Kills Me.

Sunday, October 1, 2017

Mary Oliver penned these words in her poem entitled, Mindful.

I see or hear
that more or less
kills me
with delight,
that leaves me
like a needle
in the haystack
of light.
It was 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?

I have listened to these words often the past few weeks.  There is something in the first line there that resonates.  In big and small ways, it is true.  Every single day, I too, see or hear something that kills me with delight.  I don't try.  It isn't forced.  It is simply delight.  Take today, for example.  I caught my oldest daughter independently reading a chapter book for the very first time.  The delight was a deep, deep feeling.  A whirling mixture of emotion.  Taken off guard in the most beautiful of ways, and yet this touch of sadness.  How did these days pass?  Quickly enough to survive, but too quickly to live.  Live? you say.  Yes, live.  Oliver's words.  The best I can think of is finding those things that kill me with delight.  These are life. 
So, for the next thirty-one days, it is simply life.  Actual delight, you see, is often in the minuscule.  These next thirty-one days will be that truth's gentle reminder. 

Day 1 of 31 of the #write31days challenge.


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