Mindfulness is like being at the edge of the pond. It's also like the path that takes us there.
Be Mary Oliver for a moment. Walk in her shoes, live in her skin, feel what she's feeling, think was she's thinking:
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:
After being hemmed in and frustrated by tight, ensnaring conditions, what a wonderful experience it can be to come to an open place.
Light. Air. Room to see.
And even though she's come to the end of this path and can't go any farther (at least with her feet), she keeps going--by another way.
By stopping, pausing, watching, she's able to go even farther.
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.
I have my own recognitions reading this, my own 'white fire.' But, if you have a few minutes, linger at the edge of the pond and see what you see.
I think it's wise not to prejudice you with my epiphanies before you've had time--sacred time in this sacred space at the edge of the pond--for your own.
You know, quite amazingly, today is Epiphany Eve.
