Roughly eight months ago I received a small package from my
older brother, Kaleb. In addition to a heartfelt letter and a delicious bar of
chocolate (that was promptly consumed), he sent me a small piece of paper.
Printed on this crumpled, minute note were nine stanzas of an eloquent poem
written by one of our (mutually) favorite poets: Mary Oliver.
After a few weeks of flattening this paper under the weight
of two coconuts, I hung the poem on one my walls with the sticky tack my mother
hid in one of my bags before leaving the States.
Fast-forward eight months.
I am literally and figuratively sweating over the approaching
termination of my time in this beautiful island country. Frantic thoughts of
how to process the conclusion of my time in this crazy place flood my mind
without invitation or desire. And none of these thoughts are nearly as eloquent
as a Mary Oliver poem. They sound more like, “AHHHHH!!! Goodness gracious, how
in the world am I supposed to comprehend all of the emotions that have been
slapping me in the face for nearly a year?!”
Luckily for me… sticky tack doesn’t hold up small pieces of
paper for perpetuity.
A few days ago, as I was sweeping up the termite dust around
my bed (a regular practice), when I noticed something unusual hiding under my
wooden bed frame: a minute note with a lovely poem written on it. After
brushing off the dust that had been accumulating on it for (potentially)
several months, I recognized the beautiful words of Mary Oliver. An eloquently
written reminder of what has truly brought me joy, peace, and happiness this
year: The simplicity of life. Nothing extraordinary or extravagant… Just my
day-to-day life on the farm.
Below, I have taken the liberty of rearranging the phrasing
of this poem so that I can include a small handful of photos that capture my
beautiful community here in rural, southeastern Madagascar.
The original poem is
transcribed at the end of this post.
Mindful
By Mary Oliver
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills
me
with
delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in a haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for—
to look,
to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft
world—
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking about the exceptional,
the fearful, the dreadful, the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common,
the very drab,
the daily presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such
teachings
as
these—
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
Amen.
Original Poem
Every day
I see or hear
something
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in a haystack
of light.
It is what I was born for—
to look, to listen,
to lose myself
inside this soft world—
to instruct myself
over and over
in joy,
and acclamation.
Nor am I talking
about the exceptional,
the fearful, the
dreadful,
the very extravagant—
but of the ordinary,
the common, the very drab,
the daily
presentations.
Oh, good scholar,
I say to myself,
how can you help
but grow wise
with such teachings
as these—
the untrimmable light
of the world,
the ocean’s shine,
the prayers that are made
out of grass?
