Wealth Management

The poet Mary Oliver is so dang cool! Here's a poem by her that a fellow EfMer offered as a prayer at one of our sessions.

Messenger by Mary Oliver

My work is loving the world.
Here the sunflowers, there the hummingbird--
equal seekers of sweetness.
Here the quickening yeast; there the blue plums.
Here the clam deep in the speckled sand.

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work.

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.
The phoebe, the delphinium.
The sheep in the pasture, and the pasture.
Which is mostly rejoicing, since all the ingredients are here,

which is gratitude, to be given a mind and a heart
and these body-clothes,
a mouth with which to give shouts of joy
to the moth and the wren, to the sleepy dug-up clam,
telling them all, over and over, how it is
that we live forever.

Our work is loving the world. It seems to me this is primary work for all of us, not just for poets. Being absolutely gobsmacked by the beauty that surrounds us, that's the spiritual practice of gratitude -- which is relational -- which is healing.

For many of us these days there's a gnawing uncertainty at the back of our thoughts. The awareness of the precarious nature of financial well being has visited us. It has always been true that the security of the world is ephemeral. We've just, up until now, had a run of very good luck. Our country has managed to stay stable enough and peaceful enough to make us all wealthy. Lucky us.

But now the deeper reality is breaking through. As Jesus was fond of pointing out, wherever things are piled up, thieves can get in, and nature can take its course -- in spite of the very best security systems and insurance policies. "My soul," says the man with the bulging barns, "look at what we've piled up here. We're set. We can rejoice." But Death comes that very night and claims the man's soul, and what becomes of his full barns then?

Where is our true wealth? It is in the fall of water over stones, the scent of Russian olive trees in June, the flash of bird wing, the bright display of sunset in towering cumulus, the rumble of thunder heard from within a dry shelter. It is in community -- in those moments when friends delight in us, when somebody allows us to help them, when our softball team celebrates a good play. It is in the existence of our grandchildren, our children and our parents, our dogs with their soulful eyes and hopeful tails, our kitties purring in our laps, our friends. When a beautiful line of song lifts our hearts, when the momentary lapse of attention does not result in a twisted ankle, when the tense cashier offers a joke instead of a criticism, we are rich.

"Are my boots old, is my coat torn
Am I no longer young and still not half perfect. Let me"

Time to turn -- turn around -- time for metanoia. In the ancient practice of Gratitude we learn to see the world anew, alight with abundance. "Let me," really is a good prayer. Let me see what there is to celebrate. Let me remember to look. Let me "keep my mind on what matters."

The world longs to be loved. Cherishing her flamboyant displays and her secret hidden treasures is a spiritual work that has no parallel. It roots our souls to ground. We also long to be loved. When we find our place in a community that just thinks we're the cat's meow, we are free to express our deepest natures. This is also a spiritual work without equal.

So, let me. Let all of us. Let us do our work.