Easter Sunday

"Black Swallowtail"

The caterpillar,
interesting but not exactly lovely,
humped along among the parsley leaves
eating, always eating. Then
one night it was gone and in its place
a small green confinement hung by two silk threads
on a parsley stem. I think it took nothing with it
except faith, and patience. And then one morning
it expressed itself into the most beautiful being.

Mary Oliver

All ready for their chapel entrance Saturday afternoon.

Ta da!

Holy Week-Saturday

"After Her Death"

I am trying to find the lesson
for tomorrow. Matthew something.
Which lectionary? I have not
forgotten the Way, but, a little,
the way to the Way. The trees keep whispering
peace, peace, and the birds
in the shallows are full of the
bodies of small fish and are
content. They open their wings
so easily, and fly. So. It is still
possible.

I open the book
which the strange, difficult, beautiful church
has given me. To Matthew. Anywhere.

Mary Oliver




Our Good Friday Peace Pilgrimage here.

Holy Week-Friday

"Broken, Unbroken"

The lonely
stand in the dark corners
of their hearts.

I have seen them
in cities,
and in my own neighborhood,

nor could I touch them
with the magic
that they crave

to be unbroken.
Then, I myself,
lonely,

said hello to
good fortune.
Someone

came along
and lingered
and little by little

became everything
that makes the difference.
Oh, I wish such good luck

to everyone.
How beautiful it is
to be unbroken.

Mary Oliver

Holy Week-Thursday

"Coming to God: First Days"

Lord, what shall I do that I
can't quiet myself?
Here is the bread, and
here is the cup, and
I can't quiet myself.

To enter the language of transformation!
To learn the importance of stillness with one's hands folded.

When will my eyes of rejoicing turn peaceful?
When will my joyful feet grow still?
When will my heart stop its prancing as over the summer grass?

Lord, I would run for you, loving the miles for your sake.
I would climb the highest tree
to be that much closer.

Lord, I would learn also to kneel down
into the world of the invisible, the inscrutable and the everlasting.
Then I will move no more than the leaves of a tree on a day of no wind,
bathed in light,
like the wanderer who has come home at last
and kneels in peace, done with all unnecessary things;
every motion; even words.

Mary Oliver

Holy Week--Wednesday

"To Begin with, the Sweet Grass" part 4

Someday I am going to ask my friend Paulus,
the dancer, potter,
to make me a begging bowl
which I believe
my soul needs.

And if I come to you,
to the door of your comfortable house
with unwashed clothes and unclean fingernails,
will you put something into it?

I would like to take this chance.
I would like to give you this chance.

Mary Oliver




One of our sisters just got home after a brief hospital stay. While there she received a basket of flowers from a good friend. The "basket" was really seven spring plants that are now gracing a whole window ledge in our library: two tulip plants, two primrose, one hyacinth, one shamrock and a large bleeding heart plant itself. What a touch of spring it has brought. If you don't have spring outside, I guess this is the next best thing: bring it inside. By the way, has anyone ever seen a real bleeding heart plant as part of an arrangement? Me neither.

Holy Week-Tuesday

"I will try"

I will try.
I will step from the house to see what I see
and hear and I will praise it.
I did not come into this world
to be comforted.
I came, like red bird, to sing.
But I'm not red bird, with his head-mop of flame
and the red triangle of his mouth
full of tongue and whistles,
but a woman whose love has vanished,
who thinks now, too much, of roots
and the dark places
where everything is simply holding on.
But this, too, I believe, is a place
where God is keeping watch
until we rise, and step forth again, and---
but wait. Be still. Listen!
Is it red bird? Or something
inside myself, singing?

Mary Oliver




We're getting there, but some years it's slow going!

Holy Week-Monday

"In the Storm"

Some black ducks
were shrugged up
on the shore.
It was snowing

hard, from the east,
and the sea
was in disorder.
Then some sanderlings,

five inches long
with beaks like wire,
flew in,
snowflakes on their backs,

and settled
in a row
behind the ducks--
whose backs were also

covered with snow--
so close
they were all but touching,
they were all but under

the roof of the duck's tails,
so the wind, pretty much,
blew over them.
They stayed that way, motionless,

for maybe an hour,
then the sanderlings,
each a handful of feathers,
shifted, and were blown away

out over the water
which was still raging.
But, somehow,
they came back

and again the ducks,
like a feathered hedge,
let them
crouch there, and live.

If someone you didn't know
told you this,
as I am telling you this,
would you believe it?

Belief isn't always easy.
But this much I have learned--
if not enough else--
to live with my eyes open.

I know what everyone wants
is a miracle.
This wasn't a miracle.
Unless, of course, kindness--

as now and again
some rare person has suggested--
is a miracle.
As surely it is.

Mary Oliver


From this year's Art Show: our three angel windows.