Sometimes, life picks you up, hurls you around, and plunks you into a whole new world. I’ve mentioned this phenomenon before. I refer to it as “the revolving door syndrome.” Well, the last weekend in November, I got swept onto a dark and heavy patch of road that started with a sudden malaise that laid me low for the next ten days. Then, when I emerged from my stupor, it was to the news that one of my dearest friends had passed away, unexpectedly, in her sleep. Her memorial service wasn’t until the weekend after that, and I slogged through the days in shock, with a broken heart.

That’s why you didn’t hear from me for three weeks. I thought of you. I saw that many of you were into the holiday spirit and happily preparing for the days ahead. That was a comfort to me somehow. Life goes on. Some of you were, like me, in pain. The weekend I lost my friend, for instance, hundreds of people lost every material thing they owned in a horrendous tornado. Many lost their lives, and their friends and families were grieving and in shock, just as I was, our sorrow flowing together into one shared lake of pain.

One day, as the crushing sadness lifted and I was beginning to breathe again, I ran across a great little meme on the net. “Misery loves company,” it said. Then it continued, “But so does Joy. And Joy gives better parties.” I laughed at the way the Yes sends you little love notes when you need ‘em. Yeah. Joy gives better parties.

You know what happens when your heart breaks because someone you love dies? A thousand memories pour out of it, showing you moments that you and your loved one shared, all wrapped in love.

I wanted to sit with those, to let myself cry over my loss, over the loss of my dreams of the ordinary tomorrows I’d share with my friend. I wanted to feel the wonder of knowing that true friendship exists in this world. I wanted to sink into gratitude for the privilege of knowing genuine friendships. When emotions are deep and raw, that’s about all you can do: sit with them, drink them in; know them for all that they are. They come, you know, as gifts of healing and grace.

So now we enter what I think of as the Week of the Letting Go. We usher out the passing year, wrapping every moment of it in a layer of acceptance, if we’re wise, as if each one of them—even the ones we didn’t really notice or enjoy—had been custom-designed for us, exactly what we needed. It’s a time to take stock of your assets and values and strengths, to commit to giving the coming year your best, whatever it may bring.

Let go of the old with thanks. Welcome the new with joy and hold a party.

Seen from a far-enough distance, it’s all beautiful.

Happy New Year, my friend.

Warmly,
Susan

^{Image by nck_gsl from Pixabay}

I had just cleared the rise from the edge of the lake when twin flickers of red caught my eye in the distance.. At first I thought it was pair of cardinals, but it couldn’t be. The proportions were all wrong, I lifted my camera to my eye and zoomed in as much as I could as I slowly moved forward.

When I finally recognized the figures I was seeing, I couldn’t believe my eyes. Never, ever, in all the decades I’ve been tramping through the woods have I seen such a sight. But there they were, the King and Queen of the Elves. For real. Right there in a clearing, surrounded by pines, looking for all the world as if they were preparing a picnic.

I was drawn magnetically to them, as unreal as the scene felt. I had no idea what to say to them. They were royalty, after all, to the elves. And you know how I adore the elves. But before I had much of a chance to think about it, words were blurting from my mouth.

“So this is where you go when you need a break from the elves and all those toys!” I was saying to a smiling, bespectacled face. He looked up at me in amusement as I stared at the scene before me. He was sitting in a wooden rocker beside a little table. On it sat a jug wearing the label ”Santa’s milk” and a plate full of perfectly baked chocolate chip cookies.

 I felt as if I had stumbled across a private secret of some kind and I didn’t want to intrude. But a little bit of friendly chat seemed in order. “What brings you to the forest today?” I asked.

“Oh, we’re just going to take pictures with some families,” the being called Santa said.

I wished them a wonderful day and walked down the path entranced and feeling extraordinarily lucky.

Every year something like this happens, something out of the ordinary and wonderful. It can be a big thing or something little. But sooner or later, some piece of magic floats in and dissolves the humbug I wrap around myself in multiple layers as winter approaches. I am not a fan of the cold. But every year it happens–some little miracle–and I awaken to a world where every sight and sound and thought and circumstance and amazing human being touches me to my core. How poignant it all is! And how beautiful! How deserving of our compassion and appreciation, our gratitude and joy.

