~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
This is a real place, a few feet
from my kitchen door. Imagine!
Imagine floating in on wings
whose colors match the world
around you, eager to taste
the blue droplets of nectar
that draw you, and you take
all this for for granted. Imagine.
And just think. Six months ago,
as I peered at the mud and snow and ice
that filled this very spot, only that
and nothing more, it was impossible
even to dream of an early July morning
and the tenderness of hosta blossoms
kissed by the warm rain. Now here I am,
alive in that impossible dream.
Some artist I read once said how much
he loved the rain, the way it revealed
the colors and light. I smile this morning
as I stroll in the gardens in the rain,
his comments echoing in my mind.
I gaze on the lushness of it all,
amazed that I get to be here.
Every now and then somebody up the road sets off a volley of fireworks. Sometimes it’s the little ones that are like popcorn. Sometimes it sounds like a cannon. Once it was a sudden deep boom so loud it made me jump in my chair. It’s that weekend. The Fourth of July, even if the fourth isn’t until Tuesday. We know a holiday when we see one.
Independence Day. I wonder how many of us give any thought at all to its origin, to the context of the times from which it arose, to the meaning of it and how it reflects on the times we are living today. I suppose that sort of thing belongs to a past era. And personally, I think that’s a failure and a shame.
When I was a kid, every Independence Day I used to sprawl on the living room floor with a thick, leather-covered volume of The Encyclopedia Britannica and read The Declaration of Independence all the way through, even though I didn’t understand it. It was sort of like the Bible that way. It felt important and like something you should know.
“We hold these truths to be self-evident,” it said, “that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights, that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”
That’s a pretty deep thought when you consider it. It’s one of those you can visit time and again over the years and have a more insightful view each time as your life experience grows.
Basically, as I see it, the Declaration is a group of people saying they can no longer go along with oppressive treatment from their government and will, going forward, govern themselves, thank you. It’s kind of like when somebody keeps telling you all these things you have to do for their benefit no matter how you feel about it, and then one day, you say, “Wait a minute.” You decide you’ve had enough of that game and you’re not going to play it any more.
Doing that, deciding you will be following your own rules from now on, can create a ruckus. And it did, back then, when those colonists reached their “wait a minute” moment. And here we are. Flying our flags and grilling our burgers and hearing the fireworks pop off from all directions.
I’ll be flying my flag, too, this weekend. I fly it every day that it doesn’t rain. And I’ll be thinking, as I unfurl it and place it in its standard, about the things it represents to me. Even if such thoughts aren’t currently in vogue. Truths endure regardless.
May we be free.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by picjumbo_com on pixabay
Isn’t it interesting how one small detail
can catch your heart and anchor itself
in the sea green depths of your memory?
I walked on a day when the light was scant
and from the lush summer foliage
that bordered my path a single tiny flower
beamed a glad hello.
There was one ripe raspberry on the vine.
Then there wasn’t.
Listen, it’s all a gift. No matter how it feels.
The moment is larger than we imagine
and could not exist as it is but for our part
in it. Our seeing stitches it together.
Our words are notes in its song.
When we move, we move the whole atmosphere.
We breathe air and drink water that has passed
through countless other bodies before ours.
Our thoughts shape the future and color its days.
We give time its meaning and rhyme.
And it all shines back at us, a perfect reflection
in the grand cosmic mirror, of who we are,
each of us, and all of us together.
Imagine that you’re standing on this bridge
right beside me, looking at the astonishing details
of this tranquil summer scene. That’s the Little Beaver,
and I’ve seen beavers here, from this very bridge,
no longer than a year or two ago, right over there.
How many cars cross here in a day would you suppose?
A couple hundred? Maybe more? Could be.
How many who cross even turn their heads to glance
at this? They already know it. It’s the creek and trees.
Imagine we stand here together, taking it in, smiling
in the moist, warm air, listening to the creek’s songs,
our bodies lightly swaying with the dances of the trees.
A touch of lace graces the garden now,
its airiness bright, despite the dimmed light
of yet another rainy day, as if it were trailing
across a bride’s gown as she glides,
pure of heart and filled with hope and dreams,
down the aisle of a candlelit cathedral.
The sight makes you pause in reverence somehow
for this tender display of faith and joy,
despite the darkness of the world.
Grace is like that, proving, as the poet said,
that the heart has reasons that reason
cannot know.
The insistent call of a jay gets my attention:
“Hey-hey!” he yells, over and over. I laugh,
squawk back at him from the studio window,
then head downstairs to grab a cup of seeds.
This is the second time we’ve played this game.
The first time, as soon as I noticed the call,
I realized he was saying, “Hey! Food Lady!
Hey! You! We need more seeds out here.
The chipmunks ate them all. Hey! Hey! Food!”
“Guests who think they own the place,” I mutter.
But he’s smart, this cocky young fella.
He amuses me, the way he’s already trained me
to respond to his call. And I have a photo of him
enjoying the feast, a snacking chipmunk
hiding behind the astilbe in the corner.