The panoply of green Is the first thing to strike you. Almost every living thing wears a version of the hue. But step into this springtime scene, with its play of light and breeze, and suddenly the sight of it seems but a stage for the all-enveloping chorus now filling the air, sung by a choir of countless frogs and birds, their notes falling from trees, rising from reeds and weeds and grasses and water, wrapping you in its exuberant, affirmative joy, convincing you that, no matter what, life goes on, and on, and on.
Ever have one of those days when everything went just right? It’s kinda woo-woo, doncha find? Reminds me of old Dr. Hook lyrics about how when everything went right paranoia tried to seep in. I’m not used to having everything fall so perfectly in place. It was better than I had hoped and more than I could have imagined. Everywhere I looked, things seemed more beautiful than when I looked before, and nice surprises appeared like spring violets and forget-me-nots, making me feel new again, and eager, and just plain glad. To quote myself, “Every now and then you get a moment that makes all the rest of them worth it.” It was one of those moments today. All day. Maybe it’s the sunshine. Maybe it’s just because. Or bunches of them, like the ones outside the window, all emerald and gold now and dancing. All I know is that I am new again, and amazed, and humbled, and glad.
Had it not been for you, Mom, I may have gone through the world blind to its beauty. I may have missed the tenderness of a blossom’s petals, the wonder of its hues and form. The songs of birds and of breezes rustling through silky springtime leaves may have been nothing more than a background sound, hardly heard. I may not have noticed how rain can soothe, how thunder can thrill, how dew sparkles on the grass like diamonds, had you not taken the time to show me, and to whisper that it all sings the love of the Yes as surely as a mother croons to her child.
Even in this world awash with seeming madness, the song of the Yes goes forth, its melody coaxing birds to mate, flowers to bloom, lovers to embrace each other in joy. It sprinkles bright stars in the sky as a reminder that no night is wholly without light, that worlds beyond our knowing dance in perfect order in response to the symphony of its infinite love.
Even we, who sleepwalk through clouded dreams, who mistakenly count ourselves as life’s victims, whose confusion gives rise to hostility and pain, even we are wonderfully made of its song and can wake and claim our power to create, to imagine, to build and dance and love and sing. For even in this world awash with seeming madness, the song of the Yes sings its soaring symphony of endless, perfect, omnipresent love.
The hardest part is deciding what to prepare. Once I’ve got that, the whole game plan appears. I wash my hands and assemble the ingredients, bowls, cutting board, knives, various utensils. Then I begin.
I take the skinless, boneless chicken thigh in my hand and place it on the cutting board. With my sharp, thin knife, I remove the bits of excess fat and cut the meat into cubes. I think about Holly’s wonderful chickens, roaming free in their big, fenced yard. The thigh I’m cutting probably came from some poor critter raised in a crowded cage, never feeling the slightest touch of human love, Silently, I thank it for its life and for feeding me. It sizzles and I turn the pieces to sear them on all sides to hold in their juices.
For a moment, the news about the proliferating bird flu and about the rash of fires at food processing plants flashes through my mind. But I catch myself and turn my attention back to the meat happily cooking in my pan and to my gratitude that it has arrived in my kitchen and will make a fine contribution to my meal. That’s what a joy warrior does when thoughts of the world’s darkness threaten to eclipse the light of a heart full of thanksgiving.
I think about all the people involved in getting this little chicken thigh to me–the producers, the packers, the makers of the packaging, the truckers who transported it, the buyers and sellers and handlers along the way, the machines involved and all those who designed, built and operated them–the list could go on and on. I send a little wave of thanks to all who made it possible, a cast, no doubt, of millions if you trace it all out. “Every door leads to an infinite world,” I say to myself, laughing. Everything’s connected and intermingled.
The shrimp come next, small, cleaned, tailless ones. I like the slightly salty smell of them as I stir them into the chicken. It brings images of the ocean and fishing boats and fishermen. And for a moment, I am sailing in Boston Harbor, feeling the rush of the wind as it pushes us through the water. Maybe, far below me, shrimp crawl. I remember eating lobster once fresh from the boat that docked at the restaurant’s lower door, somewhere on the coast of Maine. The shrimp in my present dinner probably came from a farm. Almost everything’s a step removed from nature these days. But at least it wasn’t made in a lab. Thank you, little pink shrimp, for being real and for the gift of your energy.
I open the bag of frozen stir-fry veggies—broccoli, mushrooms, strips of sweet red pepper and carrots, sweet pea pods, cauliflower, water chestnuts, corn—and add a couple handfuls to the pan. The colors brighten the whole dish as I gently toss them. I imagine vast fields of vegetables from a half dozen states and maybe beyond the nation’s boundaries–and again, I thank all who labored to bring them to me.
I sprinkle in a pinch of pink Himalayan salt—What a wonder!—and a twist or two of freshly ground mixed peppercorns and just a dash of ground coriander. Then I let it simmer a bit, aware that days are coming soon when such bounty as this will be available no more. I pray for those who go hungry right now, and I am more grateful for this beautiful meal than words could ever say.
I ladle big spoonfuls of it onto a clear glass plate, breathing in its fragrance, and sit to savor its flavors. When I finish, I am satisfied, and filled, body and soul.
The south hill is covered in bright fluffy green and baby ferns giggle and dance in the rain. In the branches and brambles, birds’ nests hide, holding downy hatchlings too young even to wonder where they are and what happened. What happened, indeed! All at once it seemed, from silence and nothing, color and song rose into the air, and I got to stand here in the spring rain with wild violets and celandine poppies, knowing no more than the baby birds know, but old enough now to know wonder.
Four baby robins were born, their turquoise eggs bursting open to reveal yellow beaks and big eyes not yet open and the fuzziest down barely covering their little pink bodies.
On the hillside, little ferns poked out to begin unfurling their curled-up leaves. and at the woods’ edge, dogwood danced in the spring sky, breathing the fragrance of the lilac, just opening her petals.
Bright dandelions waltzed with violets. Wild forget-me-nots came to take in the view. The ancient trees put forth their leaves, and popcorn ball globes of white blossoms partied on the lawn at the base of the hill.
This is what sustains me through the winter, the dream of this. Yet even my best dreams pale now that spring is finally here, alive with new life, feeding my soul, singing the blessing of wondrous this day.
To live in a world where flowers bloom, despite all harshness, against all odds, is the same as tasting music, as breathing the dawn. Every petal is a promise whispering Yes into the caves of the heart, proof that hope is never in vain, that the unspeakable longings of the soul are known and met with love and unfathomable beauty.
See? The rose-peach quince is in bloom, another confirmation of spring’s constancy, the reappearance of an old friend who blossoms her hello to me each and every year without fail. It’s been over a quarter century now, and she was already grown and in full flower when I met her.
I raise my lemon water in a toast. “To you, fine old friend,” I say aloud, and she nods in the gentle May breeze, her coral skirts flared, her yellow stamens raised to the sun. Then we both stand silently for a moment, breathing in each other’s joy, satisfied and glad.
