I just wanted to lift up these words from Mary Oliver’s latest book of poems, Thirst. The poem is “On Thy Wondrous Works I Will Meditate (Psalm 145).” It is one of the longer ones, so I am only concerning myself with these:
Every morning I want to kneel down on the golden
cloth of the sand and say
some kind of musical thanks for
the world that is happening again—another day—
from the shawl of wind coming out of the
west to the firm green
flesh of the melon lately sliced open and
eaten, its chill and ample body
flavored with mercy. I want
to be worthy of —-what? Glory? Yes, unimaginable glory.
O Lord of melons, of mercy, though I am
not ready, nor worthy, I am climbing toward you.
I read these words the other night and wept. Stunned by the sound of them, as they ended the poem and I was unprepared for melons and mercy and that climb toward Glory. I am not worthy, nor am I ready, but I am making that climb, each day, starting over at the base. And it is my job to remember that this is not the chore, any more than the ripening of the melon is its chore. It is what we do. We ripen and hope that we are enjoyed, loved, blessed, before we rot on the vine from waiting for that moment when we are worthy, or ready. We wake up, and here it is, another day, another climb toward Glory.
Be thankful; be thankful. For melons and mercy. For Glory. For the climb.