Down in the grass.
I recently stumbled upon a poem by Mary Oliver, ironically called “The Summer Day”. The irony is all mine, since I’m writing this in the dead of winter.
The whole piece is worth a read, but the part that stood out for me goes like this:
I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
The moment my eyes first landed on these words, I felt… seen. Spoken to. I guess that’s the magic of poetry in general.
I do know what a prayer is. At least what I have been taught it should be. But I always found it easier to “pray” to the blades of grass, the warm spring sun, or the soothing breeze on a quiet summer evening.
That’s where I find my own personal version of God.
I also do know how to pay attention. In fact, if you ask a lot of people in my life (past and present), they will likely tell you I pay too much attention. 🤭
I will admit, it can be something of a rabbit hole. I can easily get lost in the details, and end up feeling that I am too idle. That I don’t do much, or not fast enough. If I’m feeling particularly self-critical, I will even say I’m wasting my time.
But am I, really?
Down in the grass can be a wonderful place to be. There’s something transcendental about it. It takes me back to a time when things were much simpler.
Sadly, I did not grow up in the countryside. I didn’t have family who owned a piece of land, never spent entire summers in the sun, wandering through fields and meadows.
Yet somehow I’ve always been drawn to it. The city, despite all its benefits, can feel extremely suffocating. I feel like a fish out of water. It’s strange to yearn for something you never really knew.
What I can do for now is to continue paying attention. There’s magic in the city too, I just have to look harder.