Tuesday, March 13, 2012


Snow. Rain. Sun. Snow. Rain. Sun. Hail. Sun. Hmmm..... this is spring in Portland. 

In the car, after driving through the hail, Jacob says, "I want it to hail again. Hail again!"
I say, "That's right, talk to those clouds."
Jacob says, "I'm not talking to the clouds. I'm talking to you, Mommy."
I say, laughing, "Well, I am not in charge of the weather. I cannot make it hail."
Jacob, "Are you not a cloud, Mommy?"
"No, Jacob, I am not."

At this point, one must look for inspiration in words, not outside my own window.

The Singular and Cheerful Life - Mary Oliver
The singular and cheerful life
of any flower
in anyone's garden
or any still unowned field-

if there are any-
catches me
by the heart,
by its color

by its obedience
to the holiest of laws:
be alive
until you are not.

pale violet bull thistle,
morning glories curling
through the field corn;

and those princes of everything green-
the grasses
of which there are truly
an uncountable company,

each on its singular stem
to rise and ripen.

What, in the earth world,
is there not to be amazed by
and to be steadied by
and to cherish?

Oh, my dear heart,
my own dear heart,
full of hesitations,
questions, choice of directions,

look at the world.
Behold the morning glory,
the meanest flower, the ragweed, the thistle.
Look at the grass.

P.S. The bold print was my own doing. Those parts that struck me. 

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