Today I looked to see if I have any ripe blueberries, but no. I checked the peas, which I am disappointed by this year. I decided to try some new varieties and I don't like them as much as my old standbys. As I wandered I noticed the first daylilies are blooming. The orange jumped out with the June energy that this month is all about. I picked one flower and walked to the studio meditating on my mother and her habit of picking single flowers for fear of damaging the plant and how she wanted to save more blossoms for the future. I put the flower head in a small cup--like she might have--next to a recent poem cup which, in turn, is based on a rough draft of a poem that she wrote.
Entering the Kingdom [by Mary Oliver]
When I work on the poem cups I often use one of my Mom's poems as a jumping off point. The poem becomes my lens of attention. I draw/write the lines, my mind focused on the
words, but without any judgment of good or bad because it is printed
backwards. Appearing inverted I don't worry about legibility or
spelling. The intention is balanced with an attention to the specificity
of the verse. This focus allows me to learn something about the
interactive mark of the hand, the expression of the material, and the
lens of attention.
Entering the Kingdom [by Mary Oliver]The crows see me.
They stretch their glossy necks
In the tallest branches
Of green trees. I am
Possibly dangerous, I am
Entering the kingdom.
The dream of my life
Is to lie down by a slow river
And stare at the light in the trees-
To learn something by being nothing
A little while but the rich
Lens of attention.
But the crows puff their feathers and cry
Between me and the sun,
And I should go now.
They know me for what I am.
No dreamer,
They stretch their glossy necks
In the tallest branches
Of green trees. I am
Possibly dangerous, I am
Entering the kingdom.
The dream of my life
Is to lie down by a slow river
And stare at the light in the trees-
To learn something by being nothing
A little while but the rich
Lens of attention.
But the crows puff their feathers and cry
Between me and the sun,
And I should go now.
They know me for what I am.
No dreamer,
No eater of leaves.
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