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.