“Okay,” the voice said, “you want to be a Joy Warrior, do you? Well then, take this! See what you can do.”

After the chemical bomb was set off in East Palestine, Ohio, and its cloud drifted over my nearby Pennsylvania house, it took two weeks for me to get my bearings and begin to comprehend what had happened. And I do mean ‘begin.’ The impact and repercussions of it have significantly altered my life, and the lives of countless others. In fact, I noticed today that I’m starting to think of time as “Before” and “After” now. That’s how big a deal it is.

Once I realized that I was still standing, I decided the best thing I could do was to share what I’m experiencing as authentically as I can. I’ll start here by admitting that I’m still in shock. And I’ll also say right up front that I don’t intend to bother you with the politics of it. I am saying that I think it might be interesting (and for me, healing) to share some of my personal experiences and processes as I find my way in this strange new world. Hey, it feels like this, and like that, and sometimes I notice that I . . . that kind of thing, and what it might mean about us all. See what it’s like to take the Joy Warrior test as I find my way through this strange, changed world.

I started putting it into words here on my blog a week ago in a piece I wrote about being at the wetlands on the day the trains were still. I call it “Did They Know?”

Privately, I call my daily contributions to my blog “Love Notes.” They’re the heart of my Notes from the Woods, and I tuck these Sunday Letters here, too. (Freely share the link with your pals, by the way.)

I’m so happy to be writing to you today. I always am, but especially today. Knowing that you who are my subscribers expect to see my letter in your Sunday email let me weave a thread of continuity through my days. My daily posts do that, too. “Normal” things. It’s good to practice as many of those as you can, to bring your good habits and customs along as you walk through your days. They give you a sense of stability when the rest of the world is in flux. That’s one thing I’ve noticed.

See, I think of what I’m going through as an echo of what everybody else is going through, too. You’re going through unsettled times as much as I am. Everybody’s life has it’s trauma. It comes with the ride. We’re in this fix together, dear humans. Let’s remember that, regardless of circumstances, and be kind. I know that much. Not a whole lot more right now. But kindness? Always. Always.

You matter you know. Smile some this week. Okay?

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by Rudy and Peter Skitterians from Pixabay}

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.

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.

We come for a brief season, sparks
of the Inextinguishable Flame,
to bring its light, to show its glory.

We do the best we can, never knowing
how far our light will reach,
how many hearts will hear our song.

Oh, we may preen and boast,
but deep inside we bow to love,
seeking to give it, and to receive its blessing.

And however brief our stay,
however soon our passing,
our songs sing on. For we,
each of us, are children of the Flame,
written across eternity, remembered forever,
and forever alive in its unfathomable, holy fire.