I have been to the sea for a week. It settles me deep in to my contemplative self, and here is a poem which I recalled while I was there. It is by Mary Oliver, who writes so well of the mystery of the soul, and reminds us of the redeeming value of paying close attention to the world (in this case, to sound). As ever, she ends with a reminder of the constant necessity for love. This poem is called Bone.
1.
Understand, I am always trying to figure out
what the soul is,
and where it is hidden,
and what shape
and so, last week,
when I found on the beach
the ear bone
of a pilot whale that may have died
hundreds of years ago, I thought
maybe I was close
to discovering something
for the ear bone
2.
is the portion that lasts longest
in any of us, man or whale; shaped
like a squat spoon
with a pink scoop where
once, in the lively swimmer’s head,
it joined its two sisters
in the house of hearing,
it was only
two in inches long
and thought: the soul
might be like this
so hard, so necessary
3.
yet almost nothing.
Beside me
the grey sea
was opening and shutting its wave-doors,
unfolding over and over
its time ridiculing roar;
I looked but I couldn’t see anything
through its dark-knit glare;
yet don’t we all know, the golden sand
is there at the bottom,
though our eyes have never seen it,
nor can our hands ever catch it
4.
lest we would sift it down
into fractions, and facts
certainties
and what the soul is, also
I believe I will never quite know.
Though I play at the edges of knowing,
truly I know
our part is not knowing,
but looking, and touching, and loving,
which is the way I walked on,
softly,
through the pale pink morning light.
Mary Oliver
traveling is the greatest form of introspection, and the sea for me is the place to go … I love the poem and your connection with it
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