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.