Back in the old days, people knew how to recognize medicine on sight. When a child brought tiny blue flowers to her mother, the mother would say, “Oh! Speedwells! Aren’t they sweet? And did you know they make delicious tea and that they will cure what ails you?”
And the child would lead the mother to the patch where the speedwell grew, and they would dig little clumps of it with delight, the mother telling all the ailments it was known to cure: cough, rough breathing, hurting skin, rheumatism, tummy aches and more.
And at home, they would brew some tea, smiling as they slowly sipped it, and some would go in a labeled bottle, an elixir to soothe you and restore you to health. And they would place some of the little plants in the garden because the sight of them alone is enough to brighten your day.
It’s not that nature’s beauty consumes me. It’s the refuge it provides from the rest of it, from conflicts and disasters large and small that cover the globe; from the endless prattle of the lonely because talking is the only way they know to mark the world with their presence, to connect, to find meaning; from the struggles for survival, for status, for power, for control, and for all the touted doodads that promise to raise them or to provide relief from the fight.
Walk in the woods. Listen to the trees. Observe the details in the smallest flower. See the seasons unfold. Watch the clouds and stars float above you. Take solace in an order beyond our knowing, a power and intelligence we cannot comprehend. Feel how you are a child of it, how you move within its omnipresent embrace, loved even when you are asleep in it, unconscious of its plan and grace and mercy. Wonder at its intricacy, its obedience to inviolable laws. Think how this is but the skin that the Yes wears, this mysterious, ever-dancing curtain of matter. Think how majestic is that which brought it into being and bestowed on us our capacities to see, to taste, to move and desire, to seek, to find, to love, and, finally, to know.
Except that the Yes is the source of joy, Spring need not have come with such beauty. A limited pallet might have served as well, a handful of standardized designs. We could have as easily performed our daily tasks without being caught in this web of wonder, without being stopped in our tracks to gaze and smile at little pink flowers whose centers burst with polka dot stars. But the Yes, which is made of love, cannot help but leave its beauty everywhere—just in case your heart might need to hear its tender, endless song.
Unlike flowers, who know only joy and whose tenderness is unfailing, we who dwell in human skins know such things as cruelty, grief, pain, and loss. And that is why the flowers are tender and why they whisper joy: to comfort us and remind us that even in our darkest days, we are deeply loved.
“Thank you” seems so small a phrase, wholly inadequate in the face of the burgeoning green of these fields and hills spilling over now with flowers beyond counting in hues beyond our power to name. Still, I kneel before the pristine trillium and can conjure no other response. What utter mystery that such varied beauty can rise from mere earth, and that we should be here, in the midst of it, seeing!
All winter, as I endured the cold and dreary days, the treacherous heaps of ice and snow, I told myself that beneath that barren, frozen ground, flowers slept. The mere thought of them pulled me through, rekindling my desire for the tomorrows of spring. It all seemed so far away, almost impossibly distant. Did I imagine flowers slept there? No. I remembered the feel of the moist earth as I placed the bulbs in the little holes that I had dug for them, wishing them sweet dreams and saying little prayers for their well-being. And today, here they are, their delicate beauty touching my soul, a promise fulfilled. And my spirit rises on their fragrance, singing with them, “Thank you! Thank you!”
Remember, remember, they whisper, that I, too, was a star, shining for my moments in the world, beaming my light, singing my song. Like you, I smiled and cried, I loved and lost, I walked alone and with sweet companions. I toiled at my work, I savored my leisure. I stood in awe of the mystery of it all. I drank both of suffering and pleasure. I gave it everything I could give. And I would do it all again. I walked before you. I walk with you still. Forget me not, dear children. Remember me kindly. Remember.
I was at the park this week on one of the month’s rare sunny days and happened across two little girls playing at the edge of the creek. They were putting little pieces of driftwood on the water to watch it float downstream and giggling as they sang “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . . “
I hadn’t heard that little ditty in years and soon I was humming it as I walked along. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily; Life is but a dream.”
It got me thinking about one of the phrases I keep in my back pocket to get me through stressful times or to reassure myself when I’m taking on a challenge. I’ve shared it with you before. Maybe you remember: “How easy can I let this be?”
Now and then I repeat it to a friend of mine who unfailingly repeats it as “How easy can I make this?” I tell him it’s not “make this,” but “let this.” There’s a difference.
Maybe my friend, an engineer, thinks that making things easy means finding an efficient way to go about whatever needs to be done. But to me, that interpretation puts the onus on you to invent an efficient way. It becomes an added thing that you have to do. I’m all for efficiency. And I suppose if I were the engineering type, “making things easy” might sound like an engaging task. I might find it lifts my spirits to look at things that way, If that’s how it sounds to you, great!
But the point of asking yourself to let the challenge before you be easy means that you’re giving yourself permission to relax into it. You’re asking yourself how much you’re willing to allow yourself to be at ease. Things are only difficult or trying for us because we frame them that way, after all. Almost anything can be done with ease if we take it one small step at a time. What’s the old saying? “Inch by inch, anything’s a cinch.”
Giving yourself permission to step into a task gently and with ease is especially helpful when what you’re facing seems unpleasant, or even repulsive or painful. Allowing yourself to let go of the tension of resistance tunes you in to your capabilities. Asking “How easy can I let this be?” turns “I don’t want to” into “I can do this.”
What’s more, it lets you glide into action with a grace that can build momentum for you, and even make the task feel rewarding and satisfying, or if you’re really lucky, fun. There you are, just rowing your boat, one stroke of the oars after another. And sooner or later, you arrive where you wanted to be. The challenge that loomed so large is behind you, now nothing more than a memory, a dream.
Let me invite you to tuck the phrase in your pocket—“How easy can I let this be?”— and to pull it out the next time you find yourself resisting a challenge. Maybe attach the tune to “Row Your Boat” to it just to give it a bit of flavor. Give it a try. You never know.
Despite the month’s cold and rain, the daffodils have opened. They stand atop the hill along the roadside, greeting passersby. To me, they look like angels, their white wings spread wide, their bright trumpets sending songs of unbridled cheer. “We’re alive! We’re alive! And you’re alive, too! The sun is shining; the sky is blue. The happy birds sing from high in the tree. It’s spring, dear ones. Be glad with me.”
Looking from my morning window, I thought at first that it had snowed. It’s recently been that cold. Then all at once I realized that countless spring beauties had opened overnight. It’s been ten days since the first ones appeared, a sparse handful sprinkled here and there. Now there were thousands, come, no doubt, to celebrate. Today is Earth Day after all. Each one’s no bigger than a dime, you know. But they fill your heart with tender joy, no matter how mad the rest of the world.
