When you don’t have the answers

Some thoughts prompted somewhat by celebrating a birthday, the passing of time, and another poem by Mary Oliver.  A lot of the time I do not have answers to the questions that arise in me or to why things have happened. But increasingly, as the poet describes, I do not dwell too long on them as they have a capacity to stir up discontent. I prefer now not to try to put names or words on my journey, but to keep my heart moving towards an interior openness, or, in the image the poem uses,  to walk in an unnamed broad field. To let in space and the vastness of the world. All I can do is open up; what happens afterwards is not within my control. I will just try to welcome it. Life is an adventure, that continually surprises. Its joy and freshness lie there.

How did it come to be
that I am no longer young
and the world that keeps time

in its own way has just been born?
I don’t have the answers
and anyway I have become suspicious

of such questions,
and as for hope, that tender advisement,
even that

I’m going to leave behind.
I’m just going to put on
my jacket, my boots,
I’m just going to go out

to sleep all this night
in some unnamed, flowered corner
of the pasture.

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