Issue #221: The Spiritual Practice I Learned from My Favorite Poets
This Mary Oliver poem is packed with wisdom.
“Every day I see or hear something that more or less kills me with delight, that leaves me like a needle in the haystack of light.” — Mary Oliver, ‘Mindful’
The monastery looked like something out of “West World.” Nestled against a sandstone and red rock canyon, at the dead end of a 13-mile dirt road that follows the Rio Chama in New Mexico, I could almost feel its hushed reverence before I saw it on a run with my dog, Toast. The surrounding area itself was remote enough that I hadn’t seen another person in days when I tied Toast to the railing outside and put my ear to the church’s ornate wood door. The last thing I expected to hear was the sound of a vacuum, banging against the other side.
I tried the door and a vacuum-toting Benedictine monk ushered me in, but as soon as I had entered the apse, another shooed me out, “Can’t you see we’re cleaning?” I exited quickly, a little stunned and embarrassed, as I collected Toast and headed back down the road, racing the lowering sun to get back to our campsite.
I hadn’t even left the monastery’s property when I encountered three deer, a doe with her two fawns. They regarded Toast and me, before bounding away in unison. I was nearly knocked over by the sight. It felt holy in the way I had expected the church to be and I stood in awe, then captured a quick video in the final seconds before they disappeared into the sage brush. As I did, a fragment from a Mary Oliver poem entered my mind, Every day I see or hear something that more or less fills me with delight.