Some days seem to know exactly what they are.
Friday was one of those days.
Lynette and I went to see the new Mary Oliver documentary at SIFF near Seattle Center. Before the film, we stopped by KEXP, where I nursed a nitro coffee while soaking in one of my favorite public spaces in the city. Afterwards, we wandered over to Pub 70 on the waterfront and split a Reuben with craft cocktails, then made our way to the Olympic Sculpture Park just in time to watch the sun sink into Salish Sea.
Honestly, can you imagine a better Seattle day?
It felt unhurried.
Attentive.
Grateful.
Which, now that I think about it, was the perfect way to spend a day with Mary Oliver.
As the credits rolled, I found myself thinking about my former colleague, Christie Lynk, who first introduced me to Mary’s poetry years ago. I’m grateful she did. There are people who don’t simply recommend an author—they introduce you to a companion for life. Christie did that for me, and so much more.
For years now Mary Oliver has been one of the deepest influences on my writing—not because I write like her (I wish), but because she taught me that paying attention is itself a spiritual practice. Her poems have long invited me to slow down enough to discover that the ordinary world is never merely ordinary.
Even through a documentary, she was still teaching me.
One story especially lodged itself in my imagination.
Early in her career, when publishers were still rejecting much of her poetry, Oliver occasionally wrote for The New York Times. She found herself wondering: How do you get someone who picked up the paper looking for the business section to stop long enough to read a poem?
If I heard her correctly, she decided that maybe a reader who didn’t think they cared about poetry might still linger for one compelling sentence. So she began experimenting with poems written as a single sentence.
I’ve been carrying that question around ever since we left the theater. Not because I hope to write for The New York Times, but because I wonder about everyone who isn’t looking for theology. Most people aren’t searching for a reflection on the Jesus Way. They’re trying to get through another Monday. Another meeting. Another diagnosis. Another argument. Another news cycle. They’re heading for the business section of life.
What if my task isn’t persuading people to become interested in theology? What if my task is simply to write something that helps them pause?
Just long enough to notice beauty.
Just long enough to remember they belong.
Just long enough to imagine that another way of being human is possible.
The older I get, the more I suspect that practical theology has less to do with providing answers and more to do with cultivating attention.
Attention to the Divine.
Attention to our neighbors.
Attention to creation.
Attention to our own souls.
Attention is becoming a scarce commodity. Which makes it one of the most important gifts we can offer one another.
As Lynette and I watched the sun settle behind the clouds over the Olympics that evening, I found myself thinking that perhaps this was Mary Oliver’s greatest lesson. Not simply to write poems. But to become the kind of person who notices. The kind of person who pauses. The kind of person who invites others to do the same.
Thank you, Mary.
For another lesson.
For a truly beautiful Seattle day.
And for reminding me that paying attention is one of the ways we belong to the world.
Peace, dwight
