“Fretting around the sharp rocks…”

I spend the day facilitating a meeting at The Grail. It’s still unseasonably warm; sunny. The air is moist. the sod spongy. At lunch I stand outside in the sun breathing–taking in the moment and sending prayers to my friend, Diana. To my left, I see the first sign of spring.

WEST WIND #2

You are young. So you know everything. You leap
into the boat and begin rowing. But listen to me.
Without fanfare, without embarrassment, without
any doubt, I talk directly to your soul. Listen to me.
Lift the oars from the water, let your arms rest, and
your heart, and heart’s little intelligence, and listen to
me. There is life without love. It is not worth a bent
penny, or a scuffed shoe. It is not worth the body of
a dead dog nine days unburied. When you hear, a mile
away and still out of sight, the churn of the water
as it begins to swirl and roil, fretting around the
sharp rocks – when you hear that unmistakable
pounding – when you feel the mist on your mouth
and sense ahead the embattlement, the long falls
plunging and steaming – then row, row for your life
toward it.

- MARY OLIVER -