Mary Oliver
“Attention,” wrote the poet Mary Oliver (1935-2019), “is the beginning of devotion.”
Oliver’s bold assertion appears at the end of her lyrical essay “Upstream,” the title essay in her 2016 collection. In the preceding paragraph, she implores her readers to introduce children to the sensuous delights of the natural world:
Teach the children. . . . Show them the daisies and the pale hepatica. Teach them the taste of sassafras and wintergreen. The lives of the blue sailors, mallow, sunbursts, the moccasin flowers. And the frisky ones—inkberry, lamb’s quarters, blueberries. And the aromatic ones—rosemary, oregano. Give them peppermint to put in their pockets as they go to school. Give them the fields and the woods and the possibility of the world salvaged from the lords of profit.
Thus instructed, children may “learn to love this green space they live in.” But they must first learn to pay attention.
Zen teachings urge the same. Attention is a cornerstone of Zen practice, and for some it is its very essence. “Will you please give me some maxims of the highest wisdom?” a student asked Ikkyū, a fifteenth-century master. “Attention, attention, attention!” Ikkyū replied. By twice repeating the word, Ikkyū underscored its importance, while also imitating the central action of Zen practice: paying wholehearted attention to the present moment—this breath, this sip of tea—and the next, and the next.
Yet the attention cultivated in Zen practice, focused though it often is on ordinary things, is not itself ordinary. It is distinctive in at least three ways. To begin with, it is “one-pointed,” which is to say, undivided. The objective, if not always the practical reality, is a quality of attention concentrated on one thing at a time: the teacup one is holding with both hands, the taste of this particular tea at this particular moment.
At the same time, the attention cultivated in Zen is inclusive. It takes in all the dimensions of a given experience, or as many as the mind can manage, including the sounds in the room, the temperature of the air, the fluctuations of ambient light. In contrast to other forms of meditation, Zen is traditionally practiced with the eyes half-open, so as to encompass both the “inner” world of thoughts and feelings and the “outer” world of sights, tastes, and sounds. Both are included in the field of attention.
And last, the attention of the mature practitioner is uncommonly sustained. Its objects may change, moment by moment, but it is itself immovable. At Zen centers and monasteries, sittings sometimes last as long as fifty minutes. During that time, stillness and silence are rigorously enforced. Whether practitioners are counting their breaths, contemplating a koan, or “just sitting,” they are expected to remain upright and present throughout the sitting.
To meet that expectation requires not only will power and stamina but also the second component of Mary Oliver’s formulation, namely devotion. In common parlance, the word devotion appears in two distinct contexts, the first religious and the second secular. In its religious context, devotion is nearly synonymous with ardor, piety, and zeal. Prayers and other elements of religious services are sometimes called “devotions.” The second context, however, has little or nothing to do with religion. One can be a devoted teacher, a devoted father, a devoted public servant.
As applied to Zen practice, the devotion characteristic of serious practitioners partakes of both meanings. Zen has been described as the “religion before religions,” and it is arguably no religion at all, requiring as it does no adherence to a creed, no conversion to a system of belief. Nonetheless, Zen practitioners, like professional musicians, practice religiously, which is to say, on a daily basis, exhibiting an ardent commitment to the Zen tradition—its centuries-old lineages, its demanding rituals, and its traditional forms. “[T]he path of perfect wisdom and buddhahood,” notes the American Zen priest Reb Anderson (b. 1943), “is nothing if not devotional.”
The word devotion derives from vow. And authentic Zen practice has accurately been characterized as “living by vow.” In his book by that title, Shohaku Okumura Roshi (b. 1948) explores the many vows of the Zen tradition, ranging from the most modest to the Four Great Bodhisattva Vows, which are by nature impossible to fulfill (“Delusions are inexhaustible; we vow to extinguish them all.”). But whether one is a priest or a lay practitioner, an ordained monk or a “home dweller,” devotion to the daily practice of zazen is as essential to Zen as breathing is to being alive. And for those who continue in the practice, year after year, the attention that is at its core is not only the beginning of devotion. The two are parts of a single whole.
_______
Mary Oliver, Upstream (Penguin, 2016), 8.
[T]he path of perfect wisdom: Reb Anderson, Entering the Mind of Buddha (Shambhala, 2019), 102.
Shohaku Okumura, Living By Vow (Shambhala, 2012).
One Time, One Meeting 
Ben, thank you for this generous post regarding Mary Oliver and Zen. Poetry and meditation have been foundational pillars for me throughout my adult life. I’m located on the West Coast and never had the pleasure of an Oliver reading which I’m sure you may have had. From the same book you quoted from, I include this passage:
I could not be a poet without the natural world.
Someone else could. But not me. For me the
door to the woods is the door to the temple.
Many bows to you and continual gratitude for your blog and practice.
And thank you, Jeffrey, for your thoughtful response. I did have an opportunity to hear Mary Oliver read when she visited Alfred University many years ago. The passage you quote is apt as well as impassioned. As you may know, Mary Oliver’s selected poems (2017) is entitled Devotions.