~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Oh sky, who drenched us in sunlight
for nearly a week of days, whose stars
glittered at night in your velvet deep,
we thank you. And we watch in thanks
as you pull in soft clouds and release
your sweet moisture on all the dear flowers
asleep now beneath Earth’s soil, dreaming,
as do we, of the coming spring.
I walked the trail around the wetlands
hoping, on this spring-like day, to see
that migrating ducks had come, or perhaps
an early blackbird or two. Even the sound
of a peeper would have been grand.
But the pond held no feathered visitors
and not even the calls of crows etched
the pearly sky. It is, I reminded myself,
still February, and was content to find
not ice, but puddles, dotting my path.
Then, as I followed deer trails through
the woods, a patch of black and white
caught my eye and I turned to see a cat
stretched atop a fallen log as if she owned it.
Here, in the wildness! I stopped and stooped
and spoke to her. She was, she said,
quite fine and not frightened or lost
at all. “People live,” I told her, pointing,
“up there on the hill, about a third
of a mile away, if you need them.”
She nodded, ever so slightly, then
returned to the pleasure of her fine perch
and the gift of sun-warmed air. So
I walked on, golden eyes following me
until I disappeared.
Hear the open waters sing. See the reeds
offering shelter for your nests, and the trees,
whose bare branches reach up like beacons,
advertising prime real estate for building
your homes. Sense the safety of this place,
the welcoming ambiance of the neighborhood.
Come early; stay late. We invite you.
I caught them. I know evidence
when I see it. Plainly, a party
happened here. It looks like a pub
at the morning edge of a night
of fine carousing. Some hangers-on
are still reeling and some just drifting
toward the day’s first light. The rabble-
rousers have gone, leaving pine cones
everywhere, chewed right to their cores.
What a mess! And look at that heap
of cone scales! Never in all my years
have I seen a pile that high! But then
neither have I ever seen a drunken pine.
Right here, in the place I always called
the nursery. Looks like the babes
are growing up.
I promised you, summer world, that when the snow
was deep and I had begun to believe that winter
was eternity, I would remember you. I would remember
your countless shades of green, your plush grass
buzzing with bees and clover, and the smell of it.
I would remember the warmth of your sun
and the blessing of the breeze singing through
your dancing leaves, and the sheer, inviting
welcome of your being.
And now that day has come, the one where I began
to believe that winter would go on forever.
I confess that I didn’t choose to remember;
the memory of you came to me on its own,
drifting across the cold, gently emerging
with a touch of kindness that I could not ignore.
And so I sit here, before my fire, waiting
for the another assault from winter’s cold,
and I lose myself in your rolling verdant hills
until my eyes tear with gratitude
for comfort of you, for remembering
you are as real as the cold, and will return.
“Every now and then,” I think to myself
as I stand at the edge of the pond
in the clear winter air, snow sparkling
on the ice, and near the pond’s center,
skim ice giving way to smooth water,
as I take in the pines, and the way sunlight
dances with shadow through their boughs,
and how the far water mirrors them,
and how the silence almost makes me want to
hold my breath as the thought completes:
“Every now and then,” it says in hushed tones,
“there’s a moment like this
that makes all the rest of them worth it.”
Lines
Forms
Textures
Colors
Rhythms
Patterns
Motion
(Softer now)
Lines
Forms
Textures
Colors
Rhythms
Patterns
Motion
(Shhhhh)
Lines
Forms
Textures
Colors
Rhythms
Patterns
Motion
(Shhhh)
Every year, I forget how deeply the beauty of winter trees touches me. Instead, I only remember how unpleasant I find the cold. But here I stand, in freshly fallen snow, in the midst of all these trees, bereft of their leaves now, and I’m caught in a spell of awe. I realize I don’t mind that the air is cold. And somewhere inside myself I quietly say, “I’m sorry. Please forgive me.”
I say it to my spirit. “I’m sorry that I let what I labeled as discomfort eclipse the memory of the astonishing beauty of bare trees. And just look how the frost on this fallen leaf glistens in the morning’s pearly light!! “ Please forgive me,” I ask, “for overlooking such incredible gifts.”
Instantly, I feel a shower of bright, warm, unconditional acceptance wash around me. It tastes golden, like joy, and my face spreads in a smile. I am humbled by it, and I whisper, “Thank you; I love you.”
All this because of the forms of the trees, naked against the clouds, and the shimmer of light on this leaf. But beauty isn’t the only thing that evokes my appreciation. Sometimes encountering plain-spoken truth will do it. Sometimes it’s kindness in one of its myriad forms.
I happened to notice my copy of Letting Everything Become Your Teacher again yesterday. It’s been sitting on my coffee table for weeks, unopened. Seeing the title is often reminder enough. Everything brings the gift of fresh lessons.
For me, the lesson brought by February’s bare trees and frosted leaves is to be aware that not everything I label as unpleasant is so. In this case, I could see that cold was just a sensation. I could call it brisk or crisp as well as bitter or biting. Then, having reclassified it, I could let it go and see what else there was to see.
Remember the game I told you about where for five minutes you let yourself notice whether you‘re labeling things as either “pleasant” or “unpleasant?” (That’s all there is to it, in case you don’t recall it.) You just notice which way you’re judging things. Then you can turn the secret power-question on yourself, asking if your judgment about a particular aspect of yourself is true.
You know what you’ll find? You’ll find that it’s only a judgment, whether you currently agree with it or not. Realizing that’s the case is good because it opens you to options. It keeps you from overlooking things by slapping a judgment on them too soon. Things change. Our perception of things changes. The world truly is a kaleidoscopic place, you know. Try to see what’s in front of you with an open mind. Keep a good helping of openness handy. It will wake you up if you’ve fallen asleep. It will say “You think what?! Think again!”
You never know when what you thought was a barren February landscape was in fact a scene of stark beauty, alive and dancing. It could be. You never know.
Wishing you a week of newly renamed wonders,
Warmly,
Susan
Beyond the seen, whole worlds dance,
formed and unformed, coming into being
and disappearing again.
Beyond these woods, butterflies,
the likes of which you’ve never dreamed,
flit through a rain forest’s branches.
Above the clouds, jeweled birds
fly across the lands and seas.
No one can count the variations
that the Great Song of the Yes brings forth.
It chants the sky and whispers the rainbows.
It laughs out stars and breathes out life.
And here, on this monochrome day,
it chimes in silver snowflakes
that melt on the lake like sighs
as fishes waltz beneath the frozen waters.
Right here, beyond the seen.
It was hardly bigger than my hand,
a piece of sycamore bark on the bed
of fallen pine needles, just a bit of litter
strewn on the path. But it drew me
to look closer and I bent down to hear
its story, and there were many of them,
about unexpected animals and birds
the tree whose bark this was had known.
All this, on a mere scrap of pastel bark
waiting to be noticed, on this path
in the woods.