~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
There’s a certain grace to things, a certain rhythm of the Yes that pulses through all nature. It rides in the vast unseen spaces of the molecules and atoms, in their grand, endless flickering and flow. It creates and precedes them. It gives rise to the appearance and disappearance, to the inbreath and the exhalation of all that is and could be.
Seeing it, we call it beauty. Feeling it, we call it peace. Hearing its song, we call it love. And so it is, and more.
Subtly, August beings the transformation. This is her whole task, this ushering of summer past its midpoint toward the days of fall.
At the edges of the fields and along the roadsides, she scatters the late summer flowers. She deepens the green of the trees and dusts them, ever so lightly, with a thin russet glow. She cools the nights, and bathes the morning with fogs. She ripens the crops in the fields.
A new scent fills her air and, tasting it, the earth’s creatures stir, as if waking from a long dream, as if they are sensing some familiar, ancient turning.
When the flicker of orange
caught my eye, I gasped.
A butterfly! It’s only the third
that I’ve seen here this summer.
Maybe it wasn’t a butterfly at all,
but an Angel of Hope with sky on its wings
Delighted at the thought, I whispered,
“Thank you, amber angel. May you fly long.
May you thrive.”
You simply leave me speechless.
All I can do is stare, my mouth agape
in wonder, my breath tasting of awe.
Unasked, you appear, sprung from
mere ground, and opening your petals
to the morning sun, astound me.
Summer pulls August over the horizon,
its greens lush and steamy beneath
liquid skies that smell of coming rain.
But a white sun still blazes above
igniting the meadow’s deep weeds,
making the shade trees into gods
under whose spreading arms
rabbits take refuge and nibble
the sweet summer grass
It was one of those summer days that the geese tucked into their memory stores to recount to one another on long, winter nights. They would remind each other how they sat on the lawn and ate their fill of the bugs that crawled between the blades of grass. On those cold, dark nights, they would remind each other of the wonderful smell of the newly mown grass and luscious white clover.
Normally, the humans filled the park. But they disappeared in the rain as if it would melt them and rain had fallen all morning long and threatened to return. So the geese had the place to themselves. And they sat on the earth amidst the waves of grass and preened themselves, and slept and dreamed, wrapped in the green luscious smell of it all, breathing it into their hearts to hold for the days when the grass slept beneath a blanket of soft, sparkling snow.
Such wise birds, these.
Be who you are, and sing it boldly.
Trumpet your song–
even when those who surround you
seem to be singing a wholly different tune.
From a distance, all of our songs
blend into one great harmony,
afloat in the infinite music
of the ever-perfect Yes.
Some things come with built-in smiles.
You know, kittens and puppies,
that sort of thing. They just make you
feel all better inside. Take these
flowers, for instance. Their yellow
just cancels out all your blue,
makes you believe in laughter
and light all over again.
Makes you feel how the Great Yes
genuinely loves us, whether
we deserve it or not.
Oh yes, they have lakes here, too,
shimmering bodies of fresh water
that reflect the blue sky and the green
of the forested hills that surround them.
Silvery fish swim in their waters, and geese
paddle past or bask on the shores In the grass.
And oh! The wildflowers that dance along
their edges. This is summer in its perfection!
Wish you were here!