~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
From the west, low peals of thunder announce
the coming rain, its scent perfuming the air
that wafts across the spring-green fields.
At their edges, maples lift red buds skyward
like children sticking their tongues out
to catch the rain’s first drops as they fall.
You can feel the wanting and waiting of it,
of its joyous anticipation, and hear it breathe
in whispered song, “We’re alive. We’re alive.
We’re alive, my dear. It’s spring,
and we are alive.”
The Yes, whose merest spark of thought
creates whole worlds within worlds,
whose living laughter flows endlessly
between and around and within them,
whose joy knows no bounds,
whose life force flows in our blood,
whose light illumines our souls—
that Yes—is alive here, right in the midst of
this moment in Spring.
My Dear Friend,
I can’t, of course, put the whole experience into today’s one bottle. The temperature and moisture of the air alone would take up probably a third of it and there’s still the lake and pines and sky. The best I can do is tuck in a couple glimpses. So that’s what I do. It takes more than the hour I thought I’d spend when the whole thing began. But every minute of it is rich, given that it’s a gift of love.
I leave it in the hands of the universe to get it to its final destination, to those who need exactly what it brings. My only job is to make sure I send something, that I choose what to enclose in the love note each day. To be honest, I’m not even sure I’m really the one who does the choosing. It feels more like listening for a hunch sometimes and going with that.
I like hunches. I like their spontaneity. They’re like a small bell ringing, right over there in the clearing, or like a kid tugging at your shirt tail. It’s easy to disregard them, to brush them off. It took me years to learn that hunches almost always take me to the exactly right place. Now I turn where they direct with a kind of eager anticipation to see how things will turn out.
Sometimes you have to make a leap of faith in order to follow a hunch. It can feel scary to do something you’ve never done before, to take a turn down an unfamiliar road. But if you have no faith, you miss out on a lot of life’s fun and adventure, to say the least.
Besides, the same agency that sends out the hunches sends out alarms if the risk is something you need to weigh with a measure of care. Over time you learn what level of risk you’re willing and confident enough to take. It’s a kind of skill you develop with experience.
When I’m out taking photos, for instance, I get a hunch that if I stood over that way about ten feet, the angle would be fabulous. But then an alarm goes off and cautions me to note the slippery mud on the rocks and to test their stability as I make my way along.
From a certain point of view, all of life is a risk/reward proposition. You take the risk of drawing your first breath, letting out your first scream, and you’re on your way. Everything from there on is a reward, even if it takes you a few lifetimes to see how that can be. It’s all a gift. It’s all benevolent in the long run. Even the parts that hurt.
Next Saturday, good Lord willin’ and the creek don’t rise, I’ll complete my 100 day challenge. It’s been interesting to see how it’s evolved. It’s an established habit for me now, finding something to send out, in love, every day. I think I’m just getting started.
And next Sunday, you’ll have another letter from me, sharing whatever observations my hunches lead me to find.
I’m so glad that you’re along for the journey.
Warmly,
Susan
To see the great waterfowl floating on the lake
is to see a miracle.
To have eyes that see the miracle that floats,
all feathers and beak, on the green lake
is a miracle, too, and a gift.
Okay, little lamb. You did it.
Laying there in the new grass,
your baby hooves tucked up,
your ears poked out, your face
wearing that little lamb smile,
you stole my heart. My eyes
send you pets as warm as
this new spring sunshine,
and I sing you welcome,
little one. Oh, baby!
Your sweetness stole heart.
Mere whim sent me down the road that passed the lake
I had forgotten, tucked as it is between farms, its smooth
complementing their rugged earthy rows, but both rolling,
each in its own way. And both will soon wear fresh green.
Even now you can feel it rising from somewhere powerful
and deep, a green known by fishes and worms and reeds.
Come back next week, something whispers inside me,
and see what’s happened. You might find yourself amazed.
Just when you thought she was gone for good,
winter turns, rushes up to you laughing, kissing you
right on the mouth. “Just in case,” she says, sprinkling
her dazzles all over the hillside and trees,
“you haven’t had enough.” And then she’s off again,
this time for good. Maybe. But maybe she’ll come
just once more, bringing more of her magical kisses,
I see you, brave little leaves,
poking up from last year’s survivors
into the late March air even though
the nights still promise more frost.
I understand; I was born early, too.
You can only wait so long before
you just have to make the leap.
Comfort is fine, as far as it goes;
but oh, the irresistible lure
of sparkling fresh adventure!
Now come the waking winds, cold, and strong, and bright
with the light of this fresh, new Spring and full of the scent
of her moisture. Laughing, they sweep away winter’s debris
and glide across all the smooth places. They swirl their way,
singing, through all the trees’ branches, out to the tips
of their bud-swollen twigs, and all the trees sing with them.
Oh, how the trees do sing!
I don’t think the snow bothers them. I think they came well advised and prepared.
But then, I think we all do. If anything, I suppose they’re sending out vibes
that would translate, roughly, to “Oh Wow! Oh Wow!” I’m sure they must be amazed.
But then, I think we all must be, whether we acknowledge it or not.
They call me over, draw me in. Theirs is a jeweled world and everything in it
is a work of art. But then, you could say that ours is the same, looked at
with an unprejudiced eye. I note the colors and the curves of the forms,
the subtlety and the grace. The plants are swathed in spring snow. How lovely!
