I was practicing my calligraphy and bored out of my gourd writing out the alphabet. Somewhere between K and Q, Wild Geese by Mary Oliver started running through my head. I abandoned R to Z and wrote out her poem instead.
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to say yes to every invitation or request. You do not always have to agree with or do what is right or polite or expected. You can kick a gift horse in the mouth. You can be into thunder, simply because secretly you know you’re lightning. And when the thunder rolls, you do not have to walk on your knees for a hundred miles in the desert repenting, because someone sometime did that once so that’s what you should do, too.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body love what it loves.
Whether that be taking time for yourself rather than giving it away, shuffling through fallen leaves in the park or abandoning the calligraphy alphabet exercise to write out a nice poem instead.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I’ll tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world really does go on. It seems to know not to dwell. Besides, it’s busy letting the soft animal of its body love what it loves, which means pushing those clear pebbles of rain across the landscape, over the prairies and the deep trees, the mountains and the rivers.
The world offers itself to your imagination.
How kind. How generous. How delightful. The world, presenting itself on a platter, daily, for your musings and to feed your curiosities. And those geese, high in the clean blue air are cheering you on, announcing your place in the family of things. They are heading home, as are we all, but in the meantime, they are reminding us that we all in this together.