From “Mindful,” by Mary Oliver
“Every day / I see or I hear / something / that more or less / kills me / with delight, / that leaves me / like a needle / in the haystack / of light.”
That’s really what mindfulness is, isn’t it?
Slowing down, sitting still, paying attention closely enough to see a little sliver of the magic all around.
Mary Oliver always brings to mind a decade of mind-melding with a best friend from college. This summer, we took a road trip and share poetry in the tent at night. I read a bunch of Brian Doyle, and she shared much of Mary Oliver, our old muse.
And that’s delight: a friend, a hike, a book, the fullness of a warm meal cooked with no recipe over a single burner, a tent on the beach by the redwood forest.
The realization that, in the grand scheme of the universe, we’re not even a needle in the haystack.