I’ve been practicing and sharing lectio divina for, well, a few decades now. This ancient spiritual practice, rooted in Catholic monastic tradition, invites us to listen deeply to sacred texts, and through them, to the voice of the Divine moving in our own lives.
Over time, my sense of what is holy has expanded beyond scripture’s pages and led me into the forest. With that wandering and wondering, I’ve found that Mary Oliver’s poetry speaks with a deep, sacred resonance.
The practice of lectio divina goes like this:
1. Lectio — Sacred Reading
Begin by reading (or hearing) the text slowly, letting the words wash over you. Notice what phrase, image, or line shimmers, what catches at your heart or curiosity. There’s no need to analyze; simply listen with the ear of your soul and notice your noticing.
2. Meditatio — Holy Reflection
Read the passage again. This time, pause with the word or phrase that called to you. Or maybe a new element of the text is sparkling for you. Turn it over gently in your mind and heart. Ask: What might this be saying to me, here and now? Allow memory, emotion, and intuition to mingle; this is a conversation, not a quiz.
3. Oratio / Contemplatio — Loving Response
Finally, let your reflections ripen into prayer or presence. You might speak to the Divine about what you’ve noticed, or simply rest in silence. Sometimes this becomes a wordless communion, sometimes a stirring toward action. Either way, it’s the space where listening turns into love.
Here is our sacred text today.
Five A.M. in the Pinewoods
I’d seen
their hoofprints in the deep
needles and knew
they ended the long night
under the pines, walking
like two mute
and beautiful women toward
the deeper woods, so I
got up in the dark and
went there. They came
slowly down the hill
and looked at me sitting under
the blue trees, shyly
they stepped
closer and stared
from under their thick lashes and even
nibbled some damp
tassels of weeds. This
is not a poem about a dream,
though it could be.
This is a poem about the world
that is ours, or could be.
Finally
one of them—I swear it!—
would have come to my arms.
But the other
stamped sharp hoof in the
pine needles like
the tap of sanity,
and they went off together through
the trees. When I woke
I was alone,
I was thinking:
so this is how you swim inward,
so this is how you flow outward,
so this is how you pray.
