~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
I wait for these, these sycamore leaves and oaks,
the last to fall, some of the sycamores larger than my face,
all of them larger than my palm, and so rich in color.
This is the quilt’s top layer, the topmost shield against the snow,
coming soon now, soon. But not today. Today is still mild,
and the burnished umber of the fallen sycamores and oaks
spreads itself beneath the tall trunks of the mighty ones
who bore them. I breathe their fragrance, their songs
rustling around my ankles as I walk.
I like waking to November’s fog,
to the way it silently wraps itself
around the trunks of the bare trees,
the fallen ferns and leaves,
filtering the light, caressing
everything with its soft wings,
as it gently whispers,
“Wake, children; wake.
What do you think, love?
It’s my winter look. Personally,
I like the subtlety of it, the seeming
neutrality, with depth and yet
a sense of dance and humor.
Flamboyance is so yesterday.
This is me now. Bare bones.
Take another look, sweetheart.
Tell me what you think.
Twenty years from now, they say,
we won’t need cars. No one
will travel or need to, because
everything will be virtual.
I look at the oak leaves,
pondering the idea that I
may be among the last
of this round of humans
to experience actual nature.
And so I walk and gaze
with deepened reverence,
and more than a touch
of sorrow, watching
the fall.
The geese are gone. They gathered
their young ones and off they went,
honking with joy, their strong wings
lifting them in their great V formations,
heading south. But this place
still bears the feel of their presence.
We leave our imprints on all that we touch.
And standing here on the pond’s edge
among the bleached reeds, I smile,
remembering spring’s fuzzy goslings,
marveling at the way they grew
into elegance in a few short months,
much like the swan in the fairy tale.
A crow calls from a tree across the water.
“Hear! Hear!” he says. “Yes,” I whisper to him,
“I do,” as the sound of geese honking
floats silently above the pond.
“Okay,” said November, washing the gold from the trees, spilling it all over the road and the lawn, “Enough of that. Now, let’s get down to business.”
It’s as if she has a switch of some kind that she flicks half-way through her stay. We’ve had our spell of magnificence. Now comes the rain, and the dark, and the cold.
It makes me want to hibernate deep in my cave, and not come back out until the berries are ripe.
I want the long green of summer, and its warmth and light.
I growl to myself. It all went away far too soon.
But just as I was thinking that and feeling like quite a crabby bear, my eyes fell on an index card that’s pinned above my desk.
“How easy can I let this be?” it says.
And all at once, I remember.
I love those words: “How easy can I let this be?” The moment they wash into my awareness, a kind of gentle softness flows through me. I remember that I can let this be easy: the rain, the dark, the cold.
What did I think I had to steel myself against? Why did I think it had to be hard?
“Easy” is just a state of letting-things-be, and being with them. And all you have to do to get there is to let go of your preconceptions of how things “should” be, or of wanting them to be different than they are.
When things seem hard, it’s because we’re reacting to an old movie in our heads instead of responding to what is real right now.
Right now, it is raining, and when I let myself be at ease with that, I hear the sound of the raindrops softly striking against my window pane and see them shimmer as they slide down the studio’s antique glass. They look a bit like jewels against the sketch of wind-blown woods behind them.
It’s cold out tonight. But when I am at ease with that and step outside, my skin feels awake and alive, and a fresh alertness brightens my mind. And when I come back inside, the warmth of the house wraps around me and welcomes me.
Easy lets you pay attention and to ride the moment’s flow.
Even when the moment holds pain, or regret, or sorrow, if you can put aside your resistance to it and allow it to be what it is, and allow yourself to experience it fully, you will bear it with so much more depth and grace.
Easy lets you discover the moment’s meaning. It points you toward what you are doing or could do, right now, easily.
Easy is a kind of listening – as if you are hearing a new sound. It’s listening to what is around you, and to what is within – and that is always new, for the world and you are ever-changing and this moment never was before. Easy allows you to embrace it and opens you to its wholeness and wonder.
Try it. With a sense of curiosity, just ask yourself, “How easy can I let this be?” and notice what happens.
Wishing you delightful discoveries!
Warmly,
Susan
On this gift of a day
may the flowing hours
with their sun-sparkled colors
and rippling ribbons of sound,
with their air kissing your face,
its flavors teasing your tongue,
with their perfumes of earth, and water
and sky, on this very day,
may this very hour
bring your heart joy
and contentment and peace.
Throughout the afternoon
I watched the last maple leaf
twirl dizzily in the wind and cold rain,
the trees on the hill above it
swaying in the mighty gusts.
When day’s last light slid into shadow,
it was still holding on. By morning,
the tale would be told.
By spring, I will, I know,
be longing for a broader pallet,
one drenched in greens and pastels.
But today, November is painted
in her range of neutrals beneath
this blue and lavender sky, and I
find that my eye is pleased
at the soft, stark subtlety
of it all, her hues looking like
the pelt of some wild animal
stretched across the rolling hills.
As if a curtain lifted to reveal
a grand new setting for the next act
of the play, the field had been transformed.
Gone were the gold and crimson hills.
Gone the goldenrod. In their place,
a wonderland stands, the pale, bare limbs
of the sycamore dancing with the last leaves
of the russet oaks below the dark hills.
And at their feet, acres of goldenrod,
white now and as fluffy as snow,
spread to the field’s edge,
a sneak preview of things to come.
We walk through the billowing stalks, laughing,
and Betsy says they look like hats
that elves would wear.