Where Does the Temple Begin, Where Does It End? By Mary Oliver

There are things you can’t reach. But
you can reach out to them, and all day long.

The wind, the bird flying away. The idea of God.

And it can keep you as busy as anything else, and happier.

The snake slides away; the fish jumps, like a little lily,
out of the water and back in; the goldfinches sing
from the unreachable top of the tree.

I look; morning to night I am never done with looking.

Looking I mean not just standing around, but standing around
as though with your arms open.

And thinking: maybe something will come, some
shining coil of wind,
or a few leaves from any old tree–
they are all in this too.

And now I will tell you the truth.
Everything in the world
comes.

At least, closer.

And, cordially.

Like the nibbling, tinsel-eyed fish; the unlooping snake.
Like goldfinches, little dolls of goldfluttering around the corner of the sky

of God, the blue air.

Opening poem chosen and read by Nancy L.

“I crave a wide sea of wordless moments that allow me to express myself in another language, one more ancient and primal.  I want to become a disciple of silence and hear in that shimmering soundlessness the voice of the One who whispers in stillness, whose singing vibrates in stones, who out of the silence calls forth a radical commitment of which I do do not yet know the shape.” — Christine Paintner

Opening reflection chosen and read by Amy W.

• 

• 

I turn the corner into the Old Kitchen’s garden, finding lush mustard greens all drunk with dew and sun.  OHhhhh, my heart exclaims, as if seeing this space for the first time.  As if an invitation was extended just for me.  This, this… as if for the first time, IS the first for me, here, this moment, today.  I felt the truth of that.

I left home to arrive here, walk the paths, hoping that the star magnolias might have ventured some early blossoms, maybe a cherry tree pinked up.  I wondered: like me, what in the garden made it through this past year, or didn’t?  Would I be disappointed if I didn’t see what I expected?

Reverberating in my head the words: “craving for silence, soundlessness.” But this morning, WHAT silence?  Everything is LOUD.  The chirps, caws, of so many freshly fledged, bustin’ to try out their wings and voices across the meadow.  Even a few robins, this far south.  There are shouts of color from snowdrops, camellias, almond blooms, holly berries, moss.  Daffodils stand in the quiet of oak allee, giggling like kids in church.  The labyrinth sings under the river’s splurge– it knows despite the depths, its paths still hold.  

What do we not reach but reach out to?  What do we look on with limbs wide open?  What do we allow to come close, closer?  Bees, worries, bluebirds, brave grey squirrels, bits of wisdom.

Photos and reflection by Amy W.

My meditation was on being open to the world. The woman is stepping into the unknown! I admire her!

Photo and reflection by Nancy B.

• 

• 

I began my walk in a pensive mood, having very recently received news of needed surgery for a beloved family member. Tears of sadness and anxiety flowed, but I knew the tears were necessary and healing. I thought back to the two opening readings and began looking and seeing what presented itself in the present moment… in this extraordinary place of beauty and healing. I first came across spiked sweetgum seed pods which reminded me of life’s pains and challenges.

As I continued to walk I began to open myself to the peace and beauty of Brookgreen, and its energy and light that could sustain us over the next week. This peace then turned to joy and smiles as I observed tiny water plants dancing, and a small alligator sunbathing with a plethora of turtles… using a turtle shell for her pillow!

Anxiety, sadness, peace, beauty, joy…. healing and transformation.

Photos and reflection by Nancy L.