It stays with me, this trance of wonder, right into the new year. Then I’m caught up in the events of the world again and wonder steps back to smile at me from behind my shoulder, winking at me now and then when it catches my eye.

But right now, I stand enshrouded by wonder, stunned and moved by the world’s beauty, by the magnificent benevolence and perfection inherent in its movements and design. And we are here to see it. And the universe will go to such extremes to awaken us that it will even send Santa Claus and his wife to picnic in the woods on a late November day at the very hour when you followed its nudge to go there. What are the odds of that!

The elves told me once that if you see Santa in person, you get to carry the warmth and merriment of his smile with you to pass out to others as you go. So here! Have some!

It’s full of magic, you know. The kind that flows out from the center of everything and tastes and feels of love.

Warmly,
Susan

What was, isn’t. What is, won’t be. But always, there’s the now. Right in front of our noses. Full of everything and always a different shape than it was before or soon will be. And most of the time we don’t even notice, being all caught up in our stories and calculations and all.

This time of year, I’m spending a lot of time in my living room, working on my laptop. I don’t own a TV. I usually sit in the same place. I like the view and it’s comfortable. Every time I look up from my laptop’s screen, the walls and furniture, the plants and lamps and paintings are exactly where they were before. The only thing that seems to have changed is me. And it wasn’t, I can tell you, much of a change. Maybe I wasn’t wiggling my toes before. My thoughts were different. There’s a little gnat exploring the laptop’s screen now. The furnace’s fan has kicked on. Other than that, same old same old.

It could seem like a pretty boring place, I suppose. But that’s only the case if you forget that the walls have another side. One of them even has an outside, and that’s a doggone huge place. You can’t even get to the end of it, it goes so far. And just down the road a piece, there’s mountains and deserts and forests and oceans, and all of them with their own inhabitants, every one of them as real as you and alive in this very same now. And some of them are humans.

And for all you know, a particular human you’re thinking about right now might be thinking of you, too. Maybe because they felt your thoughts in some subliminal electromagnetic way. Or you felt them. And once you start thinking about another human being, you can drift off into all kinds of imaginings and memories and dreams.

So what difference does it make if the walls don’t seem to change? A patch of relative sameness is a good thing. It can give you a sense of stability, something to hang on to in when the winds are fierce.

Be grateful for the slow-to-change, for the ordinary and familiar. Someday you could be amazed that you ever took it for granted.

Rest in that. And from there, watch and let go.

Remember that what was, isn’t. And what is, won’t be.
But there is always now, dancing, and it goes on and on and on.

May its dance bring you moments that glow with peace and shimmer with joy.

Warmly,
Susan

People think I’m kidding when I tell them I believe we’re part bear and we’re meant to be hibernating now. But I must tell you a big part of me would like to snuggle into my den and nap until the berries are ripe. I do not like the darkness and the cold, and winter creeps closer every day,

Even if you’re awake this time of year, it seems to me, reality itself has taken on the quality of a dream. It morphs so much and it’s so outrageous. Who could have imagined such a thing!

I heard an interesting speculation the other day. The plasma tube, the story says, in which our solar system–our sun, all the planets–is traveling through the universe has hit a section where it’s running so close to another plasma tube, which holds whole other kinds of worlds, that our energies sort of bleed through into each other’s plasma a little bit, and we find the effects disorienting. It sounded like as good a theory as any.

Nobody’s got the whole picture, you know. We all have our core beliefs. But really, no one sees the whole thing. Not anybody walking around in a human-suit anyway. Not even you or me, as much as we like to imagine so.

Basically, I think we’re all here to witness it, and the more we see of it the more we realize we need to be kind to others, whatever their own views might be. Even, and perhaps especially, when their views seem contrary to our own. That does not mean we must tolerate wrongs. It means to use balanced action when dealing with them.

I just learned the phrase ”balanced action” this week. The guy who used it really caught my ear when he spoke it as part of the even-better phrase, “the joy of balanced action.” I loved having words for it at last,

That’s kind of what I strive for, that perfectly balanced dance of joy. Alive. Aware. Loving. Grateful.

Yeah.

That.

Help yourself to some. It’s good stuff.

Warmly,
Susan

I^{mage by Pixamio from Pixabay}