~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
You can’t go from emerald to crimson overnight.
No great work happens in the blink of an eye.
First you need a vision: Let us paint these woods
in autumn hues. Then you may begin.
And once you have begun, you must keep on.
A swath of red here, a bit of gold there, some orange,
a touch of yellow. Keep on, hour by hour,
trusting, singing work’s joy, knowing your vision
was born of the Yes and that the Yes
will unfailingly guide your hand.
So it’s official now. You’re leaving.
This is the last day of your stay.
I understand that you must go.
If my eyes glisten as I walk beside the wetlands,
it is only because you are so beautiful.
If I sigh as your winds blow through my hair,
it is only to join the poplars in their song.
If I pluck an aster and hold it to my heart,
it is to press the essence of you into my being
that I may feel your warmth when the cold winds howl.
I will drink your clouds this day
and breathe the fragrance of you.
And when you send that one, last monarch butterfly
to cross my path, I will stand without moving
and watch, until, like you, it disappears.
Summer is packing her bags now,
saying her farewells, lowering the lights,
gathering her greens, ushering the last
of the songbirds toward the southern horizon.
At night, as she sleeps, autumn tiptoes in,
and smiling at all that summer has done,
kisses her forehead and breathes gold
over the land to bless her wondrous work.
Sometimes, when I really stop to look,
the beauty is almost more I can bear.
Take these wild asters, for instance,
strewn in such abundance at the edges
of the field that their very numbers
make them seem commonplace.
And yet, what subtle hues their tiny petals wear;
how ornate their decorated centers,
how perfect the choreography of their opening,
one by one by one, until the entire pathway
is filled with their tender song.
Oh, again I say, please, let me never
take such gifts as these for granted.
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 there ever were.
Why, it’s so big that all it can do is paint itself
all over everything, right before your very eyes.
I have to confess that it’s been work to keep a positive perspective on life this week. It was as if Murphy himself had moved in and delighted in throwing obstacles my way. And in the larger world, well, you have only to turn on the news to see that things appear to be coming apart at the seams.
What’s helped me the most is accepting that this is life. And gosh! Good or bad, I get to live it. I get to experience the whole range of human emotions – from irritation and anger, shock and disappointment, anxiety and grief, to gratitude, serenity, hope, and joy.
And by accepting, I mean allowing myself to experience whatever emotion is flowing through me at any given time. Not to fight it. Not to push it away. Not to want to hold onto it. Not to judge myself for it. But simply to let it be and to feel it.
It helps, too, to look at the story I’m telling myself about whatever circumstance I find myself in, and to ask myself, in Byron Katie fashion, whether it’s true and whether I can be certain, and how I would be without that story.
When I do that, I often find an old Zen story coming to mind that reminds me that none of us has any idea how things will turn out, or what fortunes await us. Maybe you’ll remember it; I’ve shared it before. It goes like this . . .
Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” the farmer replied.
The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other additional wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” replied the old man.
The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” answered the farmer.
The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” said the farmer. ###
That story has served me well over the many years since I first heard it. I hope it will stick with you and serve you, too, when you’re tempted to label your circumstances as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
As a final thought, let me say that the beauty of emerging autumn has held me in its arms this week, too, reminding me that for everything there is a season, and that the seasons turn. This is life. And we get to live it. And that, my friends, is miracle enough and then some.
Wishing you a week of perspective and beauty.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Klaus Stebani from Pixabay
Imagine being so bright with joy
that you shone like the afternoon sun.
Imagine standing with your face to the sky,
hiding nothing, offering everything
that you had to give, holding nothing back,
for no other reason than your overflowing thanks
for the incredible wonder of being.
Some moments
–perhaps this very one! Is it?–
make all the rest of them worth it
and blanket the past with peace.
Whisper it to yourself: Yes.
It’s a day of contrasts, summer and autumn
vying for center stage. The warm sun
tangos with a cool wind.
Green grasses sprout red seeds.
Late flowers open while the first leaves fall.
But it’s the scent that tells the tale.
This is an autumn perfume, musky, ripe and dry.
It catches you by surprise,
and you breathe it in deeply
to confirm it is what your memories recall.
Something about it makes you want
to fly down the path in joy,
as if something wonderful is waiting up ahead.
And so it is. So it is.
I dream of nothing more than this:
to be completely alive, to hurl myself
into each vibrant moment
with all my heart and mind and soul.
I want to feel starlight
crackling down my nerves,
and salty oceans pulsing through my veins.
I want to hear the grass laughing
as I walk barefooted through the morning dew.
I want to cry at the softness of skin and fur,
and to be startled by the depth of eyes.
I want to shiver at the sweetness of bird calls
and to feel the echo of spoken words
in every cell of my body.
I want to lose all the labels and stories and maps,
all that classifies and judges,
anything that says no, or can’t, or should,
anything that separates or shrinks back.
I aspire to nothing more.
I will settle for nothing less.