Some irresistible part of puddles calls to toes, even those of giants. Maybe it’s the sheer muddiness, the squish, the wet, the way It lets you feel glued to the ground and still free to wiggle. Maybe it’s the way the puddles show you how you look against sky, or the fact that they sing of spring and bring forth worms and tadpoles. Maybe it’s the here-today-gone-tomorrow part of them that makes you think you’d better wade right in while the wading’s good. Toes know. They hear the call. And in they go. It’s irresistible.
Sploosh! Now there’s a sure sign of spring– car tires swishing through puddles on the road, spraying the sooty heaps of snow into oblivion. And the puddles themselves are proofs too, mirroring the budding trees and the dance of the ever-changing clouds in the high sky. There’s no stopping it now. It’s here, come what may. Why, I can almost hear the peepers singing. Soon now. It won’t be long.
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! You stole this old girl’s heart.
Although seas roar and winds howl, in this space Mother Nature preserves the calm. Here, she provides a nook where peace reigns and the seasons bow to life’s demands for security and shelter. We are holding the calm for you, sing the reeds and and waters and trees, for you who are in the midst of great storms. We are holding beauty for you who are beset with chaos and destruction. We send you the warmth of the early spring sun, and hope, and the promise that, always, after the storms, calm awaits, serenity returns.
When I went out to feed the birds this morning I heard myself breathing the word, “spring!” Undeniably, and all at once, it was here, with its perfume and its light, its pastel hues and puddles and song, and in my heart the welling joy.
This afternoon the first crocuses opened, a pretty little pair, a royal confirmation right here outside my door.
It didn’t snow much here this winter. But today I ran across this piece I wrote in 2015 when the snow fell long and deep.
So then I came to the playground. Well, it’s not a playground exactly. It’s just a set of swings. Fine, sturdy wooden ones hung from hooked rods on a high metal frame, well-built, and sitting there in the woods by one of the few shelters, half way between the parking lot and the forest-edged ponds.
Just looking at them, you could tell they wanted to be in motion. It was all I could do not give them a push. But something held me back. Maybe it was the silence. Maybe it was the snow. So I just stood there, listening, and I swear I heard joyful shrieks and the laughter of children, and that whining sound that swings sing.
Places hold their songs and sing them long after the singers have disappeared. And here were these swings, full of motion, even in their stillness, playing memories through their long winter wait.
I continued reading the “Sunday Letters” that I wrote back in 2015 and once again felt compelled to share with you the one that followed the letter I shared last week. Here it is:
First of all, let me share that my friend who broke his hip in the slip-on-the-ice fall last week is making great progress with his recovery and expects to return home this week. Thanks to all who sent him caring thoughts.
Because he’s had his bouts with clinical depression and often says, “Everything always goes wrong for me,” I’ve been grateful and relieved and very happy to hear the optimism in his voice and his anticipation of things he’ll be able to do for himself once he’s home.
There’s a creative power is positive expectation—especially when you learn to expect the best from yourself. I read a quote this week from an anonymous source that said, “When you become convinced that you can make a comeback from any adversity, then all of your creative forces will come to your aid.”
That’s more than a glib statement of positive philosophy. Our brains work hard to materialize proof of our beliefs for us, to find evidence for them. Wayne Dyer wrote a whole book about it called When You Believe It, You’ll See It.
From all the billions of bits of data that come to us from our sensory organs, our brains actively select out for our attention the ones that match what we hold to be true or that open doors or give clues about opportunities that we’re seeking.
It happens automatically, but you can speed the process along by asking Positive Affirmative Questions of your brain. Popularized as “afformations” by Noah St. John, PAQ’s generally begin with the word “Why” and then go on to state what you’re hoping to materialize in your experience. “Why am I feeling so confident today?” “Why am I healing so quickly?” “Why am I so creative today?” “Why am I so patient?”
The “why” part of the question sends your brain on a search to find answers for you. It can’t resist the challenge. Unlike ordinary affirmations, such as “I am so creative,” why-questions don’t give your brain a chance to argue with you or to dispute you. Instead, it begins to scour both its knowledge banks and incoming sensory data to bring you the proof you requested.
If your request is urgent, your brain will even go into a kind of hyperdrive to find answers. I’ll give you a personal example. I happened to drop a 20-pound log on my big toe last night. Hurt like the blazes. “Ow! Ow! Ow!” I yelled. But because I’d been thinking about this letter, I said to myself, “Why is my toe recovering so fast?” And even before I pulled off my sock to examine the damage, my brain said, “Because you put an ice pack on it right away.” And I did. Good thing, too; poor toe got smashed pretty well. But I do expect it to heal quickly, and I expect my brain to continue to giving me hints to help it along.
Creative anticipation is a powerful tool. It’s what’s behind the adage, “You get what you look for.” Look for the good, and give the process a boost with some Positive-Affirmative-Questions.
Now, why are you having such a fabulous week this week?
The world this morning was drenched in fog and a rain gently fell. Suspended from the spruce a thousand tiny globes of glistening light made me feel as if I’d awakened in some mystical world where joy rose in a whispering mist and hidden geese flew like secrets, their wings pearled, their muffled calls signaling a message that only hearts could know.
Snow melting on the mossy log tells the tale: Spring and winter’s dance is at its balance point. Neither holds sway. Things can tip either way and will, for days. Spring’s advance makes fools of us all.
It is enough just to be, to be awareness, noticing, to feel the temperature and flow of the air, to note the rustling of the leaves and the colors of the sky, to feel your body balancing, to hear the sounds, to note the scents, to be still and in motion all at once, riding the song.
