A friend loaned me a book of poetry. I am enjoying the experience of picking up the book, perusing its pages, pausing when a beckoning phrase surfaces, feeling a smile come to my lips, or the release of a sigh in my chest. While I am grateful for the poems that come to me in email, the tactual experience of holding a slim volume of poetry is surprising me with its rich abundance of sensations.
I keep coming back to this poem about taking a day off from the "voodoos of ambition." I also keep thinking that in order to be authentic, I should share it when I actually take one of those days. Yet, that misses the point. We need to take these moments with us, and share them with our fellow harried travelers.
The book? A Thousand Mornings by Mary Oliver. My friend received it from her friend who lives in Argentina. Fascinating and beautiful that she would send it from so far away. She evidently wants to stay very close.
Today
Today I am flying low and I'm
not saying a word.
I'm letting all the voodoos of ambition sleep.
The world goes on as it must,
the bees in the garden rumbling a little,
the fish leaping, the gnats getting eaten.
And so forth.
But I'm taking the day off.
Quiet as a feather.
I hardly move though really I am traveling
a terrific distance.
Stillness. One of the doors
into the temple.
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