~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
The day lily chose today to open.
When you’re a day lily, you only get one,
you know. Well, maybe two or three
if you’re strong and lucky. So you have
to make the best of it, to give it all
you’ve got, to take this splendid gift
of hours and breathe in all the world’s
sights and sounds, to offer it
your boldest colors, your purest song.
And when your day is done, to carry
with you, sharp and clear, the memory
of every incredible moment that
it was your honor to live.
Truth is simple. You can curve it all you want,
embroider its gowns, stretch it into elaborate fables.
But in the end, it’s still the irreducible essence.
It’s the light, shining from the center of all things.
It’s the life, endlessly emerging.
It’s the love, streaming boundlessly
from the heart of the Yes.
It rides our breath. It unfolds through our being,
through the being of all things.
Today, in my garden, It’s a patch of little blossoms
beaming their joy on a warm summer day.
Be glad.
Last week we looked at Step One of the “Recipe for Happiness – Letting Go of What’s Gone.” Now let’s look at Step Two: “Be grateful for what remains.”
I could go on and on about the uplift that gratitude brings. It’s on my short list of favorite emotions. And, farther down, I will share a way you can tap into it when you need an inner vacation. But a lot of us are struggling to cope with serious losses these days, and I want to suggest that gratitude can provide a healing balm for the deepest pain.
In times of profound loss, we can slide into pools of grief so deep that life seems completely devoid of meaning. Someone in the pits of grief might say, “What’s the point of going on? I am nothing without all that’s gone.” Everything has changed, and the unknown future can look bleak, without a glint of joy. I know that I felt that way for a while when a cherished loved one died. But, like most of us who encounter that soul-deep, empty feeling, I trudged on.
In the thick of terrible fighting, back in World War II, Winston Churchill told his people, “When you’re going through hell, keep going.” It’s good counsel to remember. Because, you know, life changes.
And time truly heals. When my son died, a wise friend told me that the pain never goes away, but in time, it finds a little corner of your heart in which to dwell. Decades have passed since then, and now and then I visit that little corner of my heart. I can only call what’s happened in that corner “beautiful.” The pain has condensed into a little dark cloud, and it floats across a vast sea of golden memories. I can see that beloved face again, glowing and wonderful, and hear that laugh, and I see that this shimmering ocean–which contains all that he was to me–is a priceless treasure.
Time can do that. Give yourself time. Keep going. And maybe somewhere along your path, you’ll hear Tara Brach’s guidance to say to yourself, “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.” Be kind to yourself as best you can. And be kind to others. They’re part of the “everybody” who knows suffering.
So that’s the first rule: Keep going. And as you go, practice letting go of all that is in the past. Be assured, the memory will remain and after a while, you’ll gain perspective on it. What you want to let go is your clinging to it. “You can’t stop thoughts from entering your mind,” somebody once told me, “but you don’t have to entertain them.” You have better things to do. You could, for instance, look around, see what’s left, and be thankful for it.
One of the ways you can do that is to tune in to your senses, one by one. What are you seeing? What do you hear? What textures and pressures do you feel against you skin–from head to toe? What can you smell? Taste? Consider what an amazing thing each sense is, bringing you all this information about your surroundings, telling you that you’re still alive, and here, in this unfathomable world. Then tap into your sense of gratitude and send a thought of thanks to your senses, to your body, to the life force within it. Maybe you’ll become aware of the marvel that air is moving in and out of you, all of its own accord. It’s carrying waves of color and fragrance and sound, and light is traveling through it, and it enters you and feeds you. You are what remains when you let all that has passed be past. And everything you truly need is inside you.
Once you embrace that, you’re ready for Step Three in the “Recipe for Happiness,” the one that challenges you to look forward to what’s ahead. We’ll wrap up this little series with that one next week.
In the meantime, may your heart rest in gratitude, for all that you are, all that you contain, and for the countless wonders that surround you.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay
We name things: rock, water, earth, grass,
trees, leaves, sky. But in truth it’s all a whole
—one song, one dance—no more separate
than eye from elbow in the whole of you.
The elements flow from form to form,
supporting and nourishing all. Your breathing
is no different from that of the trees.
The same light falls on us all, the same rain.
The same love brings us into being
—you, me, the earth, the stream, the trees—
grows us, dissolves us, raises us transformed.
Standing here you feel the force of it whispering
in silent thunder beneath all things. You breathe
with the water, with the earth, with the leaves.
Your heartbeat and the song of the birds
and of the rippling waters are one.
Truth lives here, flowing through you.
Feel its grace. Be at peace.
It matters that you see
and remember because
you are the Keeper, the one
charged to hold this moment
as clearly as you can. Imprint
it indelibly on your mind,
so that one day, when such
things as wild summer roses
have forever disappeared,
you will be able to tell
how they were real,
and delicate, and how
they let you know
that you, too, were real,
breathing their fragrance,
touched by sweet beauty,
hearing their life-song
singing in your soul.
Look closely, with open
eyes and a welcoming heart.
You are the Keeper.
Remember.
The faces of the daisies beam at me from the field radiating sunshine from their centers.
I think how we used to pick them when we were young, saying “Loves me. Loves me not” as we counted their petals, one by one. The last petal was supposed to reveal the truth.
Relationships don’t always run smoothly or continue forever. They run their courses; they have their cycles. But today, as I waived goodbye to the smiling face of a visiting friend, I realized something my childhood game didn’t tell us.
Once hearts touch, the only truth is “Loves me.”
Always.
Summer’s kaleidoscopic days unfold,
new jewels emerging at every turn.
Here, the iridescent winged ones,
there, rainbows of petals, berries, and seeds,
of lemon and emerald grasses and leaves.
And all the while the air, perfumed with fragrance,
dances with buzzings and breezes and song.
Then come the nights, glowing with fireflies
and bright and glittering stars. Such gifts!
And all so freely given, dear one.
All so freely given.
Because words alone cannot tell you, child, how much you mean to me, how I cherish you, how I laugh with you in your joy, how I weep with you in your sorrow, please accept this small token of my love.
May its tenderness whisper to you of the gentleness with which I hold you in my heart. May its beauty prove to you that, even in a world strewn with trials and thorns, you are not forgotten.
I, who create worlds upon worlds, know your name. I dance within your every breath. I know your every thought and each of your desires. I am with you in your suffering and in your hours of celebration.
Because words cannot contain me, I send you this token of my love. May its fragrance sing to your soul and bring you peace.
I stood there, mesmerized by the cosmos,
their orchid petals light as butterfly wings
and as delicate, when, for no reason at all,
I remembered that today was sweet Neta’s birthday.
How she blessed her family, and all who knew her!
From somewhere in the greater cosmos
her gentle laughter floated, soft as down,
into my mind and my heart could feel her smile.
You would have loved this place, Grandma,
I said to the image of her in my mind.
And how like you are these flowers.
Except for the laws of nature herself,
they speak their pieces and sing their songs
without regulations or rules.
The send up fireworks in celebration and joy
for the gift of their independence.
They worship as they please in bright carols
sung to the Yes. Their petals are flags of freedom.
They stand tall, in dignity and grateful pride.
“May all sentient beings be free,” they sing.
“May all sentient beings be free.”