~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
When I wake to a fresh blue sky
and the morning is dazzled with emerald
leaves dancing on a cool breeze
that carries the scent of white lilacs
and the songs of countless birds,
joy floods my being, and I know
that all the highest promises are true
and all the coming hours are blessed,
whatever they may hold.
They stand for nothing,
not for a price or a system,
nor for any particular position,
or concept or creed. They obey
only the law of their being:
Flower freely. And so they show
their colors, and feed the ants and bees,
and decorate the roadsides, and dance
in the morning breeze, asking nothing,
simply being, and singing their songs.
And when the stars rise and twinkle
above them, they dream sweet dreams,
and their hearts are filled with joy.
Look what she’s done now!
As if the crocuses and tulips,
the daffodils, violets and speedwell
weren’t enough, as if we weren’t already
joy-struck with the magnolias and the
blossoming of apple trees, cherry and pear,
now May spreads the field with red poppies
and wild phlox. She dresses every day with
new garlands from her basket, laughing
her love songs, whispering Happy Birthday
to the earth. Such limitless generosity!
And all we can do is marvel and be glad.
Imagine the thrill of learning
that you get to do the very last dance.
“Leave them laughing,” the teacher said.
“Let them be filled with gaiety
whenever the thought of a tulip
crosses their minds.”
And donning her white ruffled
petticoat and a swirling cape
of clear red, the season’s last tulip
did just that.
The wild raspberry blossoms
are opening now, great vines
of them cascading in long arches
down the hill, secrets hidden
inside, secrets that will turn them
into tart, sweet, juicy red globes.
The birds and I keep eager watch,
singing our chant to bring the magic
on. Oh, bring them, little blossoms.
Bring them. Bring them. Bring them.
There’s something to be said for humility.
Take the little white violets, for instance.
They don’t shout. They don’t mind
that they’re not as tall as the grass,
or as bright as the dandelions, or
purple, like their cousins.
They don’t worry whether anyone
notices them or not, whether the sun
shines or the rain falls. They simply open
their sweet little petals, perfume the air,
and say to each other, “Isn’t it a lovely day!”
When people look at my photos of you,
they say, in a kind of reverential tone,
“Reminds me of my grandma,”
and they get the sweetest smiles
on their faces, remembering.
I don’t know if anyone ever told you,
and I thought you might like to know.
As I was thinking about what I wanted to share with you today, I remembered that it’s Mother’s Day here in the States. For me, it’s a day filled with happy and meaningful memories of a woman whose character I find myself appreciating more and more deeply with every passing year. I genuinely hope that you can say the same, and that, if your Mom is still living, you’ll tell her so.
The thought occurred to me that in today’s climate of speech policing, this day set aside for honoring mothers will probably soon become “Parents’ Day” or “Caregivers’ Day” or some such thing. But that’s a topic for another time.
Right now, it’s still “Mother’s Day,” and I asked myself what the essential quality is that all mothers share. I had to think about it for a while, because mothers, being human after all, span the whole spectrum from “bad” to “good.” But I think I finally put my finger on it–at least if we set the truly pathological ones aside.
The one thing all mothers do, the one quality that behooves us to be grateful for them, is that they nurture us. Even the most disadvantaged ones, the most disinterested, the most careless, did what was needed to keep us alive. Even if that meant, in some cases, giving us away. Here we are; they did what it took to make that happen.
For the ones who did the bare minimum, let’s use this day to offer them our forgiveness and compassion. They don’t know what they missed. And they did the best they could.
And for the ones who took the time and spent the energy not only to feed, clothe, and house us, but to nurture us with an abundance of love, let’s take the time to reflect that love back to them, whether they’re still with us or not.
Let’s think about what they nurtured in us—what they taught us to value and appreciate, how they instilled manners in us and showed us ways to successfully negotiate in the world, how they passed on traditions so we would feel linked to the past, how they said that the only thing they wanted was for us to be happy in our lives and how they did all they knew to do to make that possible. Let’s think about the pride they took in our achievements, and their unqualified forgiveness when we fell short of the mark, about the way they comforted our hurts and celebrated with us our moments of joy, about how they instilled in us the meaning of the word “home.”
Let’s think about the sacrifices they made for us, the events they attended they didn’t want to attend, the things they did without in order to serve our wishes and needs, the fulfillment of some of their own dreams so that some of ours had a chance to come true.
That’s an awful lot for one human being to be able to do for another. And the wonder of it is that most moms–and stepmoms, and foster and adoptive moms–consider it a privilege and wouldn’t trade their roles for anything in the world.
It kind of gives you hope for the world, doesn’t it?
Wishing you a day of happy and grateful reflection about the special nurturers who mothered you. And if you are a mom, thanks from all of us for all you so tirelessly do.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by RENE RAUSCHENBERGER from Pixabay
It doesn’t matter that you grow in a tangle of weeds
or that you’re hidden in some corner where few ever pass.
You’re still exactly where you were destined to be,
where you were meant to unfurl your colors,
where you were needed to sing your song.
The sunbeams will still find you, the stars
will light your nights. Soft rains will come
to refresh you and to quench your thirst.
And when you least expect them, friends
will appear who see your beauty and strength.
Through your petals and leaves and stems,
life extends its blessings to the world.
So blossom and dance, dear child of the Yes,
and hear the wind whisper that you’re known
and seen, that you’re cherished and dearly loved.
The rains left behind a sea of ferns,
their green waves rolling in the breeze,
sparkled by celandine poppies
who pretend they are bits of sunny foam
atop a creating wave. I, who am still
recovering from winter’s drab days,
take this as a reward for my endurance,
the waves sloshing over my soul
with their green, healing joy.