Musing 17 July or in this moment, a grasshopper

I was talking with my therapist this morning about impermanence. We got there by way of discussing how hard self-forgiveness can be, and I knew there was something about impermanence tied up in it all. Without recounting the entire session (which would be dull for you and too revealing for me) I talked my way through some thoughts about how impermanence is freeing. This came from some meditations and readings I've been practicing, but boy, this morning it all hit home. If nothing is lasting then my small mistakes are unlikely to have the overwhelming impact I seem to think they will, so maybe self-forgiveness is possible. 

I know, there is a lot that can be said here, many devil's advocate positions that can be taken, but let's not.

Anyway, this has me thinking about how the only thing that I can really know is this moment. Right now, the click of the keyboard, the dog panting, the sweetness left in my mouth from my tea, this is what I know. None of this is new to either me or the world (Buddha lived and taught 2500 years ago, after all) but it feels more urgent right now.

I've always interpreted The Summer Day by Mary Oliver as a call to action, to more than the moment, but I see now there is another way to consider it, a way likely closer to her intent. All I have is the moment, my attention and care. I know, one can't fully live this way in practice. Money needs to be earned, the bills must be paid, and this dishes need washing, but perhaps I can approach those actions with more attention and less worry about what comes next. This includes the hard work of marketing, cleaning the dog, deciding what tasks need my attention first, and so on.

I've tried to live this way for many years, but perhaps my practice has slipped. I'll try it and see. It won't solve the woes of the world but maybe it will help a little in this moment and that will ripple forward. I am part of a greater whole and what I do matters, but I can only do what I can in this moment. One small step at a time.

The Summer Day

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?

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