Somewhere in the world, bright flowers are blooming. Somewhere, the sun is shining down. Lovers are embracing somewhere and children are dreaming in their mother’s arms. Somewhere, great music is playing and songs are being sung. Someone is climbing a mountain, someone is offering prayer. Somewhere, friends are breaking bread and weaving memories. Somewhere, butterflies float and colored birds take wing. Somewhere stars are glittering in a velvet sky. And everywhere, always, the Great Yes unfolds in waves of limitless love.
When storms loom, remember to stay rooted in the now, loving all who surround you, bringing them into the comfort of your calm, into the reach of your heart’s trusting song, the serenity and light of your smile. Do what the moment requests of you, whether that be patience or strength, whether firmness or flexibility. Count your current blessings. You are here. Let the wonder of that sustain you, though there be storms.
All love goes beyond words. Some of it’s so deep you can’t even think it, only feel it in your heart. And then there’s the love that’s made of all the bits and crumbs of love that ever were. Why, it’s so big that all it can do is paint itself all over everything, right before your very eyes.
Regardless of how things may seem, regardless of confusion, conflict and pain, always there is that which is pure and simple and singing with joy, that which gives balance and the assurance of grace. Go about your day, then, with gladness. These blossoms are reminders that we’re all dearly loved. Even me, even you.
The leaves tumble down to the creek‘s floor like careless drops from the brush of an unseen artist. Splattering the rocks with autumn rainbow hues, they and the creek make a painting of their own. But this is no accident. There’s nothing careless here. It took eons to produce this scene, time beyond measure. All for this moment, this one breath of a day, when the light and the breeze were just so, and it was early September.
One by one, the leaves decide. Who will go first? Who will hang on? Who will be the last to go? Already some cannot resist the chance to fly, to ride the wind free of any restraint, to sail birdlike on wings of air. Most wait, savoring the familiar view, savoring its changes. There is no right or wrong. Time signals each one when to fly. And time, the bubbling creek says, has a way of doing things in exactly the perfect order.
I was doing a little reorganizing this week and ran across some old notes about an interview I’d heard with Neale David Walsh, author of the Conversations with God series that was so popular a few years ago. He had just released a fourth book, Awaken the Species, and he was talking about some of the main concepts it covers.
In case you’re not familiar with the Conversations series, or not even vaguely interested in reading what somebody says about God, you may find it intriguing that the first point the voice that Walsh identifies as “God” had to make was “You’ve got me all wrong.”
As Walsh pointed out in the interview, even if you’ve dismissed the idea of the existence of God entirely, if that sentence has even a smidgeon of truth to it, it suggests that you might want to ask yourself what you do believe about the possibility and nature of an infinitely conscious Supreme Being. (Maybe, for example, you picture God as the source of the code that makes up the matrix of existence.)
That suggestion—about questioning beliefs—reminded me of one of the most challenging and valuable assignments I was ever given in college. It was the final exam in a course called “American Thought and Language,” which covered significant (and often opposing) concepts that had arisen in the country since the time prior to the Revolution up to the present. The assignment was to write an essay entitled “I Believe,” in which we were to discuss a few of our own personal beliefs and give our reasons for holding them.
Every now and then, I assign that essay to myself again, just to take a look at the beliefs I hold now and to examine them. You’d be surprised how interesting that can be – and fun! It’s very revealing.
But that’s not the main thought that I brought away from that Walsh interview. The idea that struck me most deeply was one Walsh shared when the host asked him what was the biggest piece of advice he could give people, based on his latest book. Walsh said he would tell people what he was told was the most important thing: “Your life isn’t about you. It has nothing to do with you. It’s about everyone whose life you touch and the way in which you touch it.”
Think about the implications of that thought. Imagine what it would be like if each of us asked, “How can I help? What can I do to make your life easier, more comfortable, more peaceful, more pleasant?” What if we looked for ways we could give encouragement to each other? If we set out to make the environment a healthier, more beautiful place? If we listened to each other more? If we looked more into each other’s eyes? If we looked for ways to ease another’s burden or to alleviate some of their stress? If we did our jobs knowing that we were contributing, in however small a way, to the well-being of others and took joy in that?
So that’s the thought I leave with you this week, the message that it’s all about every life we touch and how we touch it.
I wish you the insight to see what’s needed, and the generosity of spirit to give as only you can.
It’s going on noon on the first day of September when I decide to climb the western slope of the south hill. It smells of advancing autumn and the summer’s sea of ferns is but froth on the shore after the waves have spent their force and washed away. Here and there, a fallen leaf dots the ground. And the fallen branches, gifts from the winds, are plentiful and easy to see, now that the foliage has melted into the soil. I will be roaming here again soon, gathering them to serve as fuel for my winter fires. But today I am here just to see what there is to see as the world ushers in September.
Suddenly, September plunks herself down in the meadow. She spills Queen Anne’s Lace and goldenrod everywhere. It’s not that she was unexpected, but I had pushed her way over there in my mind since she signals the advent of the cold half of the year. Now here I am, knee deep in late summer wildflowers, glad despite myself, the child in me dancing giddily to the shrill sawing of ten thousand crickets and handsome insects everywhere, feasting. “It’s another whole corner of heaven!” the dancing child shouts, and my wrinkled face smiles.
As if in benediction, one last lily blossomed today, its petals a delicate pink, its center shades of lemon and lime, glowing with an internal light. Six stamens, also glowing, rose from its heart bearing offerings of gold, in thanks, I believe, for the privilege of being. I kneel before it to peer into its face, to take in its silent song. This is the garden’s last blossom. Now the wildflowers will sing their autumn songs and I will dance to their bright tunes. But here, before this lily, I am, for a long while, silent. And at last, all I can do is dare to stroke its petals as I whisper my grateful farewell.
