The moon rounds to fullness, which is why, perhaps, I’m roused at 3am.
I am fine to find myself wrapped in the warmth of jersey sheets, my husband sleeping next to me, my own eyes open in the dark.
It’s time to read Mary Oliver. This is the whisper heard upon my waking.
So by 3:11, I’m barefoot with a cardigan in the kitchen. Making coffee and lighting patchouli incense in the stove top flame.
A line of fragrant smoke streams, coffee cup steams, and laptop computer keys are traced by fingers following a thread.
I find Wild Geese. High and soaring.
Feel the soft animal of my body, so close and tender.
Such relief to find myself just nestled. Letting in the sweet space.
Loving what I love.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting —
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.