Dear Friends,We pray you are safe and well. All of the snow reminded me of one of my all-time favorite Mary Oliver poems--it takes my breath away--White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field.
It is Today's Meditation as the church and the world celebrate Candlemas Day, Groundhog Day, The Presentation of Jesus, The Purification of Mary--she and we don't need purification; I think Mary Oliver has it right: enwrapped, enraptured by dazzling, embracing. awe-some Light and Love, bringing new Life.We invite you to join us as we commit ourselves to working tirelessly to end systemic and structural racism in our society, in healthcare, in the workplace, in the Church--wherever it shows up so that everyone may come to have more abundant life. May this meditation nourish our contemplative-active hearts and sustain all of us in action. In the spirit of our philosophy of co-creating community and our awareness that the Spirit speaks through each of us, we invite you to share your meditations with us as well. We truly believe that in God’s economy of abundance, when we share our blessings, our thoughts, our feelings, we are all made richer. We hope and pray that you and your loved ones experience genuine peace of mind and heart, and remain in good health during this challenging time. In this time of Covid surge and new beginnings for our country, may you find peace, healing, hope, and the infusion of joy in your life!With our love and care,Ron & Jean
MEDITATION 269: White Owl Flies Into and Out of the Field (Mary Oliver)
| Detail from Audubon Plate 121 Snowy Owl |
by Mary OliverComing down out of the freezing sky
with its depths of light,
like an angel, or a Buddha with wings,
it was beautiful, and accurate,
striking the snow and whatever was there
with a force that left the imprint
of the tips of its wings — five feet apart —
and the grabbing thrust of its feet,
and the indentation of what had been running
through the white valleys of the snow —
and then it rose, gracefully,
and flew back to the frozen marshes
to lurk there, like a little lighthouse,
in the blue shadows —
so I thought:
maybe death isn't darkness, after all,
but so much light wrapping itself around us —as soft as feathers —
that we are instantly weary of looking, and looking,
and shut our eyes, not without amazement,
and let ourselves be carried,
as through the translucence of mica,
to the river that is without the least dapple or shadow,
that is nothing but light — scalding, aortal light —
in which we are washed and washed
out of our bones.