Suddenly, from the sea of rain-drenched green, the lilies burst forth, their scarlet petals wide and blazing with color so intense that you could not look away. It was as if the very soul of fire had taken form during the night, determined to bring its light to life in these three, spectacular flowers. And as you stood there, face to face with them, they warmed you to your core and sang a long-forgotten song that you last heard at the moment of your birth, and its words were words of welcome, and its sound was the roaring of the Yes.
I don’t know, of course, how trees feel. But I have a hunch that, for them, passing through the summer equinox is sort of like watching your kids turn 21. The leaves are no longer babies. Their adolescent giddiness and blush has deepened to green. And while they’re not quite fully grown, they’ve definitely matured enough to have won your respect.
I imagine the trees—who have, after all, seen generations of leaves come and go— get a kick out of watching this batch dancing its way into summer. They probably smile proudly at how big they have grown to be, at how strong they are and supple. They probably chuckle at the way they strut a bit on their slim branches, how they give an little extra flicker when the breezes pass by. From here, across the pond, they seem to be feeling just fine. No doubt they feel that special surge that happens just as you’re moving into prime time.
I really don’t know what’s going on here, on this planet, as much as I collect other’s observations and reports. But everybody feels it: There’s a whole lot of shakin’ goin’ on!
Some folks tell me it’s the great sorting of the wheat from the chaff, a taking-out-the-garbage sort of action. And when it’s done, we’ll all be living in a cleaner, clearer, more peaceful world. Every story I’ve heard on this theme tells it in a different way, with different names for the heroes and common folk, their devils and gods. But the moral seems the same in all of them. “Keep going. There’s a wonderfully happy ending.” I consider that a message of hope.
In the meantime, here we are in the shaking, trying to live our lives with as much sanity we can muster. Some of us are better at it than others. All of us have our good times and bad. It’s okay. It’s not you, it’s the shaking. Personally, when I get out of sorts—as we all do in these high-tension days—I blame it on the planets. It’s as good an excuse as any, and it puts the blame way out there in distant space, instead of on me alone.
I take time to see if I can backtrack and find what triggered my less-than-cheery mood. Where did it start? What does it feel like? Where do I feel it in my body? Does it have a shape, a weight, a motion, a color? Does it have a message for me?
I have one recurring event-reaction that I have wrestled with for years. It’s like having the same plot play out in your life with changing characters and scenery as you go along. But it’s always the same basic story. And it’s an annoying one.
The only way to put a close to it is to figure out where you came upon the first fork in the road and to recognize it when you come to it again. Because you will come to it again. Over and over, until you see that first fork, and take the opportunity to choose a different direction. Instead of reacting to the situation the way you have up until now, you choose to say yes instead of no, or no instead of yes. (And by the way, you can do that gently and with grace.) I’m still working on finding that first fork. But on the other hand, I’m learning a lot of good stuff in my search.
Event-reactions are where that old axiom came from, “Insanity is doing the same thing over and expecting a different result.” And in this crazy-making world of ours, I suspect we all lapse into a less than healthy state of mind from time to time. Fortunately, we’re capable of reset. We’re remarkable beings, you know. So doggoned resilient. We keep getting up, dusting ourselves off, and going on. I admire that about us. We keep getting up.
So that’s my little story for today. If you find yourself out of sorts, blame it on the planets. And meanwhile, do your best to keep your balance, and be kind.
Listen, it’s all a gift. No matter how it feels. This 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 circulated through countless other bodies before ours. Our thoughts shape the future and color its days. It is we who give it 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.
Oh Yes! This is it! This is what we wanted, what we longed for all winter long. This summer day with winds pushing the tall grass and giant clouds evoking memories of childhood, when we stretched out on the green fragrance and found circuses sailing overhead, when even the ants were a matter of utter fascination. Yes! This is it exactly. The perfect summer day. Oh, at last. Oh Yes. Oh Yes. Oh Yes.
Summer wasted no time. It was clear first thing in the morning that she meant business. Thick fog was rising from the field as if it the sun was inhaling it for breakfast. When I went out to feed the birds the air was heavy and still. It clung to your skin like plastic wrap. Not a leaf moved. The sun turned it up. You could feel the air grow hotter by the minute.
In the afternoon, Bob called. “The angels are bowling out here and they even spilled a little of their drinks,” he said. I scurried to get the flag and canvas chairs from the porch. Then, all excited, I sat on the front steps, looking west through the trees, waiting. And waiting. And waiting. For a minute a batch of clouds raced in. The wind blew. The trees danced. To the northeast, a peal of distant thunder rolled across the sky. And that was it. Nothing more, except a blessed little breeze. Tonight it will be clear, with fireflies.
Kaboom! It’s summer, with all its sizzle and glory, come to pare us down to our essence, to burn away all that’s unneeded, all that doesn’t belong. Come with its vivid splendor and bright hues, with its dazzling contrasts of light and shade, of sweat and leisure, of hard work and hard play, of steamy heat and pouring rain. Summer, where dreams are conceived and brought to fruition. Summer, pulling us on to become all we can be, giving us our best chances, singing light.
Trilling one final grace note, a gift of welcoming for summer, a gift of appreciation for all who love her so, spring sings her farewell, gliding westward to ride the sun over the horizon. Behind her, a trail of flowers, delicate, bold, spicy and sweet, colors the sky, and we watch until stars and fireflies rise, our hearts filled with gratitude for all sweet spring bestowed.
Sometimes, Daddy, when I walk in the deep woods, I remember the time you drove Mom and me up to your hunting cabin, a little wooden shack you shared with Mike and Okie every winter when you went to hunt for deer. I was five. The cabin, you said, was near Rose City, a name that created wondrous images in my young mind. It turned out there were no roses there. But there was a woods that lined the road for miles. Then we followed two dusty ruts, nearly overgrown, for miles more. The cabin was one big room with bunk beds, an ice box, and a big iron stove. Mom stayed there to clean things up while you took me on a long walk into the woods, pointing out the rabbit scat and the poison ivy, telling me how you would sit in the snow there for hours watching for a buck to come along. It was all so green, and the trees were thick and towered to the sky. We listened to them whispering to each other, and to the birds and chattering squirrels. I had no idea how to get back to the cabin. But I was never afraid. Because you were there. And you were strong and brave and a hunter, and you knew everything. I loved you then for taking me to this secret, magical place. I love you now, even though you are gone. And often, when I walk in the deep woods, I feel you beside me, and I am never afraid.
The wild grass conforms to no law except the law of the dance. It surrenders authority to nothing but joy, to the Great Yes of being, and to that it bows knowing that it governs its creations with knowledge and love, and is beneficent in all its ways.
