Author: Susan Minarik

Found on the Sidewalk by the Park

[First, some notes from my Joy Warrior’s Journal, as background.

What To Do In The Middle Of A Treacherous War That Surprisingly Few Realize Is Even Going On: An Inner Conversation

Voice: Is it at your doorstep?
Me: It’s deeper in my pocketbook at every turn. So I’d say its inching its way up with what seems to be quickly increasing speed.

Voice: Are you in imminent danger?
Me: Only if I don’t pay attention to my driving. And here’s my corner. Oh! Look! It’s Gorgeous!

Voice: Well, of course.]

I pulled in to the curb right across from the school. Its campus borders one edge of the park, an oasis of joy tucked between the “projects” and the small private college up the street. I end up here in the middle of May every year . (You can read the story about that here. Pics there, too.) It’s an aged, clean, working class neighborhood that tells a lot of history as you drive down its streets. I like the area’s giant sycamores and maples, and the way the yards are neat and host flowering trees and beds of blooms, now that it’s finally spring.

Despite my excitement over finding myself at this delightful park once again, I was in a slightly sober mood. I spend my mornings, as I’ve mentioned, watching news you usually don’t get from the main stream media. And I can only conclude that we’re heading into some extraordinary times. Events truly seem to be heading quickly toward a decisive moment. But my resolution as a somewhat errant joy warrior is to be present with the moment’s goodness, and beauty, and truth. So I am here, at the park, and as I exit my car, I look at the scene before me and, breathing it in, find a little smile edging onto my face.

Then I see it. The whole sidewalk is covered with chalk drawings. I approach them a bit warily, hoping they won’t mar the beauty of the scene. But no! Look! They’re love notes! See the pink and blue heart?

I walk down the edge of the sidewalk taking photos of them, feeling as if I’ve stepped into an enchanted little world of some sort. A grinning blue face looks up at me, wearing the word “Happiness” in big letters beneath his chin. And look at this fish! See? Above the surface of the water, storm clouds drop rain. But straight ahead the sun shines through the water, and the little fish has his eye set on that. Must be a joy fish. See what he says? “Look to the bright side.”

I glance up at the colors the park’s trees are wearing, and they call me. But I am stopped in my tracks by the sidewalk’s next square. It’s a quote from a sonnet by Shakespeare, no less! “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate.” It could have been written to this very day itself. And then comes a simple blue smile, and its message, “You matter.”

I am astonished by the whole experience, and truly moved. As I leave the sidewalk to take in the park, I tuck one of the sidewalk’s messages into my heart-pocket, a reminder: “Don’t worry. Be happy.” That’s always good advice.

Go into this week knowing that you are loved.

Warmly,
Susan

The City Park in Mid-May

Every May I wait for it to call me.
“It’s time. Come now,” it beckons.
It has to call; I don’t normally pass it
in my daily travels. But one day every May
something inside me hears it: “Come now.”
When I get there, it is laughing colors
and it tosses pink and white dogwood petals
in welcome, and robins stroll on the lawn.
Over there, by the sidewalk, is a tree
whose pink flowers look like carnations,
and doesn’t it make you fall silent to gaze
at the red of these Japanese maple leaves?
I float from one corner to another as if
I were one of these tender blossoms
waltzing with the wind. I cannot tell you
how or why it happens. The only answer
I know is love.

To the Pink Dogwood Blossoms

Teach us your sweet simplicity.
Let your song be clear and strong.
This is the moment for which
you were born after all, the now
in which you unfold your grace
and make your mark on the eternity
of our hearts, so that we, too
may sing the joyous Yes with you
until the last star fades
from the deep and infinite sky.

Springtime at the Wetlands

The panoply of green Is the first thing to strike you.
Almost every living thing wears a version of the hue.
But step into this springtime scene, with its play
of light and breeze, and suddenly the sight of it
seems but a stage for the all-enveloping chorus
now filling the air, sung by a choir of countless frogs
and birds, their notes falling from trees, rising from reeds
and weeds and grasses and water, wrapping you
in its exuberant, affirmative joy, convincing you
that, no matter what, life goes on, and on, and on.

One of Those Days

Ever have one of those days when
everything went just right? It’s kinda
woo-woo, doncha find? Reminds me
of old Dr. Hook lyrics about how
when everything went right paranoia
tried to seep in. I’m not used to
having everything fall so perfectly
in place. It was better than I had hoped
and more than I could have imagined.
Everywhere I looked, things seemed
more beautiful than when I looked
before, and nice surprises appeared
like spring violets and forget-me-nots,
making me feel new again, and eager,
and just plain glad. To quote myself,
“Every now and then you get a moment
that makes all the rest of them worth it.”
It was one of those moments today.
All day. Maybe it’s the sunshine.
Maybe it’s just because. Or bunches
of them, like the ones outside the window,
all emerald and gold now and dancing.
All I know is that I am new again,
and amazed, and humbled, and glad.

