sphere

The way I look at the world has been transformed by the poems of Mary Oliver.

I have never been much of a poetry reader. I'm too impatient and end up speed-reading, irritated by the line breaks and punctuation and nonsensicalness. e. e. cummings with his erratic spacing and capital and lowercase letters makes me want to break out a red pen and scratch all over his page.

But with Mary I find myself slowing down and luxuriating in the sounds of words. She is the only poet that I want to read out loud. Even when I'm alone. And I don't feel foolish doing it either. I re-read her poems again and again - slowly - and these are the stillest moments of my day.

I don't have the Truro Bear or Blackwater Pond, but I have Cambridge. Running is how I explore and today I discovered a new pocket of town: the area around Harvard's Divinity School. Irving Street, where Julia Child lived, Francis (called "Professors Row"), Scott (where the loathéd e. e. was born).

Sprinting into an ivy brick section of the campus, I came upon a statue either snatched or copied from somewhere in the Far East. Near it was an enormous stone sphere on a brick path surrounded by mulberry bushes. The significance of it I do not know. But I ran to it without pause and made several laps while dragging my hand across its smooth side. It seemed quite a natural thing to do.

Not forcing or demanding anything extravagant; just the feel of stone under my hand and the lull of easy repetition. A moment of ordinary joy in an ordinary life.

I think Mary would be proud.

chinese

Bad Chinese food is bad. Even if it's vegan. Even if it's free.

nature

Yesterday morning running on Huron Avenue I saw a bird lying on its back in the road. Another bird stood near, hopping up and down like a cheerleader, seeming to encourage its friend, why don't you get going? But the fallen bird was having back problems.

Its beak opened and closed rhythmically to cry out, but no sound came. I wondered: do I feel less compassion when a creature makes no sound?

The bird couldn't stand so I took off my tank top and wrapped it up and carried it to the grass. Once down, it started to flap its wings furiously. I thought it might piss itself off into a standing position, but after one final push for life, it lay still and accepted its end.

I come across many animals. (Perhaps it's because I walk and take the bus, and insist on leading a reasonably paced life.) But this was the first time I didn't feel an overwhelming need to rescue it - to finding someone or something with a solution. To fix this bird, dammit, come hell or high water!

Instead I sat with it and thought of my friend Jeffrey who told me a story - filled with wisdom and compassion - about sitting with a dying animal, without trying to stop it or change it or fix it... I thought about how death naturally pressed in, regardless of how I feel about it.

Mary Oliver's poems nod to some meaning, some hint of God, some peace, in the natural world.

My mother read "Black Oaks" in church the other day. Here is the second half:

Today is a day like any other; twenty-four hours, a little sunshine, a little rain.

Listen says ambition, nervously shifting her weight from one boot to another -- why don't you get going?

For there I am, in the mossy shadows, under the trees.

And to tell the truth I don't want to let go of the wrists of idleness, I don't want to sell my life for money,

I don't even want to come in out of the rain.

metta

Metta मेत्ता means loving-kindness, a meditation that several members of my KM group practice regularly. (KM stands for Kalyana Mitta; it's Pali for "spiritual friends.")

I've never been taught metta, but I've made up my own version, which basically just boils down to 10-20 minutes per day where I do my damndest to be a good friend.

I think everyone must go through trials by fire. The mind eating away at you both consciously and unconsciously. Anger, fear, pain, self hatred. The Dalai Lama said that self hatred does not exist in Tibetan culture. Only after he met with western Buddhists did he learn about the obstacle of self hatred.

A lot of change brings a lot of fear and I'm just trying to stay afloat. I believe I need self love and self care now more than ever, but allowing it seems nearly impossible. Whose permission am I waiting for?