Secret Bin Of Sweetness

Again felt the need to unplug. Get to the bottom of my essence, find that core, stoke it and watch the brilliance unfold and shine out. Still digging my well, building my tower.

And it's coming along quite nicely, thank you.

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I'd like to come home to my blog and give us this beautiful poem by Mary Oliver, from her book of poetry American Primitive. My dear friend Ryan gave me this book on a rainy Oregon Coast weekend this fall, one of the treasured weekends I got to spend in wild, musical passion with my extended family of conscious friends and teachers.

--

Like that weekend, today the wind rushes through the leaves, sounding like a wooden rain maker being turned and turned and turned; the rain comes in waves, showering the damp earth and leaving a mist for the moss to drink up; thunder rolls some ways off, vaguely threatening. In the front of the book Ryan wrote: "May your winter be warm with words and wet with rain." It is here we will visit the bear and her drunken, fulfilled happiness.

Happiness

In the afternoon I watched
the she-bear; she was looking
for the secret bin of sweetness--
honey, that the bees store
in the trees' soft caves.
Black block of gloom, she climbed down
tree after tree and shuffled on
through the woods. And then
she found it! The honey-house deep
as heartwood, and dipped into it
among the swarming bees--honey and comb
she lipped and tongued and scooped out
in her black nails, until

maybe she grew full, or sleepy, or maybe
a little drunk, and sticky
down the rungs of her arms,
and began to hum and sway.
I saw her let go of the branches,
I saw her lift her honeyed muzzle
into the leaves, and her thick arms,
as though she would fly--
an enormous bee
all sweetness and wings--
down into the meadows, the perfection
of honeysuckle and roses and clover--
to float and sleep in the sheer nets
swaying from flower to flower
day after shining day.