~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Mere whim sent me down the road that passed the lake
I had forgotten, tucked as it is between farms, its smooth
complementing their rugged earthy rows, but both rolling,
each in its own way. And both will soon wear fresh green.
Even now you can feel it rising from somewhere powerful
and deep, a green known by fishes and worms and reeds.
Come back next week, something whispers inside me,
and see what’s happened. You might find yourself amazed.
Just when you thought she was gone for good,
winter turns, rushes up to you laughing, kissing you
right on the mouth. “Just in case,” she says, sprinkling
her dazzles all over the hillside and trees,
“you haven’t had enough.” And then she’s off again,
this time for good. Maybe. But maybe she’ll come
just once more, bringing more of her magical kisses,
I see you, brave little leaves,
poking up from last year’s survivors
into the late March air even though
the nights still promise more frost.
I understand; I was born early, too.
You can only wait so long before
you just have to make the leap.
Comfort is fine, as far as it goes;
but oh, the irresistible lure
of sparkling fresh adventure!
Now come the waking winds, cold, and strong, and bright
with the light of this fresh, new Spring and full of the scent
of her moisture. Laughing, they sweep away winter’s debris
and glide across all the smooth places. They swirl their way,
singing, through all the trees’ branches, out to the tips
of their bud-swollen twigs, and all the trees sing with them.
Oh, how the trees do sing!
I don’t think the snow bothers them. I think they came well advised and prepared.
But then, I think we all do. If anything, I suppose they’re sending out vibes
that would translate, roughly, to “Oh Wow! Oh Wow!” I’m sure they must be amazed.
But then, I think we all must be, whether we acknowledge it or not.
They call me over, draw me in. Theirs is a jeweled world and everything in it
is a work of art. But then, you could say that ours is the same, looked at
with an unprejudiced eye. I note the colors and the curves of the forms,
the subtlety and the grace. The plants are swathed in spring snow. How lovely!
I posted a photo earlier that I took of a sky filled with dark storm-tossed clouds and light. I wrote about how the sky tries to wake us from our dreams with such drama, to remind us that we’re in a real world, that we’re alive.
Isn’t it something that we have to be reminded! We live in a world of stories and dreams that flow past so fast we can hardly keep up with them, let alone remember that they’re stories and dreams. That’s why nature creates drama from time to time. A thunderclap here, a bolt of lightning there, a color-drenched sunrise, a little bird’s song. Anything, just to get our attention, just to give us a chance to remember that we are alive and real and right here.
Sometimes, when I wake suddenly from my own daydreams and imaginings, I feel a little disoriented. But I have a wonderful little practice that immediately centers me. Want to know what it is? I call it “The Three Questions.” And it’s just that. I ask myself : Where am I? Who am I? What was I doing?
Say those over and over to yourself a few times. (Where am I? Who am I? What was I doing?) Then tuck them in your pocket for when you need ‘em. They’re especially good for multi-taskers and dreamers. And if you’re both, God bless you. Anyway, memorize them. Try them out for fun. You’ll get hooked. They work that well.
The reason I wanted to share them is that being present is such a powerful, exquisite experience. I collect ways to remind myself to be awake, aware, and appreciative. It’s kind of a hobby, one of the tools of the Joy Warrior’s trade. I’m taking the liberty of assuming that you, too, find value in being aware of being in the present. It’s where everything is happening, after all. For each of us, it’s the very center of the matterium as we experience it. It’s the place and time that we think of as real, the only place and time when we can choose and think and act.
“Where am I?” I ask as I snap awake from a dream. “Oh. Here. Writing my Sunday Letter to my dear friends.” That answers who I am and what I was doing, too, without my even having to ask. I remember that I wanted to tell you that I’m only two weeks away from the finish-line in my 100-day challenge to add daily to these pages. When I started it, I thought of it as rolling up a love letter, sealing it in a bottle, and sending it into the world to land wherever it was meant to land. I still think of it that way, as the act of creating a love letter to send out into the world. Every day it teaches me something new. I hope you’ll drop by from time to time to take a peek.
Try those “Three Questions,” hey? They’re kind of fun. You’ll see.
Wishing you a most glorious week.
Warmly,
Susan
Once in a while we need to see the wildness
of the sky. It reminds us that it’s on not a screen
(unless some truly humongous being is holding
us–sky, oceans, earth and all–on some screen
in its hands, and that’s as good a story as any,
except, you know, the real one). Nope, not a screen.
You can get in a plane and fly through the sky in this one.
You can stretch out on the grass below and watch the moon.
How’s that for a wonder and a mystery!
Every now and then the sky likes to remind us.
It likes to dramatize the sheer immensity of it all
and how it seems to have no end. And here we are,
watching it, alive.
Go ahead. Bring your snow.
Nothing you can do will stop her now.
The tilt is in and Springtime will unfold
regardless of your spurts of wintry weather.
She knows your moods and tolerates them
with a knowing smile. The maple’s buds
are bursting now, and a robin sings his
mating song from its highest branches.
So snow if you must. Soon enough
we’ll be barefoot on Spring’s green lawns
dancing to the whistling of the peepers.
The moist breeze carried a kindness so deep, she thought,
that it surely came from the Great River of Compassion itself,
riding with it over the rocks of pain, past the shadows on its banks,
around the bend into a sudden shaft of light and understanding,
a knowing that it’s all love. Even the rocks and the shadows.
I wait at the crossing as the train rolls through.
I’m in no hurry; I like the looks of its colors
blurring across the raindrop-splattered windshield
of my car, and its sound, all motion and determined.
A couple miles down the road, I pass the old barn,
once the heart of a dairy farm that served the whole county,
its stories still pouring out all its cracks and doors to say
how you should have seen it when it was in its glory.
Then come the fields and the view of sky, roiling now with clouds,
the neat rows of stubble beneath them waiting to be plowed under
in preparation for the new season’s crop. I can feel their impatience.
Soon, I say to them. Even now, the sun is breaking through. See?
