happiness done right

There are two striking ideas in this poem which stand out to me. First...   "Loss is the great lesson." Perhaps... it would make more sense to say... "loss is a great teacher."  OK...so that is true, and  I have learned so much this past year about that and have so much more yet to learn. But I have also written so much about that...I don't feel like belaboring the point right now.

There is another teacher... the One who fills us with Light. I tell you, there are lessons everywhere when we humble ourselves and pay attention.

The thing I love about this poem is the verse  "Light is an invitation to happiness, and that happiness, when it's done right, is a kind of holiness..."  Yes, what a concept.  I try to remember that the fruit of the Spirit includes "joy" and that when our hearts are at peace there is such joy to be found in the daily experiences of life.  The really small minutia that is all over the place...allowing myself to be touched by the way a friend got so animated when talking to me the other day that a finger was being pointed in my face...I loved it...the way my cat, when really enjoying being pet, puts his face against mine and pushes against me... the incredible way it feels to be out for an early morning walk this time of year, the taste of pie and coffee, the urge and the act of generosity and kindness, the satisfaction of completing a task, the moment of tender compassion.  It is a type of holiness...  far different from the selfish and self-centered pleasure seeking that puts me at the center of the universe...it involve being awake and aware and thankful for all the many blessings that flow down and through our lives. Like this poem and like the poet, Mary Oliver... Incredible.  The harsh teacher named "loss" can't compete with the Teacher who loves.  I've learned from both.  Anyway, you get the idea...  Here's the poem...


Poppies

Mary Oliver

The poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation


of bright dust, of thin
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't


sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage


shines like a miracle
as it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,


black, curved blade
from hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.


But I also say this: that light
is an invitation
to happiness,
and that happiness,


when it's done right,
is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,


touched by their rough and spongy gold,
I am washed and washed
in the river
of earthly delight—


and what are you going to do—
what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?