~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
“Just one last thing,” says spring, packing to go.
She floats over to the Joe Pye Weed, already
over three feet tall, and sweeps a breeze
across the tops of them, ever so gently.
“Wake up, darlings,” she sings to them,
“It’s time.” And the tips of them dance
as if they suddenly sensed that they’re alive.
This is one of those little hometown stories you don’t hear much any more. It’s about my neighbor’s son-in-law, Shawn.
Shawn worked as a meat cutter at the big chain grocery store up the road a couple miles. He’d always nod and smile when he saw me. But ahead of his job, the passion of his life was his membership in the township’s Volunteer Fire Department.
Last winter, Shawn took ill and was diagnosed with one of those “turbo-cancers” that have sprung up in the past couple years. They develop quickly and affect different areas of the body simultaneously or in rapid succession.
Shawn fought it valiantly. But last Tuesday the doctors said there was no more they could do and sent him home to die surrounded by his family.
The family set up a bed for him in the living room where he could look out the front door at the neighborhood. There was something special coming, they told him, they wanted him to see.
A few hours later, as a light rain fell from a pale sky, the sound of a fire truck’s siren ripped through the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Trucks had come from departments all around the county. One even came from E. Palestine, Ohio. Shawn hadn’t been able to fight the fire the night of the derailment last winter, but his wife went, fighting along with the rest of the department.
The bond among fire-fighters is strong. They came this night to tell Shawn they loved and respected him, to honor his years of service. The red and white lights of their trucks glistened in the rain as they drove in a slow parade all around his block, sirens wailing.
Shawn watched from his bed, smiling. Two days later, he was gone.
My heart goes out to the family. They’ve been through the wringer the past couple years. But it never got them down.
I was thinking about Shawn and his family yesterday when I came across a short story called “The Black Telephone.” It’s a beautiful little story and worth a read. In one part of it, the story-teller’s pet canary dies. He’s just a little kid at the time and the death confuses him. He goes to a wise older friend. Here’s the excerpt from the story:
I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”
She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”
Somehow I felt better.
I felt better, too. For a minute, I imagined a grinning Shawn giving rides to smiling children and puppies in a big shiny fire truck up in some corner of heaven.
You know, it can be a tough world. There’s a lot of pain and sorrow here. Remember to be kind. And when you lose someone dear, take comfort in remembering that there are other worlds to sing in.
Warmly,
Susan
Bird Image by Steven Iodice from Pixabay
Firetruck photos by Bob Spann
Sometimes it amazes me that I get to see this.
That there’s a this to see, and not just any this,
but this this. And every time it happens it’s new,
even if I’m in the same place as the last time
and that was just a minute ago.
I get to see this.
It’s the middle of June and the leaves of the trees
are green and full and deep. From this particular one,
delicate blossoms cascade, simple and sweet,
and the romantic in me sees them as wedding flowers.
June, croon, honeymoon. I think that’s how it goes.
But here, as I wake from my dream, white flowers cascade.
And I get to see them.
When springtime was brand new
and the green just beginning
to rise from the earth and the tips
of the trees, something inside me
whispered, “Green is so healing.”
I remember thinking it was a good thing
that spring would bring so much of it,
for we are in such need. This is a world
of wounded ones. No one escapes
their share of injury, sorrow, loss.
But the pain that breaks our shell
opens the door to new perceptions.
We see what we long for, what matters,
what doesn’t, what still remains.
We rest, absorbing the meanings,
pondering what tomorrow might hold.
And as we rest, the green floats in
with its abundance of hope, and
its breezes full of healing. And we
go on, renewed, deepened, and strong.
It’s quite the plan, wouldn’t you say?
Every year about this time, yellow flag irises bloom
on the far shore of the lake, beneath the pines.
Normally, they’re rising from a few inches of water.
But this year, when we have gone over two weeks without rain,
I could follow the nearly invisible trail the deer make down
to the water’s edge where they grow, looking like angels
floating on tall stems above the marsh, wild forget-me-nots
surrounding them as if to catch and memorize their songs.
I approach them slowly, lest I startle them into flying away.
Then I stand silent and unmoving before the nearest one,
holding my breath, listening as she hovers mid-air.
She is singing her golden heart out, and the notes cascade
down my spine in waves of electric joy.
