Mysteries
Everyday
“Truly,
we live with mysteries too marvelous to be understood.
How
grass can be nourishing in the mouths of 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...”
Mary
Oliver (Mysteries, Yes)
This
week, Holy Week, I want to delve into everyday miracles. We well
know the mysteries of the Easter season—how one man, born to lead,
chose a course of such power and humility that he ended up on a Roman
cross. How he hung with a thief on either side, while his own
hand-picked disciples abandoned him. How he told one of those being
executed beside him, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” We
know the mystery of how women, so invisible that no one noticed or cared they
were there, stood at the foot of his cross and bore with him the
burden of death, witnesses. We know the mystery of the empty tomb and
the visitations of Jesus after his death and resurrection. Isn't it
strange that we accept all this, even the supernatural, and yet we do
not notice the miraculous all around us?
I
have watched Spring slowly unfold in spite of the lingering cold and
torrential rains. Narcissus and jonquils steadfastly push up their
tender stalks, open their buttery faces to the sun. Day-lilies,
lambs-ear, lemon balm continue to crawl out of the ground, more
leaves everyday. The rose pushes out new green growth from brown
stalks that appeared dead just two weeks ago. These will not be
denied their moment. It is time! Weather be damned! How is it, given
sleet and temperatures below freezing, they don't lose that
determination. I have beautiful volunteer lettuce, seeds that did
not germinate last year, bountiful in the flower box on the porch. I
don't question providence; I just make fresh salads and watch the
gloomy, gray skies.
Only
a poet like Mary Oliver can put into words the magic of this season.
I'm sure there are scientific explanations—I don't want to hear
them. I want to appreciate the mystery, to applaud the chutzpah of
flowers as I run, bundled against the cold, from my heated house to
my heated car. The red-buds know the answers, and that's enough for
me.
In
the spirit,
Jane
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