANZ MARC’S BLUE HORSES

I step into the painting o the four blue horses.
I am not even surprised that I can do this.

One of the horses walks toward me.
His blue nose noses me lightly. I put my arm
over his blue man, not holding on, just
   commingling.
He allows me my pleasure.
Franz Marc died a young man, shrapnel in his brain.
I would rather die than try to explain to the blue horses
   what war is.
They would either faint in horror, or simply
   find it impossible to believe.
I do not know how to thank you, Franz Marc.
Maybe our world will grow kinder eventually.
Maybe the desire to make something beautiful
   is the piece of God that is inside each of us.
Now all four horses have come closer,
   are bending their faces toward me,
      as if the have secrets to tell.
I don’t expect them to speak, and they don’t.
If being so beautiful isn’t enough, what
   could possible say?

New visitors to this blog wanting to read more about Saraswati, please scroll down to the previous post. And, if you’re curious to read the verses I did not read 😉 here they are…

75.
When taxes are too high,
people go hungry.
When the government is too intrusive,
people lose their spirit.
Act for the people’s benefit.
Trust them; leave them alone.
74.
If you realize that all things change,
there is nothing you will try to hold on to.
If you aren’t afraid of dying,
there is nothing you can’t achieve.
Trying to control the future
is like trying to take the master carpenter’s place.
When you handle the master carpenter’s tools,
chances are that you’ll cut your hand.