Moths, Mountains, and Rivers

The Rev. Nancy E. Gossling

Like Mary Oliver, I’ve spent time pondering these strange questions:

Who can guess the luna’s sadness who lives so briefly?

“Although it is one of the larger moths in North America, the adults have a lifespan of only about one week. Known for its beautiful lime-colored green wings and white bodies, the luna moth has appeared in the Dragon Prince as the archangel lunaris, or the giant moon moth.” Is the luna moth sad because it lives so briefly? Does it even know how short-lived it is? If it took God seven days to create all of creation, was the luna moth part of God’s plan? If the luna moth is able to complete its mission in only one week, why be sad? What do we seek, longevity or quality of life?

Who can guess the impatience of stone longing to be ground down, to be part again of something livelier?

I know too much about longing, longing for things just out of my reach, only visible to my mind’s eye. But why long to be ground down? I also know about impatience. It seems as if the older I get the more impatient I become. And yet, Mary Oliver suggests that the end product of our impatient longing is something livelier. Funny how grinding down can buoy one up. 

Who can imagine in what heaviness the rivers remember their original clarity?

Ha! Sadness, longing impatience, and now heaviness weigh me down. They cloud my imagination. Distort my memories. Burden me at times. Then with clarity, I remember my blessedness, my goodness, and my unity with our Creator. I remember that I am only one small part of something livelier, like a bubbling brook, bouncing over smooth rocks, being ground down by the loving caress of flowing water. Then, in this moment of original clarity, I can see straight down to the bedrock and far ahead with renewed hope.

Moths become caterpillars and butterflies. Mountains become molehills and beaches. And the rivers that run through our lives eventually converge, returning to the garden from which they came. Never forgetting the Spirit that sustains us, my spirit grows with curiosity, my life becomes richer, and I bow humbly to the One who created all things bright and beautiful.

The Moth, The Mountains, The Rivers by Mary Oliver

Who can guess the luna’s sadness who lives so briefly? Who can guess the impatience of stone longing to be ground down, to be part again of something livelier?

Who can imagine in what heaviness the rivers remember their original clarity?

Strange questions, yet I have spent worthwhile time with them.

And I suggest them to you also, that your spirit grow in curiosity, that your life be richer than it is,

that you bow to the earth as you feel how it actually is,

that we—so clever, and

ambitious, and selfish, and unrestrained—

are only one design of the moving, the vivacious many.

The Messengers

 The Messenger, a Poem by Mary Oliver

“Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?”

I just celebrated a birthday, and while I’m grateful that I have not yet turned a corner into yet another decade, I do wish that the aging process weren’t so difficult at times. Yes, my boots are old. My skin tears more easily!

The pandemic and birthdays remind me that it is important to keep my mind on what matters: breath, life, family, friends. God. You know all the traditional things, large and small, that we count as our blessings: both the sheep and the pasture. We thank God for the flies that eat the fleas in our prison camps. Vaccines that hurt our arms and save our lives. We, like Mary Oliver, rejoice in all of creation.

She mentions “work.” What is that? Loving the world just as it is? Standing still when you’re overwhelmed with gratitude; for seeing a miracle unfold before your eyes? Astonishment when everything turns out for the good?

Gratitude doesn’t always come easy. Mary Oliver reminds me that we have all the ingredients for our “work.” We just need to stand still for a little while, keeping our hearts and minds open. Then our mouths can “shout for joy, telling them all, over and over,” that we are messengers of hope, every single one of us, every single part of creation.

~ “Messenger” by Mary Oliver, from Thirst

My work is loving the world.

Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird—

equal seekers of sweetness.

Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.

Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?

Am I no longer young, and still half-perfect? Let me

keep my mind on what matters,

which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be

astonished.

The phoebe, the delphinium.

The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.

Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart

and these body-clothes,

a mouth with which to give shouts of joy

to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,

telling them all, over and over, how it is

that we live forever.