Rice
by: Mary Oliver
It grew in the black mud.
It grew under the tiger's orange paws.
Its stems thinner than candles, and as straight.
Its leaves like the feathers of egrets, but green.
The grains cresting, wanting to burst.
Oh, blood of the tiger.
I don't want you just to sit down at the table.
I don't want you just to eat, and be content.
I want you to walk out into the fields
where the water is shining, and the rice has risen.
I want you to stand there, far from the white tablecloth.
I want you to fill your hands with the mud, like a blessing.
We don't always think about the food on our plates. How it's planted or raised. Where it's planted or raised. Who planted or raised it. We simply take it for granted--the way we take clean water or electricity or shoes for granted. These daily luxuries (yes, they are luxuries) are just part of our daily existences. Until they're not.
If there's one thing I've learned from Mary Oliver, it's this: don't take even the smallest gifts, like a grain of rice, for granted. Think about it. We don't meditate on the black mud, the candle-thin stems, or egret-feather leaves of rice. We just load up our plates, slop on some butter or mix in vegetables, and call it good.
But everything has a story, including the food on our dinner tables. I went for a few walks with my puppy today. The day was brilliantly warm and blue, and my puppy chased after a couple bunnies, barked at cars, and rolled on her back to let some kids scratch her belly. Nobody who saw or encountered her knew her story, How, just a few months ago, she nearly died. How we weren't even sure she would walk normally again. All the people saw today was a cute little miniature Australian shepherd, full of energy and love.
That's what I'm talking about. Every time my puppy goes for a stroll, every step she takes, is a blessing, just like the mud where the rice grows. I used to take these walks for granted. Now, I realize that each and every one of them is miraculous. Like the eggs in my refrigerator or the cold water that cascades from my faucet every time I turn the handle. I don't have to raise chickens or walk 20 miles to the nearest well to have these things in my life.
Outside of church tonight, after I was done playing the pipe organ for Mass, I stopped at the flower gardens. There was a riot of black-eyed Susans blooming. They stole my breath. I've the watched the people tending the flowers all summer long. Weeding. Watering, Deadheading. I've watched bees flitting from blossom to blossom, doing their pollination dance.
Even these flowers have stories.
So, tonight's post is a narrative of blessings, small and large.
And Saint Marty gives thanks for each and every one of them.
