So this is how you swim inward. So this is how you flow outwards. So this is how you pray. Mary Ol
We do not love anything more deeply than we love a story...
I was hurrying through my own soul . . . I was leaning out . . . I was listening.
When will you have a little pity for every soft thing that walks through the world, yourself included.
The god of dirt came up to me many times and said so many wise and delectable things, I lay on the grass listening to his dog voice, frog voice; now, he said, and now, and never once mentioned forever from, One or Two Things
Don't we all die someday and someday comes all too soon? What will you do with your own wild, glorious chance at this thing we call life.
What can we do but keep on breathing in and out, modest and willing, and in our places?
... Let us risk the wildest places, Lest we go down in comfort, and despair.
I had a dog who loved flowers. Briskly she went through the fields, yet paused for the honeysuckle or the rose, her dark head and her wet nose touching the face of every one with its petals of silk with its fragrance rising into the air where the bees, their bodies heavy with pollen hovered - and ea
Do you cherish your humble and silky life?
A poet's interest in craft never fades, of course.
Be good-natured and untidy in your exuberance.
The end of life has its own nature, also worth our attention. I don't say this without reckoning in the sorrow, the worry, the many diminishments. But surely it is then that a person's character shines or glooms.
I GO DOWN TO THE SHORE I go down to the shore in the morning and depending on the hour the waves are rolling in or moving out, and I say, oh, I am miserable, what shallâ€” what should I do? And the sea says in its lovely voice: Excuse me, I have work to do.
Do you love this world? Do you cherish your humble and silky life? Do you adore the green grass, with its terror beneath?
Let me keep my mind on what matters, which is my work, which is mostly standing still and learning to be astonished.
There were times over the years when life was not easy, but if you're working a few hours a day and you've got a good book to read, and you can go outside to the beach and dig for clams, you're okay.
There are things you canâ€™t reach. But You can reach out to them, and all day long. The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of god. And it can keep you busy as anything else, and happier. I look; morning to night I am never done with looking. Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing a
Are my boots old? Is my coat torn? / Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect?
Belief isn't always easy. But this much I have learned--- if not enough else--- to live with my eyes open.
If you suddenly and unexpectedly feel joy, don't hesitate. Give in to it. There are plenty of lives and whole towns destroyed or about to be. We are not wise, and not very often kind. And much can never be redeemed. Still life has some possibility left. Perhaps this is its way of fighting back, that
And that is just the point... how the world, moist and beautiful, calls to each of us to make a new and serious response. That's the big question, the one the world throws at you every morning. "Here you are, alive. Would you like to make a comment?
it is a serious thing // just to be alive / on this fresh morning / in this broken world.
I would say that there exists a thousand unbreakable links between each of us and everything else, and that our dignity and our chances are one. The farthest star and the mud at our feet are a family; and there is no decency or sense in honoring one thing, or a few things, and then closing the list.
Walks work for me. I enter some arena that is neither conscious or unconscious. Mary Olive
We can know a lot. And still, no doubt, there are rash and wonderful ideas brewing somewhere; there are many surprises yet to come.
Let me keep my distance, always, from those who think they have the answers. Let me keep company always with those who say â€œLook!â€ and laugh in astonishment, and bow their heads. (from â€œMysteries, Yesâ€)
I took one look and fell, hook and tumble.
Tom Dancerâ€™s gift of a whitebark pine cone You never know What opportunity Is going to travel to you, Or through you. Once a friend gave me A small pine cone- One of a few He found in the scat Of a grizzly In Utah maybe, Or Wyoming. I took it home And did what I supposed He was sure I would do- I
I simply do not distinguish between work and play.