It is possible, I suppose that sometime/ we will learn everything/ there is to learn: what the world is, for example,/ and what it means. I think this as I am crossing/ from one field to another, in summer, and the/ mockingbird is mocking me, as one who either/ knows enough already or knows enough to be/ perfectly content not knowing. Song being born/ of quest he knows this: he must turn silent/ were he suddenly assaulted with answers. Instead oh hear his wild, caustic, tender warbling ceaselessly/ unanswered. At my feet the white-petalled daisies display/ the small suns of their center piece, their – if you don’t/ mind my saying so – their hearts. Of course/ I could be wrong, perhaps their hearts are pale and/ narrow and hidden in the roots. What do I know?/ But this: it is heaven itself to take what is given,/ to see what is plain; what the sun lights up willingly;/ for example – I think this as I reach down, not to pick but merely to touch -/ the suitability of the field for the daisies, and the/ daisies for the field.

Mary Oliver

What does it mean to learn everything there is to learn? What does it mean to be silent in the presence of answers? What does it mean that heaven is taking what is given? To see what is plain and what the sun lights up willingly. It makes me think of the humor of the mockingbird’s ceaseless warbling. It makes me think of beginner’s mind— an an empty bowl to be filled. It makes me think of soil and sustenance and seasons.

I was walking by the ocean and noticed daises by the edge of the trail. Tiny wild daisies grew between sea grass and mangroves and palms. White and yellow faces simply welcoming the sun. They danced in light and drank in warmth. They seemed to understand heaven, presence, and silence.