~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
From a frozen earth where mere days ago
only decaying leaves fluttered in the wind,
the golden daffodil rises in bold celebration,
nature’s proof of life’s eternal return.
the promise fulfilled, the Great Yes
unfolding in glory, asking of us only this:
Believe.
My neighbor and I were watching the cardinals and jays enjoying breakfast at The Flat Rock Cafe. That’s what I call the corner of the retaining wall where I sprinkle a thick layer of sunflower seeds for my bird pals every morning. I take out the seeds and sing, “Good Morning, little friends. Here’s your breakfast!” I repeat it three times. They know the song now and as soon as I’m half way back to the house, they come zooming in from all directions.
Now that spring has finally sprung, my chipmunk buddies have begun to return to the cafe, too. And today was one of those days. They stuffed their little cheeks for a while, and then, when more jays came, they raced away, chasing each other in circles in the yard. My old neighbor friend laughed at the sight of them. I told him they were celebrating the arrival of spring. “Aren’t we all!” he said, holding up his coffee cup to make a toast.
Winters here seem to take up half the year, so the arrival of spring is indeed a cause for celebration. Personally, I’ve vowed to treasure every single day of it, even the dreary, rainy ones.
I looked up the word “celebrate” in my thesaurus to see what it had to say. It’s a word that holds a lot of connotations in my mind and I wondered if the thesaurus would reflect some of them. Among the first tier of words that were similar, it listed “honor,” “observe,” “praise,” and “revere.”
I liked them; they captured it well. They highlighted the different aspects of celebration–not only the jubilation of it, but the quieter, deeper parts of it, too. For me, celebration is an act of joy, the act of taking time to observe and honor the richness a moment holds, to feel the meaning of it. Sometimes, when you do that, your heart fills with a joy so brilliant that it could only find voice in praise. Sometimes, if the moment is a somber one, you find yourself feeling a profound respect for all the vagaries of life, for the mystery of it, and your heart quiets and is wrapped in reverence.
Isn’t it interesting that a single word can capture such a range of emotion? And isn’t it something that we can feel that whole range as something special, to be noticed and experienced in its fullness?
I mean, there I was, sipping coffee with Bob, watching the critters, and all of a sudden the antics of the chipmunks, and Bob’s laughter, and the observation of springtime, and the honoring of it with a toast all mixed altogether with a recognition that this was a moment of true celebration.
It was just an ordinary moment. Looked at from just the right angle, ordinary moments are the best causes for celebration. They capture us just as we are, being our true selves, living our true lives. And whatever we’re being or doing is beautiful and sacred somehow.
Seeing the cause for celebration in an ordinary moment isn’t something that happens all the time. That’s probably a good thing. We’d get little done if we walked around astonished by the wonder of life all the time. But you can cultivate such moments. You can teach yourself to stop and ask if the present moment deserves your celebration. We get what we look for, after all. And moments of celebration are so plush that it’s worth the effort to see if you’re in the midst of one this very minute. Could be. You never know.
Wishing you bushels of heartfelt celebrations.
Warmly,
Susan
From the edge of the pine woods wild forsythia beams,
its yellow so bright you can almost hear it sing. I smile
as the glad of it burrows into my mind, fetching up
the memory of a warm spring day when we rode down
country roads just for the joy of it, and you said how
you loved those bright yellow flowers that peppered
the roadside and yards. They’re forsythia, I told you,
and you laughed at the name, repeating it over and over.
I can still see your face, so carefree, as you sang it,
“Forsythia! Forsythia!” whenever one came into view.
And I send you my love, and imagine you’re beside me
as I walk, my heart full of gold, beneath the pines.
Every now and then, in the name of sanity,
I go for a drive, turn down unfamiliar roads
letting intuition guide me: Turn here!
The other day, to my complete astonishment,
I discovered a lake I had never seen before,
not five miles from my home where I’ve lived
for over thirty years for heaven’s sake.
I think I need to get out a little more.
clarity of mind
strength of heart
a faith-filled spirit
bestow these on your warriors, o Lord, that they may live in peace and joy.
(if you want to get rid of somebody now
you can just drop a drop of the toxin,
blame it on the CV, and skate. huh.)
and we get to be here, in this place,
on this timeline, to watch as it unfolds
it’s a nightmare and a terror show, tragic beyond telling,
side by side with miracles of beauty, goodness, truth.
and we who stand for love’s joyful peace
know who wins in the end. Thus we stand,
brave ragdolls laughing in the wind.
Today the sheep were outside the barn,
scraggly and in need of sheering.
Inside my car, I cheered. Always
I look for them, their appearance
a sure sign of Spring. But the pasture
was empty the last few times I passed.
Maybe it was the endless cold and rain.
Maybe the old man had sold them, given up.
That time, I suppose, will come. But not today.
Today the sheep are outside the barn,
gazing on spring’s green hill.
If I could choose just one thing to take
with me to whatever world lies beyond,
say, as a memento or souvenir
of my visit to this place called Earth—
just one thing to represent it all,
to hold the essence of all my days—
would be impossible were the choice
left to logic. But give my heart reign
and it will go at once to a blue-sky day
in early spring when white blossoms
and robin’s song float on soft, warm air.
If you’re walking in the woods, spring barely whispers.
But down toward the creek her signs are everywhere.
In the damp places, skunk cabbage unfurls its green robes
and spring beauties smile up from fresh grass and
the wee grass flowers, too. Along the creek’s edge, coltsfoot,
and then in the clearing, a whole carpet of new green,
green leaves, and blades, and buds, and flowers.
And hear how the creek sings out spring’s name!
Hear how that joyful creek sings!
It comes at you like some dark, giant bird,
stirring the clouds across the breadth
of the horizon, its power pushing ahead
of it, cold and smelling metallic.
It changes everything, leaves you
when it passes, in an altered world
drenched with choices bathed in new light.
Size them up. Pick one, laughing. Carry on.