Black Oaks, Still Pond, and Ducks

This morning, as I drank my second cup of coffee and watched the ducks paddling on the pond outside my window, I was reminded of Mary Oliver's poem, Black Oaks. It has resonated with me since the first time I read it.

Even in retirement*, I'm pressured by ambitions, toward my own projects and the ordinary tasks and maintenance of life. The dry lawn requires watering, ripe tomatoes need to be harvested, and the endless housekeeping chores and repairs nag me consistently in background. I'm resisting even writing this post, much less working on two other writing projects and the genealogy I've spent months researching.

The siren of Internet browsing holds so little appeal on such a cool bright summer morning. I felt settled at my window, thoughtless and content.

There is an ineffable pleasure in lingering over coffee, watching pairs of ducks diving and shaking out their fluttering wings. I lost myself in the cool morning breeze, the long low sounds of mourning doves, the sudden pink of waterlilies, and the depths of a duck-bath rippled pond.

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*From a decades-long career in workforce education, where I created and managed workforce and adult training and development efforts; consulted in the field of technology education and change management; and wrote business and technical manuals and a wide variety of other business-oriented communications.