Noting the details of our joy

An ode to the daffodil

Somewhere
a black bear
has just risen from sleep
and is staring

down the mountain.
All night
in the brisk and shallow restlessness
of early spring

I think of her,
her four black fists
flicking the gravel,
her tongue

like a red fire
touching the grass,
the cold water.
There is only one question:

how to love this world.
I think of her
rising
like a black and leafy ledge

to sharpen her claws against
the silence
of the trees.
Whatever else

my life is
with its poems
and its music
and its glass cities,

it is also this dazzling darkness
coming
down the mountain,
breathing and tasting;

all day I think of her -—
her white teeth,
her wordlessness,
her perfect love.

- Mary Oliver

I bought daffodils today at the store. “Again?” my daughter asks. “They are only around for a short while,” I remind her, “ and they are my favorite. I enjoy them.”

This is true. “I enjoy them.”

Have you ever noticed how detailed we can be about something that we don’t like? Or frustrates us? We’ll even focus on the minutiae of how something at work really annoyed us or the ways someone made us angry. We can go on.

And on.

Do we do the same about the things that bring light into our days? That make us smile?

What if we spent more time detailing our joy?

What do we notice?

How does what we enjoy make us feel?

How do we feel as we detail it?

I tried this with my daffodils.

What is it, exactly, that I enjoy?

I enjoy the way daffodils unwrap from such a simple stem and brown paper-like buds to announce to the world that spring is upon us.

I enjoy that they are one of the only flowers you cannot buy all year. It’s early spring or not at all for the daffodil.

I enjoy the brightness of their yellows.

I enjoy how strong the trumpet flares amidst the delicate petals. Strong, forthright, and delicate. I am reminded that we can be both at the same time.

I enjoy that they are actually quite scentless. They don’t need to be everything. And in that, they are fully themselves.

I enjoy how I feel when I spy them in the store, always to the side because they are not showy….yet.

I enjoy how they change in the night. I always wake up to a different daffodil than the one I said goodnight to.

There is so much to learn and relearn from the daffodil.

Jena Schwartz posted on the Equinox with a call to welcome the season with a poem. Immediately I turned to the volumes of Mary Oliver on my shelf. One thing I take away from Mary Oliver is that it is in the details, the minute connections, the flicker of awe, and the weight in her language that her love of the world comes through. She shows such courage in sharing all she notices. She inspires me to ask:

• In what ways do we note the details of our joy?

• How might we strengthen our connections to what we love by noticing it?

• What awe and weight flickers in your memory when you enjoy something?

• What else is there to notice here?

• How might you be courageous in your noticing?

• How might you be courageous in your sharing?

Her poem, Spring, posits “There is only one question: / how to love this world.”

How to love this world?

Today, at the end of the rains here in California, and at the start of spring, I answer. Through the daffodil. (I smile)

Through the noticing. ( I breathe on that)

The daffodils have already plumped since I cut them and put them on the table. Yes, I tell my daughter. I bought them again so I can enjoy them.

How do you love this world?

Happy Spring.