~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
You can tell me the how of it all that you want,
explaining the way the light rays bend
around the curviness of earth,
and how their travel through the atmosphere
produces all these colors. It doesn’t change things
or answer the why. Beauty wasn’t a necessity.
Yet here it is, glowing despite the day’s clouds.
I say it is a gift, a love note from the Yes,
just because.
Nobody planned it. Hardly anybody
pays it much attention. A glance
as you round the curve, watch
for the crossroad at the top of the hill.
But here it is, the wild stuff, spilling all the way down
from the orchard where red and yellow apples grow
in neat rows, bordered by mown green grass.
And if you were lucky enough to pull over,
park at the base of the driveway that disappears
into some woods and walk across the road,
you could stand here in the shadowed light,
caught in its spell, struck by the rampant order,
the subtle harmony of boisterous color,
and most of all, how it simply happens,
without a human thought at all.
I have to confess that it’s been work to keep a positive perspective on life of late. I keep getting news about misfortunes in my circle of close friends. I’m frustrated with new software that seems to make no sense to me. My house needed sudden and unexpected repairs. And in the larger world, well, you have only to turn on the news to see that things appear to be coming apart at the seams.
What’s helped me the most is accepting that this is life. And gosh! Good or bad, I get to live it. I get to experience the whole range of human emotions – Not only shock, disappointment, anxiety and grief, but gratitude, serenity, hope, and joy as well.
And by accepting, I mean allowing myself to experience whatever emotion is flowing through me at any given time. Not to fight it. Not to push it away. Not to want to hold onto it. Not to judge myself for it. But simply to let it be and to feel it.
It helps, too, to look at the story I’m telling myself about whatever circumstance I find myself in, and to ask myself, in Byron Katie fashion, whether it’s true and whether I can be certain, and how I would be without that story.
When I do that, I often find an old Zen story coming to mind that reminds me that none of us has any idea how things will turn out, or what fortunes await us. Here’s a version of that story that I found years ago online:
Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.
“Maybe so;maybe not,” replied the farmer.
The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other wild horses. “How wonderful,” the neighbors exclaimed.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” the old man said.
The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.
“Maybe,so; maybe not” answered the farmer.
The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” said the farmer. . . .
That story has served me well over the many years since I first heard it. I hope it will stick with you and serve you, too, when you’re tempted to label your circumstances as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
And finally, the beauty of autumn has held me in its arms and reminded me that for everything there is a season, and that the seasons turn. And this is life. And we get to live it. And that, my friends, is miracle enough and then some.
Wishing you a week of perspective, brushed with autumn’s beauty.
Warmly,
Susan
One of the things that the Great Yes wanted to experience
was being a maple tree whose leaves would turn red in fall.
And so it did. And on one perfect October afternoon
when the air was cool and the warm sun was shining
through its red leaves, the maple danced, and the Great Yes
sang from within its very atoms in perfect, absolute joy.
I see. Your verses tell the depth
of your history, a lineage stretching back
into the mists of time, your ancestors
coal now. And more recently,
your joyous sonnet sings, how you burst
fresh and green from tight buds
and how you spent the summer
singing with ten hundred birds
before you followed them
into the sky and then falling, here,
to the breast of Mother Earth,
surrendering yourselves to her
in this one last gift of beauty.
And all the days between
the bursting and the fall,
your lines reveal, were rich
and full beyond all expectations.
I see. Here in your lines and colors
I read your song. And I am
blessed. Rest well.
This beauty, this air, these cycling seasons,
this round wondrous rock on which we stand,
these trees, every blade of grass, every drop of rain,
this glorious sunshine, this wild, tumultuous variety
of dancing colors and sizes and forms, all of this was given,
without charge. Not to an elite, however defined.
Not conditioned by anyone’s notion of worthiness.
But freely, to us all, as messengers of joy.
Some little flowers, having no calendars
to go by, just keep on keeping on. They have
their own rhythms and reasons and rules.
They dance to their own songs. And
thank God for that. I mean, just when
we thought the flowers were gone,
here they are, stepping onto the stage
singing. Right here, smack dab
in the middle of October.
I walk along this golden creek,
through this season so brief and beautiful,
and think of you.
Who knows which breath will be our last?
Our lives are as fleeting as the colors of this day,
as easily washed into memory.
But while we live, let us live richly.
Like this amazing afternoon,
let us shine our gold and sing our colors to the sky.
And when we go, may the glow of our being linger
in the hearts and minds of all whose lives we touched,
and may they be better and more joyous for having known
our laughter and our kindness and our love.
A host of lore abounds
telling how your coat,
dear woolly bear, predicts
what winter will hold.
The greater the brown,
the milder the season;
an abundance of black
means plenty of snow.
Here’s what I know:
You’re a sure sign
that winter is near
and we would be wise
to don woollies
of our own.
Autumn’s hues are bursting out everywhere now.
The ancient, stately maples are drenched in crimson,
the climbing vines wear deep red. All around me
yellow beech leaves shower down like coins tossed
as tokens of good fortune. Beneath my boots
fallen sycamore leaves crunch like cornflakes.
And along its side, a circus of color makes me stop
and laugh, its gaudiness looking as if someone
sent the kids out to play with a tin of paints,
wholly free of from rules and supervision.
It sure looked happy. And beautiful.
And I wore the smile it gave me all the way
to the end of the trail.