My friend Jeanne Finan opened up my Sunday morning for me with a Facebook post and link to a guy who decided several years ago to read a poem every day. I followed the link and was transported--literally and otherwise. The link eventually led to Mary Oliver's poem, 'Egrets'.
I don't know exactly what it is that happens when we're reading a wonderful poem and suddenly we're seeing something new--or seeing something familiar in a new way and life just lights up.
Here's the poem...
Egrets
Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
I kept going. Finally
I could not
save my arms
from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
smelled me, hot
and wounded, and came
wheeling and whining.
And that's how I came
to the edge of the pond:
black and empty
except for a spindle
of bleached reeds
at the far shore
which, as I looked,
wrinkled suddenly
into three egrets - - -
a shower
of white fire!
Even half-asleep they had
such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
tilting through the water,
unruffled, sure,
by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing.
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier,
I kept going. Finally
I could not
save my arms
from thorns; soon
the mosquitoes
smelled me, hot
and wounded, and came
wheeling and whining.
And that's how I came
to the edge of the pond:
black and empty
except for a spindle
of bleached reeds
at the far shore
which, as I looked,
wrinkled suddenly
into three egrets - - -
a shower
of white fire!
Even half-asleep they had
such faith in the world
that had made them - - -
tilting through the water,
unruffled, sure,
by the laws
of their faith not logic,
they opened their wings
softly and stepped
over every dark thing.
Last Saturday I took a hike off the Blue Ridge Parkway with six newish friends, none of whom know this area well. The Parkway was closed because of icy patches--we couldn't get to the 'best' trails.
For 18 years I've hiked around here by myself nearly every Thursday. It's a wonderful way to work on a sermon.
Over these years I've stumbled across what some people call manways. These are ad hoc trails, usually short, often connector trails. I suspect many of these are made by hunters.
I asked my new friends if they were game to take a manway in order to get to a 'real' trail. They were.
But manways are not exactly maintained. They are faint paths to begin with. Limbs and trees are often blown down across them. Bushes and brambles grow into them.
I often move fallen stuff off manways. Knock down a few briars along the way. I suspect most folks who take these little trails do a little maintenance.
Animals do maintenance too. The parts they walk on are better worn. But animals have their own destinations. And their trails always take off in another direction at some point, and it's often hard to tell the difference between their trails and ours.
Often I've taken the wrong trail without knowing it and then realized it's bending in the wrong direction or just petering out all together. I know I'm close to where I want to be. But I'm not there. Is it best to back up--or press on through forest and underbrush?
I love this poem's first 5 lines for their immediacy and vividness,
Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier--
I love the next line for its chutzpah and inspiration,
--I kept going.
This first bit of 'Egrets' is something worth being mindful about--a least for a day!
For 18 years I've hiked around here by myself nearly every Thursday. It's a wonderful way to work on a sermon.
Over these years I've stumbled across what some people call manways. These are ad hoc trails, usually short, often connector trails. I suspect many of these are made by hunters.
I asked my new friends if they were game to take a manway in order to get to a 'real' trail. They were.
But manways are not exactly maintained. They are faint paths to begin with. Limbs and trees are often blown down across them. Bushes and brambles grow into them.
I often move fallen stuff off manways. Knock down a few briars along the way. I suspect most folks who take these little trails do a little maintenance.
Animals do maintenance too. The parts they walk on are better worn. But animals have their own destinations. And their trails always take off in another direction at some point, and it's often hard to tell the difference between their trails and ours.
Often I've taken the wrong trail without knowing it and then realized it's bending in the wrong direction or just petering out all together. I know I'm close to where I want to be. But I'm not there. Is it best to back up--or press on through forest and underbrush?
I love this poem's first 5 lines for their immediacy and vividness,
Where the path closed
down and over,
through the scumbled leaves,
fallen branches,
through the knotted catbrier--
I love the next line for its chutzpah and inspiration,
--I kept going.
