~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
You think of her with her dazzle on,
the shimmering heaps of powdery snow
flashing in the sunlight, sparkling
beneath a full moon, the etched branches
and frosted boughs, the glittering ice.
Nothing can compare.
But most days, she shuffles through the hours
unadorned, and unless you have the wisdom
to peer past the surface, you might mistake
her for some plain Jane, too ordinary
to warrant your attention. Only those
who truly look can truly see her beauty–
or deserve to.
For one more day, the snow held, more falling
during the night and into the morning
until every branch and twig was clothed
in its powdery light.
The sight was almost too much to bear,
and you could walk in it only slowly,
mindful and silent lest you disturb
something holy,
even while your spirit
leapt and shouted with joy.
We are, I found myself thinking, all wounded warriors struggling toward a Great Promise of some kind, feeling its pull in our hearts, the truth and reality of its call. We give it different names and have a wondrous assortment of interpretations of it. It doesn’t matter. It’s far larger than any of us understands and better than all of us together could imagine.
The fulfillment of that Great Promise feels so far away sometimes. But sometimes, more and more often, we get a sense that it’s just ahead. We expect to see it any minute now. We just have to make it through this one last stretch of tight darkness and there it will be, opening its welcome to us.
Meanwhile, there’s today. Based on past experience, we suppose it will go more or less as we expect it to go. It will have its usual rhythm of tasks and demands, its moments of rest and interruption, its flickers of of surprise and of appreciation, To have an ordinary day is a blessing you know.
A wise novelist whose name escapes me at the moment said we should greet every day as if it’s our first, or our last. Try one of those on for size. See how the world looks from there. I’ve been looking at them as if each one is my last, myself, cherishing the make-up of my Now. Nevertheless, especially when I’m lucky enough to be around infants, I let myself try to remember or imagine how the world looks when you see it for the very fist time.
But as I was saying, here we are, smack-dab in the middle of today, free to do with it as we choose. Thanks for choosing to spend some of your moments with me, by the way. That makes me smile. In exchange, I’ll tell you a story.
Dr. T was telling her colleague and friend Dr. P how frustrated she was that she hadn’t mastered this new skill she was working on. “And you started practicing this when?” he asked.
She said she had begun a week ago last Tuesday, and he smiled at her and said, “Maybe you’re exactly where someone should be who’s been practicing for less than two weeks.”
She got the point, and laughed. She immediately let go of the impossible expectation she had raised for herself.
We don’t get to our goals in the blink of an eye. They require us to hone our skills, to sharpen and polish them, to repeatedly practice doing the things that will move us nearer our target, over and over. That’s what a practice is. It’s building a routine with the aim of getting better and better at it all the time, giving it greater attention, getting more insight, expanding our understanding.
When you practice routinely, the distance to the goal doesn’t matter. The whole purpose of seeking mastery is to spur continuous improvement. All that matters is that today you will practice intentionally. No matter what you did yesterday or how many days have passed when you didn’t practice at all, or whether you think you’re any good at it or not, today you can decide to do your practicing.
At the end of his conversation with Dr. T, Dr. P said his grandmother once asked him how long he’d had his practice. “Over 25 years,” he told her.
“Well son,” she said, “You know, we’re always practicing.”
Nice that we get to choose what our practices will be, isn’t it?
As for me, I plan to continue being a Joy Warrior for a while. Feels worthwhile.
May all your practices bring you contentment and peace.
Warmly,
Susan
Even now I see, as I gaze at these spent asters
fallen on the new snow, their grace remains,
their delicate song echos still and enchants
so that it is suddenly late summer in my mind
and the hillside is strewn with their purple petals
as they waltz with the goldenrod in the warm air.
It was a fine dream, and I thanked them,
awed that they could hold such power, even now.
You would think that in this biting cold,
with its stark spaces and sharp air,
the world would be a hostile place.
Yet look how the azalea holds open its leaves.
Look how gently the snow lays itself down.
You may think it was here before you arrived,
that it will endure long after you have gone.
But dig down deep enough, read the stories
of the layers, of the rocks, the bones, and
you will find that once upon a time
this was jungle. Once it was covered
in mountains of ice. What luck, then,
that we can stand in a shimmering dusting
of snow on this cold but temperate land,
gazing at bare white sycamore limbs.
What great good fortune indeed!
Given the cutting cold, you could wish, of course,
to pull the covers over your head, to burrow in
until the thermometer’s thin red line
stretched a few dozen marks higher.
But then you would miss this crystal blue morning,
this bright, stark, shimmering day.
You would miss the ground-diamond sparkle
of the powdery snow rising around your boots
as you hiked to the edge of the lake.
You would miss this silence so complete
that you can hear the breathing of the trees.
If it’s going to be winter, it may as well snow.
It may as well drape the boughs with crystal
and invite the children out to play. It may as well
etch the branches of the woodlands and scatter
powdered diamonds on the lawn. If it must
be cold, it may as well grace us with beauty,
like these shimmering love-flakes falling now
from the high silvery sky, the grand silent song
singing Yes all around us.
For a moment, a tongue of flame
flickered through the snowy woods
briefly coloring the bark of a maple
before it disappeared into the gray
of the deep winter day. Like a smile
flashed by a loved one boarding a plane,
its promise and warmth lingered
long after the sight itself was gone
and would be enough, I knew,
to get me through all the in-between days.
Like a Zen sand painting, destined
to disappear, a work of art glistens
in the light of the sun as it rises
over the eastern hills, its light revealing
the scene so delicately etched on my window.
And it’s not enough that the frost sculpted
crystalline flowers and branches;
it’s made a shadow layer, too, a misty
mountain, rising beyond this meadow,
rainbow snow falling on its slopes.
Behind the frost, a shadowed hillside
draped in dawn’s blue and a matrix
of tree limbs hang from a strange,
foreign sky. Later, it will take on a magic
of its own. But in this glistening moment
it’s the frost that captivates and stuns me
with its unexpected evanescent beauty.