I dip my finger in the nectar to be sure it had cooled enough to fill the hummingbirds’ suddenly empty feeder. It had. They’re going through it quickly these days, storing up extra energy for their upcoming migration. I slip on my pink rain jacket, pull up the hood, and walk, giggling, through the rain, the wet grass tickling my bare feet. When I return to my kitchen with the feeder, I see a bee has come along for the ride. I catch him in a jar and take him outside. As I carry the filled feeder up the hill to its pole, a memory rises in my mind of Holly, her big umbrella in hand, walking through a downpour after tending to her chickens. I smile that we both feed birds in the rain.
At first I mistook them for fleabane, both having such tiny white flowers, But as I neared them, I realized they were something else, something I had never seen before, inviting me to take a closer look. “Oh my! Petals like an orchid and wearing such delicate dabs of purple!” I say to myself as I gaze at the little flowers. I never fail to be amazed at the intricacies of the world, at the touching, exquisite details. It makes me hold my breath in awe and to feel honored somehow just to see them, right here, before me.
Suppose they have to agree, before they can live as butterflies, to a life that spans mere days. But as compensation, they are offered the freedom of flight on beautiful wings through a world of brilliant flowers in every color their eyes can see and each one a feast of nectar so sweet it would make them giddy with delight, and every butterfly you see said Yes to the bargain. Who could blame them? Would you not have have said Yes, too?
The sun behind the flower of the sun washes its light into the halo of petals that shoot in joyous yellow flames from the spiraling seed-birthing center, feeding it, that it may feed others in turn, a metaphor and mandala. Shine on, bright flower. Shine on.
May I always remember, no matter what comes, that once upon a time I visited a place where people rode horses across lush deep valleys just to ride, crossing the wide, rocky creek at the shallows, then climbing the trail through the leafy woods toward home, the sound of the creek playing in rhythm somehow with the clopping of the horses. A few birds called. But except for that, there was silence, and warmth and a breeze, and the world felt alive and perfect, and watching the riders, I felt joyous peace.
On those days when you just feel so great, when your whole body feels so fine, when the sky is so clear and the sun is so warm, and everything’s singing its song, you go right ahead and strut your stuff, babe. Dance through the world like you own it.
“Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted. Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world.” ~Hans Margolius
The deeper your contentment, the calmer your mind. The calmer your mind, the clearer your perception. The clearer your perception, the more beauty you see. The more beauty you see, the more ecstasy you feel.
While digging around in my archives the other day, I found this “Blast from the Past” that I wrote in 2010. I was writing about character strengths at the time and this one was about the strength of optimism. I called it . . .
“The Breakfast of Champions”
None of it matters: Where you were born, who your parents are, how tough you had it growing up, how many boulders you had to climb over, what the competition was doing.
What matters is whether you’ve got heart, how much you want to be, how deep you’re willing to dive into the life force within you, what stories you believe and tell.
Especially the stories. You either have excuses or you have reasons. It’s up to you. You either let it get you or you don’t. You see people who came from the sorriest of life’s lot wearing medals, champions risen from the dregs. What kinds of stories do you suppose they listened to and chanted to themselves in the dead of night? Tell yourself those kinds of stories.
The ones who win life’s prizes don’t let a missing leg or drunken dad or empty wallet tell them that the whole deck of cards is stacked against them. They see what they have, not what they lack.
If they stumble, they don’t decide they’re worthless. They tie their shoes or watch out for cracks and keep on with the race. They remember the times they did well, beat the pack, sunk the putt, hit the target, aced the test. They believe in themselves. They tell themselves “I can,” and “I will.”
They fly the banners of hope and high expectations. They eat optimism for breakfast and dine on their victories at night, and even if the victories are small, they find enough of them to make a satisfying meal.
Life is for the brave. It sings like a riot of trumpets for the ones with the daring and guts to keep going even when things are tough. And it sends happiness to dwell in their hearts and applauds them with standing ovations.
Along the roadsides now, the summer wildflowers dance. I walk ankle deep in them, naming them as I go – red clover, daisy, Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tiny yellow ones whose name I do not know. The air is fragrant with their scents and the scents of the grasses and of the corn in the fields they line. Earlier today I learned that to make a single pound of honey, bees must visit two million flowers. “Here they are! Here they are!” I call to all four corners as I twirl in joy beneath the early August sun, laughing because, of course, the bees already know.
In this one instant of reality a delicate swallowtail lights on the blazing red of an azalea, just inches from my face, for a sip of nectar from its central circle of tiny flowers, the sun’s hot light drenching it all so that the colors burn themselves into my mind even before the swallowtail rises to vanish in a dance in the far trees.
