Open Mics, Mary Oliver, and a Grasshopper

Today I am grateful for the open mic opportunities a couple Tuesdays a month at a local brewery. I appreciate how I am learning and growing in my own artistry as a writer and poet, and I also give thanks for the connections, big and small, that I make with others at these events.

Each time I go, I leave content in my effort and proud that I took some risks. The inner critic, who used to be so loud, is now made quieter by the inner voice of self-compassion.

Each time I go, I also make connections with others that bring me energy and a sense of belonging and connection. It might be a head nod or a smile at something I said. It may be a comment, compliment, or thumbs up. Maybe even a meaningful conversation with someone I just met, but who was reached by my words or my own vulnerability. Worthwhile experiences, all of them. Thank you to all who make these evenings possible and those who show up for them.

One of the poems I shared last evening was Mary Oliver’s “The Summer Day.” Many of you have heard the famous closing lines, but the entire poem is incredible. I was telling a story about our recent road trip and the scenery and being a captive audience of the best kind as we traversed beautiful countryside. Life is best lived noticing the good energy around us and within us. The little things aren’t so little. Life is full of wonder and awe, and Mary Oliver captures that so well.

Enjoy the read. Thank you Mary Oliver! Onward!

The Summer Day

Who made the world?

Who made the swan, and the black bear?

Who made the grasshopper?

This grasshopper, I mean—

the one who has flung herself out of the grass,

the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,

who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—

who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.

Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.

Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.

I don't know exactly what a prayer is.

I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down

into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,

how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,

which is what I have been doing all day.

Tell me, what else should I have done?

Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?

Tell me, what is it you plan to do

with your one wild and precious life?

—Mary Oliver