~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
On spring’s first day, a flock
of tiny leaf-birds appeared on a vine
that mere days ago was wooden
and bare. And there, they spread
their green wings to the sun, singing
with joy. And the sleeping vine awoke
and whispered, “Stay, little leaf-birds!
Let my heart be your home!”
And the leaf-birds, softly laughing,
answered, “Thank you, dear vine.
Your love is the reason we’ve come.”
My eyes find the tree’s upper limbs,
a symphony of sorts, played against
the dappled March sky as the morning’s
rains float off to the west. For a while
I cannot move or think. I can only stare
and breathe the cold, moist air.
When I return to myself, my mind
is reeling as it surveys all it must
have taken for this tree to be dancing
exactly here, exactly now, and for me
to have traveled my own long road
making all the unlikely choices
that led me to this gift,
exactly here, exactly now, and how
it was exactly what I needed.
I really do live in a tree house. It’s built into the side of a wooded hill. I sit at a small table in front of a west-facing, second story window and watch the scene change as the hours and days flow by. My closest neighbors wear feathers or fur and come in all sizes and their visits are gifts.
But then, isn’t everything?
(Was that a “Huh!” I heard? A snort of sorts? Listen. Just because something doesn’t suit your fancy or meet your expectations or go the way you wanted it to go doesn’t mean it’s not exactly what you needed. Everything has its upside. Sometimes it just takes some distance to see it. It’s that “can’t see the forest for the trees” thing.)
I learn a lot from the trees, whether I can see the forest from within it or not. It’s kind of like this experience we’re having of being human. It’s impossible to see the whole forest from here. The best you can do is get a glimpse of it now and then from atop some peak you’ve climbed. But you know it’s there, the forest. And you know it expands farther than you can imagine and is still but a fragment of what may well be an endless whole.
Anyway, what I started to share with you is how much I have been enjoying the gifts March is bringing. It’s a month of such changing moods. One hour is dreary and dark, the next is bright with sun. There’s stillness and high winds, snow and unaccustomed warmth. And beneath the constant changes is the great progression of the seasons. You can feel the push of springtime as it struggles to be born.
I’ve been watching grasses and the leaves of flowers poke up through the soil. They push aside earth and stones, the blanket of last year’s leaves, the twigs and cones fallen from the spruces. One fragile leaf can do that, one little blade of grass. The life force is a powerful thing.
Still, I wondered one day, what prompts them to do that? What prompts any of us to persist, to push against the darkness and confusion that blocks us from being what we want to be? “The light,” my mind answered; “the warmth.” And then a quieter voice spoke. “Hope,” it said.
Hope. I let myself taste the word. It’s like a wish or a dream, but more. It’s a flash of certainty that what you most long for is possible and real. It’s like that glimpse from the top of the peak where you see the forest stretching into an infinite sky.
Is there darkness before you? Are heavy boulders in your way? Are sharp winds whipping your face? Are you pelted with cold rain and a muddy stretch of road? Keep going, the leaves of birthing flowers say. Push onward, say the little blades of grass. Ahead there is warmth, and love, and light. Keep on.
From my tree house, I wish you a week drenched with hope. Keep on.
Warmly,
Susan
Sometimes I’m sure I see them dancing.
Not just their branches, the whole tree.
They do that, you know, when they think
you’re not looking. Usually at night,
or deep in the forest where humans
seldom go. But here we are, in the midst
of March, the mistress of moods,
and she’s scattering snowflakes
in shining bright sun, and how,
imagine, if you were at tree, could you
keep yourself from dancing?
Deep in the center of us, something knows.
No matter how uncertain the path, how many
the unexpected obstacles or how formidable,
something leaves clues, whispers from beyond
the bend, drops a sign, shines a light. The key
is to remember that it’s there and worthy
of our trust. Watch. Listen. Go with ease.
Keep on.
On your way out the door, smile.
Let your grin linger on the threshold
for a while and roll across the floor
just to let them know, as you leave,
how good it was to be there, to give
them a picture of you to hold
when they think of you
in your absence, when they think
of your coming for another stay.
Overnight, the maple’s red buds burst,
freeing their tiny leaves to reach for the sky,
etching a scarlet lace against the deep blue
where days ago, there were but bare twigs.
And from one of the high branches, a call
sounded forth, clear and high, a single note
followed by a pause and then repeated.
From across the way, an answer came,
filling the pauses, and waiting for a reply.
Back and forth the two birds called
to one another, as if their sole mission
was to mark the opening of the buds.
And their song went on and on.
Yesterday I photographed her when she came for breakfast,
her plumage fluffed up against the day’s sharp cold,
and thought how a certain tenderness rose inside me
at the sight of her subtle colors. She, whose mate
is so flamboyantly red, is the modest one of the pair.
Today, a sudden wind hurled her against my window pane
and she fell, dead, beneath it. In the blowing snow
I gathered her soft body and found a protected place
for her beneath the ancient spruce I call The Guardian.
What a terrible emptiness it leaves inside us
when a dear one goes.
A two-lane highway cuts across this slope,
a truck route, lightly traveled. On its far side
the slope continues, even more steeply,
to the flat, wooded valley and broad field
down below. I was watching the snow fall
when a movement caught my eye. A buck,
tall and regal, was bounding down the hill.
Just then, a car sped up the road, doing maybe
fifty miles an hour. In less than a second,
their paths would intersect. I held my breath
to brace myself against the imminent collision.
And then, as if it were born to do so,
without as much as a heartbeat’s hesitation,
the deer leaped into the air in a high, perfect arc
above the speeding car, and bounded down
into the field, disappearing in the woods there.
And the snow continued to fall on the hill
as if nothing had happened at all.
It was an odd winter, with hardly any snow
and none that stuck around over a day.
I count that as a blessing, considering
the other challenges the season held.
The relative mildness was a comfort
and a gift. But still, when snow fell
for a couple hours this morning,
the child in me was glad, and we climbed,
she and I, up the hill atop crystalline flakes,
listening to the silence, feeling the dance
of the soft light that caressed the bark
of the trees. Often, I’ve found, what is
surpasses all you could have imagined
or hoped for. Haven’t you noticed?