~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Getting there is one thing.
The destination’s the main reason
for the journey, I suppose.
But it’s not everything, and maybe
not even the most important.
Once you reach it, after all, another
soon takes its place. Always
there is more to see and do.
Just maybe it’s the journey itself
that matters most, the times
you paused along the way to look around,
to feel yourself being, alive, savoring
the company, the day’s fine view.
Blessed are we when we have a companion
who lingers by our sides as we travel our days,
someone whose heart holds our own gently,
who flows with our moods without judgment,
who understands our thoughts and ways,
someone who makes the days of peace
more lovely, and the days of darkness
easier to bear, who lends strength
when we are weak, and who applauds
us when we’re strong, someone whose
smile is as warm as sunshine, and whose
love lets us know that our life is worthwhile.
They don’t settle down right away.
Like children tucked into bed
after an exciting day, the trees
take some time to sink into silence.
First, they must whisper stories
to each other, to giggle and tease.
They must wiggle a bit and ease
themselves into just the right
position before the winter dreams
will come, floating in like clouds
on a snowy evening. But then,
what stillness! And beneath it,
what stupendous dreams they dream!
This exquisite moment, like them all,
was, you know, inevitable, poured
from all the causes that came before.
From the instant the first note was sung,
all the others followed, arising
from its tone. These woods, this slant
of sunlight, my hand lifting the camera
to catch them, your eyes seeing the scene,
your mind sensing its warmth and depth,
all these were inherent in that first
pure note, that first exhalation
of the perfect, infinite Song.
Just before the music begins,
silence flows through the hall.
Before his arrow flies, the archer
holds the bow string still and taut.
The creek gathers itself in stillness
before it cascades in its fall.
The great song of being travels
in oscillating waves, the ebb
becoming the flow, the up the down,
the off the on, the hush the rush.
And in the space between,
the deep and silent space,
Love breathes its song.
I ran across a quote this week that has long been meaningful for me. It’s by author “George Eliot”, the pen name of Mary Ann Evans, one of the leading English writers of the mid-1800’s.
“Wear a smile and have friends; wear a scowl and have wrinkles,” she said. Then she added this powerful line: “What do we live for if not to make the world less difficult for each other?”
It was rather synchronistic that I happened on that particular quote this week, for two reasons.
The first reason is that I had a remarkable experience early in the week. It was a gorgeous autumn day, warm and sunny with the last bits of scarlet and gold dancing in the trees, and I had been in the woods with my camera—one of my very favorite things to do. I found myself catapulted into what I call “a trance of beauty.” My spirits were high, and when I stopped to pick up a couple groceries on my way home, I found myself seeing beauty in every face I gazed on.
People noticed me looking at them, a smile on my face, and even the ones that seemed burdened and care-worn inevitably smiled back and returned my “Hello.” I could actually see them brightening for a moment, as if they suddenly felt recognized and affirmed somehow. It was magical, and I was moved by the power a simple smile held.
The other reason the quote struck me was because it’s second part – “What do we live for if not to make the world less difficult for each other?” – both summarized and answered for me, the unformed question that rolls around like a tangled knot inside me when I see the division and conflict around me.
We have been propagandized on every side into dropping each other into labeled bins, “for” or “against” whatever issue we can name, into seeing each other as either ally or enemy instead of recognizing each other as a fellow human being. And worse, we have somehow, it seems, fallen into a snare of thinking those who are “against” our positions deserve to be silenced, banished, at least from our personal spheres, and perhaps even from the face of the earth.
That sounds pretty drastic, I know. But it’s a stance I witness every day, to my deep sorrow. I don’t know how to cure it on a mass level. I suspect the cure must rise from the grass roots—from you and me. As the wise, old saying goes, “Be the change you want to see in the world.” If you want to see more respect between people, give it. If you want to see more tolerance, more kindness, be more tolerant, be kind.
What do we live for, if not to make life less difficult for one another?
To that I can only say Amen.
Wishing you a week where you strive to personify all the best that you wish to see in the world. You can always begin with a smile.
Warmly,
Susan
Don’t let these warm days fool you.
Do you not see that the sycamores
have given their all? That the gold
of the maples has fallen? In the woods
the squirrels are busily burying nuts
and growing thick fur. Treat this
mild spell of comfort as a grace,
given you to gather memories of color
and soft air, of flowing waters
where leaves float like boats
and ducks paddle freely
through a still-liquid world.
Take it as a kindness, given
by the Yes, as a treasure for you
to hold in your heart, to warm
you when the winds blow cold.
Imagine floating, on a fine autumn day,
down from the tree that birthed you,
gently floating on a breath of a breeze
and landing, feather-soft, on water
so still you can’t even see it.
This is the place that eclipses everything else,
where only being exists, mine melded with it all,
distinct but a part of it. Me – not even thinking
how – transcribing its frequencies into color,
temperature, fragrance, taste, sound, motion,
sending back to it joy-laced wonder. Thoughts
dissolve here before they’re even formed.
The silt-covered rocks beneath the clear water
have no need of words to say what they are.
The water cannot be captured by names.
The only way to comprehend the mystery
is to drench yourself in it, and to let it
drench itself in all you have to give.
October brought the corn to its peak. Now the trick
is to get it in between rains if the field is dry enough
for the harvester and the enormous truck that hauls
it to giant bins for drying and storage. That’s for starters.
From there it goes on long journeys in many directions,
nurturing many along the way, and at the end returning
to the earth, as, I suppose, do all living things.
As of today, I see that a giant swath of the crop
has been cut and hauled. Much more remains. Soon.
The farmer studies weather screens with a furrowed brow.
“Friday,” he murmurs. “Maybe late tomorrow.”
I stop to photograph the field’s texture and curve,
the distant row of standing corn looking brave
beneath an ominous sky that threatens snow.
But Friday, maybe tomorrow afternoon, sunshine
will waltz across these hills and the mighty machines
will join in the song, and a week from now, the corn
will be gone.