Paintings by Drea

At the River Clarion
by Mary Oliver

I don’t know who God is exactly.
But I’ll tell you this.
I was sitting in the river named Clarion, on a water splashed stone
and all afternoon I listened to the voices of the river talking.
Whenever the water struck a stone it had something to say,
and the water itself, and even the mosses trailing under the water.
And slowly, very slowly, it became clear to me what they were saying.
Said the river I am part of holiness.
And I too, said the stone. And I too, whispered the moss beneath the water.

I’d been to the river before, a few times.
Don’t blame the river that nothing happened quickly.
You don’t hear such voices in an hour or a day.
You don’t hear them at all if selfhood has stuffed your ears.
And it’s difficult to hear anything anyway, through all the traffic, the ambition.

2.

If God exists he isn’t just butter and good luck.
He’s also the tick that killed my wonderful dog Luke.
Said the river: imagine everything you can imagine, then keep on going.

Imagine how the lily (who may also be a part of God) would sing to you if it could sing,
if you would pause to hear it.
And how are you so certain anyway that it doesn’t sing?

If God exists he isn’t just churches and mathematics.
He’s the forest, He’s the desert.
He’s the ice caps, that are dying.
He’s the ghetto and the Museum of Fine Arts.

He’s van Gogh and Allen Ginsberg and Robert Motherwell.
He’s the many desperate hands, cleaning and preparing their weapons.
He’s every one of us, potentially.
The leaf of grass, the genius, the politician, the poet.
And if this is true, isn’t it something very important?

Yes, it could be that I am a tiny piece of God, and each of you too, or at least
of his intention and his hope.
Which is a delight beyond measure.
I don’t know how you get to suspect such an idea.
I only know that the river kept singing.
It wasn’t a persuasion, it was all the river’s own constant joy
which was better by far than a lecture, which was comfortable, exciting, unforgettable.

3.

Of course for each of us, there is the daily life.
Let us live it, gesture by gesture.
When we cut the ripe melon, should we not give it thanks?
And should we not thank the knife also?
We do not live in a simple world.

4.

There was someone I loved who grew old and ill
One by one I watched the fires go out.
There was nothing I could do

except to remember
that we receive
then we give back.

5.

My dog Luke lies in a grave in the forest, she is given back.
But the river Clarion still flows from wherever it comes from
to where it has been told to go.
I pray for the desperate earth.
I pray for the desperate world.
I do the little each person can do, it isn’t much.
Sometimes the river murmurs, sometimes it raves.

6.

Along its shores were, may I say, very intense cardinal flowers.
And trees, and birds that have wings to uphold them, for heaven’s sakes–
the lucky ones: they have such deep natures,
they are so happily obedient.
While I sit here in a house filled with books,
ideas, doubts, hesitations.

7.

And still, pressed deep into my mind, the river
keeps coming, touching me, passing by on its
long journey, its pale, infallible voice
singing.

Paintings by Drea

First Yoga Lesson

“Be a lotus in the pond,” she said, “opening
slowly, no single energy tugging
against another but peacefully,
all together.”

I couldn’t even touch my toes.
“Feel your quadriceps stretching?” she asked.
Well, something was certainly stretching.

Standing impressively upright, she
raised one leg and placed it against
the other, then lifted her arms and
shook her hands like leaves. “Be a tree,” she said.

I lay on the floor, exhausted.
But to be a lotus in the pond
opening slowly, and very slowly rising–
that I could do.

~ by Mary Oliver

Paintings by Drea

Messenger
By Mary Oliver

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 not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is 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.

Paintings by Drea

Can You Imagine?
By Mary Oliver

For example, what the trees do
not only in lightning storms
or the watery dark of a summer’s night
or under the white nets of winter
but now, and now, and now – whenever
we’re not looking. Surely you can’t imagine
they don’t dance, from the root up, wishing
to travel a little, not cramped so much as wanting
a better view, or more sun, or just as avidly
more shade – surely you can’t imagine they just
stand there loving every
minute of it, the birds or the emptiness, the dark rings
of the years slowly and without a sound
thickening, and nothing different unless the wind,
and then only in its own mood, comes
to visit, surely you can’t imagine
patience, and happiness, like that.

Paintings by Drea

Mysteries, Yes
By Mary Oliver

Truly, we live with mysteries too marvelous
to be understood.

How grass can be nourishing in the
mouths of the 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.

Let me keep my distance, always, from those
who think they have the answers.

Let me keep company always with those who say
“Look!” and laugh in astonishment,
and bow their heads.

Paintings by Drea

Night Herons
by Mary Oliver

Some herons were fishing in the robes of the night
At a low hour of the water’s body,
And the fish I suppose, were full
Of fish happiness in those transparent inches
Even as, over and over, the beaks jacked down
And the narrow bodies were lifted
With every quick sally,
And that was the end of them as far as we know-
Though, what do we know except that death
Is so everywhere and so entire-
Pummeling and felling,
Or sometimes,
Like this, appearing
Through such a thing door-
One stab and you’re through!
And what then?
Why, then it was almost morning,
And one by one the birds opened their wings and flew.

Paintings by Drea

What Do We Know
Mary Oliver

The sky cleared
I was standing
under a tree.
and there were stars in the sky
that were also themselves
at the moment
at which moment
my right hand
was holding my left hand
which was holding the tree
which was filled with stars
and the soft rain —
imagine! Imagine!
the long and wondrous journeys
still to be ours.

Paintings by Drea

Moon and Water
by Mary Oliver

I wake and spend
the last hours
of darkness
with no one

but the moon.
She listens
to my complaints
like the good

companion she is
and comforts me surely
with her light.
But she, like everyone,

has her own life.
So finally I understand
that she has turned away,
is no longer listening.

She wants me
to refold myself
into my own life.
And, bending close,

as we all dream of doing,
she rows with her white arms
through the dark water
which she adores.

Darkness and Light 2015 by Drea
http://dreajensengallery.artistwebsites.com/featured/darkness-and-light-2015-drea-jensen.html

Darkness and Light
by Drea

Spirit move us,
bless divine light,
excite adventure.

Unfold beauty,
create space,
hold hands.

Strength reflect,
brilliance in the eye,
darkness and light.

Paintings by Drea

Dear Heart Comes Home
By Mary Oliver

I keep pulling it out – I keep pulling it out –

The old map of my inner path.

I squint closely at it,

Trying to see some hidden road

That maybe I’ve missed.

But there’s nothing there now

Except some well-traveled paths.

They have seen my footsteps often,

Held my laughter, caught my tears.

I keep going over the old map

But now the roads lead nowhere,

A meaningless wilderness

Where life is dull and futile.

“Toss away the old map,” she says.

“You must be kidding!” I reply.

She looks at me with Sarah eyes

And repeats, “Toss it away.

It’s of no use where you are going.”

“I have to have a map?” I cry.

“Even if it takes me nowhere.

I can’t be without a direction.”

She says, “So why not let go, be free?”

So there I am – tossing away the old map,

Sadly, fearfully, putting it behind me.

“Whatever will I do?” wails my security.

“Trust me” says my mid-life soul.

No map, no specific directions.

No “This way ahead” or “Take a left.”

How will I know where to go?

How will I find my way? No map!

But then my mid-life soul whispers:

“There was a time before maps

When pilgrims traveled by the stars.”

It is time for the pilgrim in me

To travel in the dark,

To learn to read the stars

That shine in my soul

I will walk deeper

Into the dark of my night,

I will wait for the stars,

Trust their guidance,

And let their light be enough for me.