All day, the air, heavy and damp, pressed against our skin like steamed towels. Not a leaf moved. Even the bees seemed slow, as if they were rowing from one drooped blossom to another. And through it all, one prayer prevailed: Relief! Then, as if this one request had finally reached the required level of ascent, the sky took on the color of marmalade and the trees began to dance in its glow, buoyed by a cool wind filled with the fragrance of rain. And when it came, falling from the luminous sky, all the earth, revived and joyous, sang.
What was that? You wanted butterflies? Let me whisper a secret. So did I— those little wafers of color darting among the flowers, sipping their nectar, tracing happy flutterings in the summer air. Yes! What a delight! May each flower be sweeter for them than the last. May every moment of their lives be filled with perfect joy.
Did you know that some butterflies drink tears? It’s true. Proof that the Yes is made of love.
Walk through the world with compassion. Whether it shows or not, all of us are damaged goods. Train your gaze to fall more on the good than the wounds. If butterflies with torn wings can still fly, still freely offer their gifts to the world, so can you, my friend.
You sweet little babies, I see you there lining the edge of my garden with your blossoms no bigger than my pinkie nail. I see you, rollicking with laughter just because there is sun and the fun of beaming for yet another day. And yet you beam, I’ve noticed, even when storms come. I forgot your name years ago, when I first tucked you in the ground. Since then I’ve seen you weather frost and drought and snow. I think it’s your joy in simply being that keeps you keeping on. Would you laugh even more if I told you that now I fondly call you “Teach?”
The first bank of storm clouds floated toward the eastern sky, leaving in their wake a field of sleepy flowers. In the west, the sun dipped behind a second, deepening heap of clouds, but not without saying goodbye.
To the flowers, it all seemed a dream now, the rain, the glow of the sinking sun, the cool air. They surrendered their colors for the night, lending them to the passing clouds.
As they drifted more fully into their dreams, a lullaby sang to them. It was a high, soft, sweet song and it enveloped all the creatures of the earth. Even those whose ears could not detect the sound felt its benevolence in their hearts. It sang the names of every one of them, wishing them peaceful hearts, and assuring them that they were deeply loved. And the flowers sighed with happiness and slept, wrapped in serenity and fragrant joy.
Once upon a time, on the edge of a small planet on one of the outer arms of the great Milky Way, a tiny band of hearts gathered to celebrate the wedding of two of their own, the binding of their hands together for the completion of their journey.
Everyone laughed and danced and feasted. And toward sunset, they gathered at the edge of a lake, fastened their well-wishes to paper lanterns and set them sailing into the sky:
May your life together be filled with love and joy.
May you have smooth sailing.
May friendship be your guiding star.
May you share beautiful dreams and bring them to fruition.
May you grow through all your struggles and your love shine ever more brightly for having weathered life’s disappointments and storms.
May each day sparkle with your laughter, and each night bring you the comfort of each other’s arms.
And when the celebration was done, and the celebrants had gone their various ways, a great moon rose, full of light and blessing. And it took onto itself all the well-wishes and sent them shimmering across the waters as they rose, ever higher, to the heart of the Yes. And the Yes, welcoming yet another expression of its love, acknowledged the pledges and wishes as its own.
Auntie Mae knew everything about flowers. When the little girl visited her, she would tell her their names and what kinds of light made them happy. Sometimes, when they strolled through Auntie Mae’s colorful garden she would talk to the flowers, asking them how they liked last night’s rain and if they had heard that oriel singing this morning.
One day when the little girl stopped by to visit Auntie Mae, she found her sitting on her front porch steps doing a fluttery kind of dance with her fingers. When she got closer, the little girl stopped in her tracks, her eyes wide open. A dozen buzzing bees were flying in and out between Auntie Mae’s fingers.
“Auntie Mae! What are you doing! Aren’t you afraid of those bees?”
“Oh, no!” Auntie Mae laughed. “They’re my friends, and I’m dancing with them. C’mon; they won’t hurt you. See? I put dabs of honey on my fingers to invite them and then they come and play.” She let the little girl watch the dance for a couple of minutes, then she shooed the bees away, telling them that was all for today. She went inside to wash her hands while the little girl sat on the steps. Then the two of them strolled through the garden.
When they came to the big-leafed plant in the shady corner, the little girl pointed to its trumpet-shaped flowers. “What are those called, Auntie Mae?” she asked.
“Most people call them ‘hostas.’ But that’s not their true name. Their true name is a secret. Shall I tell it to you?”
“Oh, yes! Please tell me, Auntie Mae.”
“They are fairy hats,” Auntie Mae said in a quiet, confidential sounding voice. “When the moon is sailing high in the sky and all the children are asleep, fairies come and take them from their stems to wear as hats while they dance their fairy dances in the starlight. When the dances are through, they hang them back on their stems and the dew comes to clean them.”
“How do you know that, Auntie Mae?” the little girl asked. “Have you ever seen them?”
“Only once,” said Auntie Mae, “a long, long time ago. But oh, what a beautiful sight!
“The bees tell me they see them dancing all the time, right around midnight. Maybe some night we can sneak out together and sit very quietly under that tree. The bees say that they dance around that circle of clover over there.
“If we do sneak out, though, and if you see them, you must promise never to tell anyone until you are at least eighty years old. And even then, you may tell only one little girl. Do you think you could do that? Could you keep the secret?”
And of course the little girl crossed her heart and promised. And that night, the two of them snuck out of their beds and sat in the moonlight under the great old tree watching fairies dance.
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.
