White Owl Flies Into and Out of the
Field
Coming down out of the freezing
sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —
as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.
~ Mary Oliver ~
(House of Light)
The lines from this poem that speak to me today:
maybe death
isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light
wrapping itself around us--
as light feathers--
Today marks the Third Sunday of Advent and the theme of Holy Darkness; Holy Light seemed more prophetic and real. We read the scripture about how we should always rejoice in the Lord with reservation. The Peace of God that passes all understanding did indeed seem to pass all understanding. With only the light of the Advent wreath and one candle we passed, we listened to the words of Jen Lee (It's worth the 99 cents to download... at least I think it's worth it). Although it was dark, I managed to write down some words that captured my attention:
The smallest embers a ground shaking stand for hope.
Do you long for someone to light you a candle?
Are you like me? Do you loose your bearing?
I didn't realize how much I was bothered by the recent elementary school shooting until I entered the art gallery today. In times of tragedy I feel shaken and long for someone to light the candle, someone to show me the smallest embers.
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