~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Some folks, they tell me, dream of a heaven
where the streets are paved with gold.
I walked in the park today, my pathway
strewn with wildflowers, the scent of lilacs
perfuming the warm spring air, thinking
to myself that this was all the heaven
I could want. This, right here, beneath
my feet and breathing all around me.
Tonight, the highway, now a luminous ribbon,
winds into the distant misty hills, the wet pavement
reflecting the light of the setting golden sun.
Open your bold simplicity, and
let your song be clear and strong.
This is the moment for which
you were born, the now
in which you unfold your grace
and make your mark on the eternity
of our hearts, so that we may sing
the Yes with you until
the last star disappears
from the deep and infinite sky.
While I was doing some research this week, I happened on a website dedicated to providing guidance to Native American youth facing various social issues within their Tribes. I found it interesting that their site had a page addressing the joint Tribes’ view of Elders. Depending on the particular Tribe, an Elder is someone over 60-65 years of age. The page emphasized the respect the Tribes give their seniors. For instance, here’s what they say on their page:
“When an Elder speaks, an informed individual knows to listen. An Elder’s wisdom is invaluable to a tribe’s prosperity and well-being. Elders are sacred bearers of golden truths and know many valuable stories about the Old Ways. God often speaks through Elders.”
Later on, I happened on a collection of responses from seniors when asked what life lesson they would like to pass on. I had time to go through the list slowly, to let each thought sink in. That’s the only good way to read quotations, I’ve found. It lets you extract the juice from them.
Try it as I share with you a few of the seniors’ offerings. Read them one at a time, pausing after each one long enough to let it settle in. Maybe consider, as you read, which ones apply most for you right now.
Here‘s a dozen that I thought were worth tucking in our pockets . . .
Yes, especially that last one.
Wishing you a week of fine accomplishments and ease.
Warmly,
Susan
It’s not that nature’s beauty consumes me.
It’s the refuge it provides from the rest of it –
from the conflicts and disasters large and small
that cover the globe; from the endless prattle
of the lonely because talking is the only way
they know to mark the world with their presence,
to connect, to find meaning; from the struggles
for survival, for status, for power, for control,
and for all the touted doodads that promise
to convey them or to provide relief from the fight.
Walk in the woods. Listen to the trees.
Observe the details in the smallest flower.
See the seasons unfold. Watch the clouds
and stars float above you. Take solace
in an order beyond our knowing, a power
and intelligence we cannot comprehend.
Feel how you are a child of it, how you move
within its omnipresent embrace, loved
even when you are asleep in it, unconscious
of its plan and grace and mercy. Wonder
at its intricacy, its obedience to inviolable laws.
Think how this is but the skin that the Yes wears,
this mysterious, ever-dancing curtain of matter.
Think how majestic is that which brought it
into being and bestowed on us our capacities
to see, to taste, to move and desire, to seek,
to find, to love, and, finally, to know.
Mimicking nothing,
following nothing
but its own inner song,
trusting that being
is its own reward,
reaching only toward
fulfillment of this
moment’s highest
possibility, it unfolds
its exquisite perfection.
Except that the Yes is the source of joy,
spring needn’t have come with such beauty.
A limited pallet might have served as well,
a handful of standardized designs.
We could have as easily performed
our daily tasks without being caught
in spring’s web of wonder, without
being stopped in our tracks to gaze
and smile at wee pink flowers
whose centers burst with polka dot stars.
But the Yes, which is made of love,
cannot help but leave its beauty
everywhere, just in case your heart
might need to hear its song.
It’s odd, the memories that a sight can trigger.
When I saw the newly opened tulip In my garden,
for instance, glowing orange and magenta and pink
and gold, at first I just stopped, and held my breath
and stared, mesmerized by its hues. Then it came,
the memory of the teacher on the first day of art class
telling us that some things are beautiful, some not.
As an example of the latter, she said a mix of pink
and orange could never be considered beautiful.
I dropped the class. Had she never seen a sunrise?
Or the petals of a tulip?
It’s not the circumstances that matter.
So what if, at any moment, the world
may explode? It has nothing to do
with me, with now. The trees are
dancing in green hurrahs and the earth
is covered in flowers. The mammoths,
they say, died eating daisies. If
the world ends in ten minutes,
I shall leave it dancing with joy.
Frost warnings went out last night.
Again, tonight, it’s a possibility.
As I walked across the lawn, I thought
it felt more like March than April.
Wait. What was that? A black netting
hanging from the jonquil. I walked
to the front of the garden, then stopped,
unbelieving. A swallowtail! So soon!
And in this cold! Oh, Springtime,
every single one of your gifts
comes as such a delightful surprise.
Because they could taste spring’s mild air even
when the world was frozen, their sap rose.
Because they spent the long winter dreaming
that robins built nests in their limbs, dreaming
that the world was green and that sunlight
danced warm and golden all around them,
buds formed at the tips of their branches.
Because their dreams were so vivid
that they heard the songs of summer winds
even as the snow piled around them,
their roots grew deeper, their trunks added rings.
Because they believed in springtime,
their leaves sprang forth.