let's do it again: reflections on repetition as blessing

Shortly after moving to New England some 12 years ago, I happened upon a

slim volume of poems by Mary Oliver: Evidence. It is a treasure. More often than not, when I am searching for a way to evoke in words for others something I am experiencing deep within my soul, St. Mary rarely fails. Just last week while on retreat with the community of L'Arche Ottawa, her poem "Praying" gave me the clarity I needed to craft a brief encounter with stillness and song.

It doesn’t have to be
the blue iris, it could be
weeds in a vacant lot, or a few
small stones; just
pay attention, then patch

a few words together and don’t try
to make them elaborate, this isn’t
a contest but the doorway

into thanks, and a silence in which
another voice may speak.

Oliver's genius is mixing ordinary words about everyday experiences in ways that reveal the sacred mystery built into creation. You don't need a thesaurus or an advanced degree to be blessed by her poetry (not that either don't have their places!) Standing in a tiny bookstore in Northampton 12 years ago after reading her poem, "Mysteries, Yes," I was a goner.

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous

   to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the

   mouth of the lambs.

How rivers and stones are forever

   in allegiance with gravity

      while we ourselves dream of rising.

How two hands touch and the bonds will

   never be broken.

How people come, from delight or the

   scars of damage,

to the comfort of a poem.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those

   who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say

   "Look!" and laugh in astonishments,

   and bow their heads. 

In returning to these little miracles, I experience comfort and joy alongside challenge and ambiguity. I need all of that these days to remain grounded. As a young man I once believed that returning to reread my favorite poems was intellectually sloppy and ethically sentimental. "We need to break new ground," I insisted, "new insights, new metaphors, new images, new ways of being." New. New. New. Over the past 40 years, however, I have seen how there is nothing new under the sun. I have stood by bedsides and sung memory bank hymns like "Just a Closer Walk with Thee" or "In the Garden" while one of the community's saints is dying and seen the peace that passes understand spread through their flesh as we sang. I have prayed the old words of the tradition with men and women of dementia who suddenly experience a moment of clarity when the Lord's Prayer or Psalm 23 is said aloud. I have found myself led beyond the valley of the shadow of death and despair contemplating the ancient prayer: "Lord Jesus, Son of God, have mercy on me."

This morning I rose earlier than usual on a Saturday and looked out upon the wetlands. The sun has returned for a short visit - and my head cold is waning. I snuggled with our dog, Lucie, as part of my morning prayer ritual and opened my laptop to a morning poem as I sipped hot tea. Not every daily offering speaks to me, but "A Proposal" by Carl Dennis connected.

Why don't we set aside for a day
Our search for variety and have lunch
At the same café where we had lunch yesterday
And order the same avocado and Gouda sandwich
On whole wheat bread, toasted and buttered?

Why don't we stroll again after lunch
To the river and back? I'll be glad to interpret
Your wearing the blouse you wore yesterday
As a sign you're still the person I think you are,
That this is the walk you want to take,

The one you didn't get your fill of before.
And later, why don't we hope for a sunset
That duplicates the valiant effort of yesterday:
Enough clouds for the light to play with,
Despite a haze that dims the hues?

Isn’t the insight worth repeating
That the end of the day may show itself
To be just as colorful as the beginning,
That a fine beginning isn't a veil
That the end is destined to strip away?

The same words, but yesterday
They may have sounded a little tentative,
As if we weren't sure we were ready
To stand behind them. Now if we choose
To repeat them, it means we are.

I suspect that as this day unfolds we will walk again through the same woods we have visited over and over - and be delighted. I will throw the same old ratty tennis balls for Lucie and she will become ecstatic - and then exhausted. I will roast a chicken using a French recipe I tried a few weeks back for our All Saints and Souls Feast and we will pray with out tongues, noses, and bellies. We will then likely watch some British mystery on TV as is our habit, resting in the certainty of the tender mercies and quiet mysteries God has shared with us throughout this day. The same words? Yes and now we choose to repeat them and stand behind them by faith.