~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
The Joe Pye weeds are tall now,
rising almost over the top of my head.
In their centers, at last, I can see their buds,
still swaddled in leaves. I can almost feel
the energy feeding them, their whiskery petals
pushing toward the light, eager to unfold.
“Great job!” I tell them. “Keep going!”
I imagine the dusky pink of their blossoms,
buzzing with visiting bees who drink their fill.
“Keep going!” I say again. “You’re going to be
so beautiful and so loved!”
The world is an ocean of green now,
lush and full, emerging in a hundred
shapes and shades everywhere
my eyes can see. I breathe its perfume.
I drink in the rain-washed air that tastes
of summer, here on this hot, moist day.
The rains coaxed open the astilbe.
Its foamy lace dances in sprays
white as snow atop the waves of green.
My eyes scoop it up and crinkle
in a smile at its delicate light.
And the heat of the day disappears.
Even as it took its leave, the storm showed its power.
For the last two days, rain has fallen in heavy sheets
on the parched fields, the sky flashing with lightning
and roaring with thunder so loud that it set dogs
and their masters alike cowering in apprehension.
It was noon of the second day before I saw
the first patch of blue sky. Driving past the fields,
revived now and green, I stared in silence at the sky
as the tail of the storm sailed overhead
like some majestic ancient navy, armed for war
and dwarfing the vista that, just days before,
had seemed to stretch on forever.
The old covered bridges are rare now, but loved
and cared for with a nostalgia-laced reverence.
When you walk through one, you can almost hear
the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels
echoing up from the worn wooden floor. You imagine
the horses, the travelers, leaning into a moment of relief
from the sun’s glare, from the rain, from the sleet and snow.
Even the horse feels it. The windows are cut high to shield
the rushing river from the horse’s view. Only his ears and nose
tell him what lies beneath the solid planks beneath his hooves.
He is unafraid. He never loses his rhythm.
You know this just by walking through the bridge.
It holds its memories well and whispers them unceasingly
to lucky passersby, and to the river.
The wild grass conforms to no law
except the law of the dance.
It surrenders authority to nothing
but joy, to the Great Yes of being,
and to that it bows, knowing
that it governs the cycles
with knowledge and love,
and is beneficent in all its ways.
Today is Father’s Day here in the USA, and I’ve been thinking about my own dad, a good man, loved by all who knew him. Dads matter, you know. If you’re a dad, I wish you an outstanding day. If you have a dad, think about how lucky you are, and tell him.
If your father has passed away, I’m posting this story from last year again especially for you. Its ending gave my heart a warm glow as I thought of my own dad, and of other dear ones who have gone.
* * *
This is one of those little hometown stories you don’t hear much any more. It’s about my neighbor’s son-in-law, Shawn.
Shawn worked as a meat cutter at the big chain grocery store up the road a couple miles. He’d always nod and smile when he saw me. But ahead of his job, the passion of his life was his membership in the township’s Volunteer Fire Department.
Last winter, Shawn took ill and was diagnosed with one of those “turbo-cancers” that have sprung up in the past couple years. They develop quickly and effect different areas of the body simultaneously or in rapid succession.
Shawn fought it valiantly. But last Tuesday the doctors said there was no more they could do and sent him home to die surrounded by his family.
The family set up a bed for him in the living room where he could look out the front door at the neighborhood. There was something special coming, they told him, they wanted him to see.
A few hours later, as a light rain fell from a pale sky, the sound of a fire truck’s siren ripped through the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Trucks had come from departments all around the county. One even came from E. Palestine, Ohio. Shawn hadn’t been able to fight the fire the night of the derailment there last winter, but his wife went, fighting along with the rest of the department.
The bond among fire-fighters is strong. They came this night to tell Shawn they loved and respected him, to honor his years of service. The red and white lights of their trucks glistened in the rain as they drove in a slow parade all around his block, sirens wailing.
Shawn watched from his bed, smiling. Two days later, he was gone.
My heart goes out to the family. They’ve been through the wringer the past couple years. But it never got them down.
I was thinking about Shawn and his family yesterday when I came across a short story called “The Black Telephone.” It’s a beautiful little story and worth a read. In one part of it, the story-teller’s pet canary dies. He’s just a little kid at the time and the death confuses him. He goes to a wise older friend. Here’s the excerpt from the story:
I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow I felt better.
I felt better, too. For a minute, I imagined a grinning Shawn giving rides to smiling children and puppies in a big shiny fire truck up in some corner of heaven.
You know, it can be a tough world. There’s a lot of pain and sorrow here. Remember to be kind. And when you lose someone dear, take comfort in remembering that there are other worlds to sing in.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Steven Iodice from Pixabay
Not often, although it’s a wonder,
but sometimes, I let the daily news
upset me. How could it not?
All this vitriol and division,
all this manipulated rage.
Today was one of those days.
I went outside to clear my mind.
The air was as thick and heavy
as my mood. But then a flicker
caught my eye and I turned
to see a damsel fly lighting
on a hosta leaf. It swept me,
as damsel flies always do,
back to my childhood.
And suddenly I remembered
the scent of Aunt Maybelle’s
petunias on mornings like these,
when the world was still new
and beautiful. I thanked
the little messenger. Funny
how you can be rescued
from your gloom by a bug.
Later, the day turned dark,
and I started to slide again
into my weariness with the world.
But then I remembered seeing
the season’s first fireflies last night,
brilliant and flickering like Christmas
lights through the dark boughs
of the spruce. And I remembered
the peace within me.
A friend asked me what I’d been doing
lately. I told him I was reveling in the green.
“Oh!” he exclaimed. “Thank you for mentioning
that! I hadn’t been paying attention.”
I was as surprised by his reply as he had been
by mine. After all those colorless winter weeks
with their bare trees and barren ground,
how was it possible for anyone not to notice
the green? Not to walk, enveloped in it,
with a mouth dropped open in awe? Not
to want to do somersaults across it
out of sheer joy? Wake up! Wake up!
There’s a world out there bursting
with jewels, exploding with life,
dancing to the song of the Yes
with every molecule of its being.
Look! It’s right there. Just for you.
“Sweets for the sweet,” the little flower announced as she opened her feathery petals. “Come have a treat! The nectar’s on me.”
“Oh boy,” chirped the small green bug, “Breakfast!” And he gently settled himself right smack dab into the little flower’s center and wrapped his tiny bug mouth around a purple spike.
“Mmmmm,” he hummed. “Purple! My favorite flavor.”
Of course he loved red and orange and yellow, too. But to get a sip of purple at the very start of the day was a sign of great good fortune.
When he had enjoyed his fill, he thanked the little flower and went on with his day. “I wish everybody could start their days with purple!” he said.
And you know what? So do I!
“Enough of this pastel innocence,” says Spring.
“Summer’s coming; it’s time for spicing things up.”
So she brings in some boldness, a hint of heat,
a whisper of passion. That’s what summer is for.
For living large, letting your dreams explode
in full color. It’s for letting life find its fullness,
for feeling the surge of ripening.
It’s on the horizon with its banner flying,
Give it all you’ve got. Gear up. Get ready to play.