What, exactly.

I have mixed feelings about the work of Mary Oliver. Sometimes it gets a little "be one with the Buddha" and I feel the same way I feel in yoga classes when they start "om"ing: Hey wait, we were stretching and it was all good, what's with this new age crap?, because obviously I don't know how to be idle; I'm useless if not occupied. Yet something in this poem has always resonated with me, especially around birthdays. So here goes.

from "The Summer Day"

...I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?