Last night I dreamt I was a student at some prestigious university, fast approaching finals.  I opened my binder to get a sense for how to prepare, and realized I had completely forgotten to attend one of my classes.  All semester.  I realized my notes for my other classes were mostly gone, and that the few notes left were only doodles, little notes to myself having nothing to do with course content.  I flipped and flipped through that binder, willing something to change.  What did show up were a bunch of voting sheets I had agreed a month previous to tally for a club I was in, and had completely forgotten to tally.  The dream went on like this.

I’m not sure what triggered this dream, whether my entry into book revision mode, and the accompanying pressure to get other things published along the way (…the feeling like I should already have much more published), or the fact that I went to a play last night (or stood in line for a play, rather; it ended up being sold out) that was to be introduced by a famous author, and the woman in line behind me asked if I’ve ever read his stuff, and I have, a little, but can’t for the life of me remember the names of what I’ve read, or the content.  But regardless of why the dream came now, it’s a good picture of some of the yuck that pops up in me sometimes.  This nagging fear that I’m not prepared for some important thing, some thing I have no business not being ready for.  The fear that the tasks I so heartfully do aren’t the right ones, and I’ll wake someday to that fact.

So when I opened Seeker’s sight today, and read the following poem, it was just what I needed to hear.  Mary Oliver has such a good effect on me.  She makes me feel more comfortable being me (and me means knowing and doing only what I know and do), blessed to be nothing other.  Thanks for posting this, Seeker.

The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

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?

This entry was posted on Friday, April 14th, 2006 at 9:31 am and is filed under Psychology, Writing. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can skip to the end and leave a response. Pinging is currently not allowed.