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In a couple of my men’s groups, the members have put together listserves and communicate a lot via email.  It gives me the willies, because those emails could end up anywhere, for anyone’s eyes, but they all know that.  It means that the group has a way to stay in touch throughout the week, between meetings, because of course the work keeps happening for all of us while we “cook” what happened, and this extends the container. 

Right now one of us is suddenly facing a brutal cancer, and achingly beautiful expressions are being flooded across our IN boxes, as he talks about his process and we all work to face it with him as best we can. 

A new savoring of life is happening, and I’m grateful for the emails.  At one point this Mary Oliver poem found its way into the mix: 

Mockingbirds

This morning two mockingbirds in the green field were spinning and tossing the white ribbons of their songs into the air. I had nothing 

 better to do than listen. I mean this seriously. 

 In Greece, a long time ago, an old couple opened their door 

 to two strangers who were, it soon appeared, not men at all, 

 but gods. It is my favorite story– how the old couple had almost nothing to give 

 but their willingness to be attentive– but for this alone the gods loved them 

 and blessed them– when they rose out of their mortal bodies, like a million particles of water 

 from a fountain, the light swept into all the corners of the cottage, 

 and the old couple, shaken with understanding, bowed down– but still they asked for nothing 

 but the difficult life which they had already. And the gods smiled, as they vanished, clapping their great wings. 

 Wherever it was I was supposed to be this morning– whatever it was I said 

 I would be doing– I was standing at the edge of the field– I was hurrying 

 through my own soul, opening its dark doors– I was leaning out; I was listening 

- Mary Oliver

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