Poem | The Summer Day, by Mary Oliver

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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 Is What You Shall Do," by Walt Whitman

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"This is what you shall do; Love the earth and sun and the animals, despise riches, give alms to every one that asks, stand up for the stupid and crazy, devote your income and labor to others, hate tyrants, argue not concerning God, have patience and indulgence toward the people, take off your hat to nothing known or unknown or to any man or number of men, go freely with powerful uneducated persons and with the young and with the mothers of families, read these leaves in the open air every season of every year of your life, re-examine all you have been told at school or church or in any book, dismiss whatever insults your own soul, and your very flesh shall be a great poem and have the richest fluency not only in its words but in the silent lines of its lips and face and between the lashes... of your eyes and in every motion and joint of your body."

Excerpt | Don't Take Yourself Too Seriously, by Vlad Dolezal

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The rain was pouring down as if a whole sea had evaporated then moved through the sky and decided to rain back down right in my city. I just came home from shopping, and the few minutes it took me to walk from the subway to my home got me pretty well drenched.

I had two choices. I could grab a quick hot shower, change into dry clothes, and enjoy listening to the rain. I kinda felt like doing that. Or, I could go back outside into the rain. I really felt like doing that.

For a few moments I struggled with thoughts like “Why the hell would I want to go outside?” and “What would people think if they saw me?”. Then I stopped myself. I realized all that’s just nonsense. And I told myself – “What the hell. I’m a man. I don’t need to have a REASON for what I do.“

See full post here.

Poem | Self Portrait, by David Whyte

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It doesn’t interest me if there is one God
Or many gods.
I want to know if you belong — or feel abandoned;
If you know despair
Or can see it in others.
I want to know
If you are prepared to live in the world
With its harsh need to change you;
If you can look back with firm eyes
Saying “this is where I stand.”
I want to know if you know how to melt
Into that fierce heat of living
Falling toward the center of your longing.
I want to know if you are willing
To live day by day
With the consequence of love
And the bitter unwanted passion
Of your sure defeat.
I have been told
In that fierce embrace
Even the gods
Speak of God.