Some of my favorite things in Australia?
Kangaroos under our deck. Really.
Fox bats, clouds of them.
So many languages and bodies and children and parents enjoying each other and being on a catamaran trampoline and feeling the spray and the wind. The sun so hot it is remarkable. The sand on the beach so white it is near blinding.
At the pool today there was a young man gigging. He played his guitar and sang to those of us bobbing around in the water and I thought to myself: It wasn’t so long ago that was me.
It was me singing while others played.
I find myself dazed by the immensity of this gift. The time, the exotic beauty, the never-did-I-believe-I-could-see-and-be-in-it of it all.
I know that the Holy isn’t a deal-maker.
Some forty years ago while on the way home from our honeymoon, Jim and I hit a semi truck head on. In a two door Opel. I had no seat belt on.
It changed everything.
Given a chance to inhabit the years that may never have been is no small gift.
Forty bonus years.
I continue to relishing the unpacking.
Truly. I am in paradise.
Beyond the azure of the water, the sway of palms and the warmth of the sun, there are pine trees in this place. You can see them in the photo above.
“The world is charged with the grandeur of God.” (Gerard Manley)
And. There are pine trees in this place.
I got a call this morning from my daughter.
I am in Australia. She is home in Minnesota.
She wanted me to know there was no emergency but there was this:
Poet Mary Oliver died.
Knowing my heart as she does, she wanted me to know.
The melody of my soul is woven with Mary Oliver’s poetry and prose.
I was able to be in her physical presence once. She did a poetry reading in Minneapolis. The church where the event was held was full of those who, like me, came to pay homage.
I wept through most of it.
Some things are just too holy to behold.
I am far from my community and far from my books. I am far from the round table at our cabin that always held one of her books. I am left with Facebook as facilitator of communal testimony and grief and it is enough, I suppose.
The power of a soul compelled to sing is miracle.
“Instructions for living a life:
Tell about it.”