This One’s for You, Mom

Had it not been for you, Mom,
I may have gone through the world
blind to its beauty. I may have missed
the tenderness of a blossom’s petals,
the wonder of its hues and form.
The songs of birds and of breezes
rustling through silky springtime leaves
may have been nothing more
than a background sound, hardly heard.
I may not have noticed how rain
can soothe, how thunder can thrill,
how dew sparkles on the grass
like diamonds, had you not taken
the time to show me, and to whisper
that it all sings the love of the Yes
as surely as a mother croons to her child.

Even in this World

Even in this world awash with seeming madness,
the song of the Yes goes forth, its melody coaxing
birds to mate, flowers to bloom, lovers to embrace
each other in joy. It sprinkles bright stars in the sky
as a reminder that no night is wholly without light,
that worlds beyond our knowing dance in perfect order
in response to the symphony of its infinite love.

Even we, who sleepwalk through clouded dreams,
who mistakenly count ourselves as life’s victims,
whose confusion gives rise to hostility and pain,
even we are wonderfully made of its song
and can wake and claim our power to create,
to imagine, to build and dance and love and sing.
For even in this world awash with seeming madness,
the song of the Yes sings its soaring symphony
of endless, perfect, omnipresent love.

Thoughts While Preparing Dinner

The hardest part is deciding what to prepare. Once I’ve got that, the whole game plan appears. I wash my hands and assemble the ingredients, bowls, cutting board, knives, various utensils. Then I begin.

I take the skinless, boneless chicken thigh in my hand and place it on the cutting board. With my sharp, thin knife, I remove the bits of excess fat and cut the meat into cubes. I think about Holly’s wonderful chickens, roaming free in their big, fenced yard. The thigh I’m cutting probably came from some poor critter raised in a crowded cage, never feeling the slightest touch of human love, Silently, I thank it for its life and for feeding me. It sizzles and I turn the pieces to sear them on all sides to hold in their juices.

For a moment, the news about the proliferating bird flu and about the rash of fires at food processing plants flashes through my mind. But I catch myself and turn my attention back to the meat happily cooking in my pan and to my gratitude that it has arrived in my kitchen and will make a fine contribution to my meal. That’s what a joy warrior does when thoughts of the world’s darkness threaten to eclipse the light of a heart full of thanksgiving.

I think about all the people involved in getting this little chicken thigh to me–the producers, the packers, the makers of the packaging, the truckers who transported it, the buyers and sellers and handlers along the way, the machines involved and all those who designed, built and operated them–the list could go on and on. I send a little wave of thanks to all who made it possible, a cast, no doubt, of millions if you trace it all out. “Every door leads to an infinite world,” I say to myself, laughing. Everything’s connected and intermingled.

The shrimp come next, small, cleaned, tailless ones. I like the slightly salty smell of them as I stir them into the chicken. It brings images of the ocean and fishing boats and fishermen. And for a moment, I am sailing in Boston Harbor, feeling the rush of the wind as it pushes us through the water. Maybe, far below me, shrimp crawl. I remember eating lobster once fresh from the boat that docked at the restaurant’s lower door, somewhere on the coast of Maine. The shrimp in my present dinner probably came from a farm. Almost everything’s a step removed from nature these days. But at least it wasn’t made in a lab. Thank you, little pink shrimp, for being real and for the gift of your energy.

I open the bag of frozen stir-fry veggies—broccoli, mushrooms, strips of sweet red pepper and carrots, sweet pea pods, cauliflower, water chestnuts, corn—and add a couple handfuls to the pan. The colors brighten the whole dish as I gently toss them. I imagine vast fields of vegetables from a half dozen states and maybe beyond the nation’s boundaries–and again, I thank all who labored to bring them to me.

I sprinkle in a pinch of pink Himalayan salt—What a wonder!—and a twist or two of freshly ground mixed peppercorns and just a dash of ground coriander. Then I let it simmer a bit, aware that days are coming soon when such bounty as this will be available no more. I pray for those who go hungry right now, and I am more grateful for this beautiful meal than words could ever say.

I ladle big spoonfuls of it onto a clear glass plate, breathing in its fragrance, and sit to savor its flavors. When I finish, I am satisfied, and filled, body and soul.

Wishing you a week of beautifully mindful meals.

Warmly,
Susan

In the Spring Rain

The south hill is covered in bright fluffy green
and baby ferns giggle and dance in the rain.
In the branches and brambles, birds’ nests hide,
holding downy hatchlings too young even to wonder
where they are and what happened.
What happened, indeed!
All at once it seemed, from silence and nothing,
color and song rose into the air, and I got to stand here
in the spring rain with wild violets and celandine poppies,
knowing no more than the baby birds know,
but old enough now to know wonder.