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“To pay attention, this is our endless and proper work.”
Mary Oliver
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Hi there darling,
I hope this letter finds you snuggled up in the coziness of winter's wonders.
As for me, I'm approaching a very full week ahead with the opening of a three weekend performance run. And finding moment's of appreciating winter's wonders when I can, whether it be on my cool, misty bike rides or with a hot mug of herbal tea. With little capacity left to give much more than I already am to rehearsals, clients, and teaching classes, I'm sharing with you a poem by a woman whose words sing straight to the spirit. Someone who has recently left this earthly realm, a poet who I consider to be one of my favorites.
Mary Oliver cradles her readers with sweet serenades that remind us of the beauty that is held in walking alongside nature, not just as an admirer, but as a participant in the reciprocal ways of the wild.
I've been reading this poem aloud at the end of my yoga classes as an honoring to Mary Oliver's life, and wanted to extend that savasana sharing with you here. Read, rinse, and repeat as needed for nourishing soul medicine. Embody these lines, calling their meaning to mind the next time you find yourself lying down on a soft blanket of earth, broadening your awareness to fully take in the sounds of that which surrounds you. Perhaps that is the purpose of her poetry - to invite us out into the world, encouraging us to participate in a relationship with all signs of life that weave the web of existence.
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Sleeping In The Forest
I thought the earth remembered me, she
took me back so tenderly, arranging
her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds. I slept
as never before, a stone
on the riverbed, nothing
between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated
light as moths among the branches
of the perfect trees. All night
I heard the small kingdoms breathing
around me, the insects, and the birds
who do their work in the darkness. All night
I rose and fell, as if in water, grappling
with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.
- Mary Oliver -
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