This is an acrylic painting I did almost three decades ago
and a piece I wrote to go with it.
None of the daisies saw the field the same way. Some watched the sky, some watched the birds, some gazed at the leaves in the trees. Some talked with the tiny flowers next door, some chatted with grass and some with clover.
Some bent to the east and some to the south, and others looked every which way in between. Some were tall and peered from the top of long stems. Some were wee, barely knee-high to the others.
Some were awake, and some were dreaming. Some laughed at the tickle of bees gathering their pollen. Some giggled at the tiny ants that climbed on their petals and leaves.
The Great Yes wants to experience life from every possible perspective, you see. That’s why there are countless stars and snowflakes. That’s why there’s eternity. Even a month full of daisies, stretched as far as the eye can see, are but a flicker of the whole. And yet, the Great Yes wouldn’t be what it is without them, every single one.
Every now and then, as if to reassure us,
the sun slides through an opening in the clouds.
It keeps us from falling into pits of gloom
as we slog through this endless spell of rain.
If you grab one of those precious sunny hours
and walk the path, now deep with wet grasses,
that runs between the meadow and the woods.
you find that the wild things are thriving.
Flowers bloom, buds burst, plump seeds
prepare to fly. Grasshoppers hop;
butterflies float from blossom to blossom.
The leaves on the trees are washed and shining.
And across the creek tilled fields
sprout emerald rows of corn and beans.
You can’t stay long, of course. Already clouds
are gathering for another blow. And besides,
you’re soaked up to your knees. But still,
you’ve seen the rain’s work and it’s good,
and your mouth tastes of fresh sunshine.
A forest of ferns stretches deep into the woods
past the birches with their white, papery bark, and the others,
familiar, yet not the same. It’s the ferns that draw my attention
with their height and their strong, straight fronds,
so different from the soft, lacy ones that cover the hill
to the south of my home, yet dancing into the forest
in the same way. And the forest is different, too, the trees
here cousins to those outside my door and growing
on flat land, not climbing the slope of a hill. It ‘s as if
the earth suddenly changed clothes just to delight
in the differences and to celebrate the theme.
The gardens sing a different song each day.
I tiptoe out to see them in the morning as if I’m sneaking
down the stairs on Christmas Day, eager to see
what surprises arrived in the night, never doubting
that surprises would have, indeed, appeared.
I take it as a fact, like the sun’s floating up right over
that hill, right there, still earlier every morning.
Sometimes the surprises stop me in my tracks,
make me suck in a lung full of air and hold it
as I stare, wide-eyed, at some new wonder.
This week, for instance, the blue ruffled irises got me.
But look here, at today’s gift, a scattering of polka dots
that make it impossible for me not to laugh. I stop
and thank them for being such a happy patch of smiles.
I’ve been enjoying my gardens this week. Because I live surrounded by woods, I lack the sunshine to grow anything that requires more than an hour or two of sun. But the shade-lovers I have, and a few precious flowers, are doing splendidly. So are the so-called weeds that grow among them, the wild ones who traveled up from the meadow below or ambled down from the wooded hillsides that surround me. The raspberries, the phlox, the chamomile, the yarrow and forget-me-nots and buttercups and ferns.
I have to admit it; I love weeds. Without any help from human hands, they do pretty doggone well. And personally, I confess that when I watch them grow, I think they have more fun than their cultivated cousins.
They seem freer somehow, less constrained. And let’s face it; they’re definitely hardier.
I think when nobody’s around they laugh. I think they just plain like what they are, that they don’t take themselves too seriously.
They grow lightly, with no silly need to be something special. They just pop out their leaves and buds and flowers and berries according to whatever pattern nature provides, schmoozing with their neighbors, making the best of whatever resources happen to be at hand.
And somehow it all turns out beautifully.
There’s a lesson there, I think. Maybe it’s that we ought to be more careful what we label a “weed.” Maybe it’s that you don’t have to be all fancy in order to please. Maybe it’s that old advice to bloom where we are planted – and to do it with abandon and joy. I don’t know. I just know that they delight my eye and make me smile. And these days anything in this world that can do that is just fine with me.
Have yourself a happy little week. I hope you happen on a weed or two, and that it makes you smile.
Warmly,
Susan