~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
In the note that I sent you on Day 5 of this series, I mentioned that I have come to this lake at sunset every New Year’s Eve for six years now.
Today some formula at Facebook determined it should pop the very photo I took that first year into my timeline. It felt like a nod from the universe, one of those delicious synchronicities that makes you think you’re on track. “Carry on, child. Carry on.”
Well! Here we are, safely arrived on the other side of the holidays. How fine is that! Congratulations to us all!
I don’t know about you, but I’m ready for a nice chunk of the ordinary now. You know, days where all you gotta think about is doing the job before you. Maybe even throw in a slice of routine, just to smooth things out. It sounds comforting somehow, doesn’t it?
Maybe it’s the season. Here we stand, seriously staring into a brand new year, wondering what it could possibly bring. Am I prepared? (Are we ever?)
It never unfolds the way you imagined it would. Especially these days. The best you can do is the best you can do. And it’s always good enough. And there’s always room for better.
I started a new project. I’d been asking for it, and when it finally got here, I had to jump on it. I’m calling it “100 Bottles of Hours on the Wall.” It’s a 100-Day Challenge that simply appeared in my awareness one day, spotlights shining on it, confetti floating in the air. What it boils down to is my commitment to compose a daily note here for the next 100 days. Just for the fun of it To see where it takes me.
I couldn’t wait for the New Year. I started it a week ago. Check it out. Let me know what you think.
But that isn’t what I really wanted to tell you about today. I wanted to share my personal New Year ritual.
A few minutes before midnight on New Year’s Eve, I pull on my winter boots and jacket and go outdoors. This year the sky is overcast, a faint glow appearing on the northern horizon. To the east I see fog illuminated by the headlights of a car climbing the hill around the curve over there. Its purr is all I hear.
I send good wishes to my local community, and outward from there, and farther out ‘til my wishes circle the globe. I thank the spruces towering over my head for their constant companionship and wish them well. I send a wordless song from the center of my heart to the Great Yes, waiting.
Suddenly, the bangs and pops and claps of shotguns, pistols, and rifles wash down the hills from every direction. Wow! Was that a canon? Dogs vacationing at the kennel down the road yip and howl. Car horns bleat from somewhere across the creek by the old school.
It’s here. 2022.
We can’t help ourselves. However we mark it, all over the world, we all breathe in its hope.
Isn’t that something?
Take a big chunk of that hope and tuck it in your pocket, hey?
Happy New Year.
Warmly,
Susan
Six years ago I found myself standing at the edge of a small lake that’s adjacent to the wetlands. It was sunset on New Year’s Eve and music was wafting through the air from a house up in the woods somewhere. I have no idea what drew me there at that particular time on that particular day. Probably a whim. I’m big on following my whims. More often that not, they lead me to grand discoveries.
That year, I discovered that the sun set right behind that stand of trees across the lake. I have come back here on the eve of every new year since.
I come early this year because the sky is cozied up in its thick, deep clouds and if I wait until sunset, the daylight will have melted away completely. As it turns out, the clouds break up a bit as I drive to the little lake, dappling the sky and thinning to let the sun’s brilliance shine through.
I spot the little turn-off up ahead and feel my face smile as I pull over and step from my car. A flock of fifty or so Canadian geese float along the lake’s north shore, silent as can be, hardly moving, The lake is calm and still. I spend a handful of timeless moments mesmerized by it all, my camera inhaling one view after another.
I decide to drive down some back roads when I leave the lake, delighted by the colors and light that came with this unexpected break in the clouds. Finding a spot where I can pull off, I park and walk up the road photographing the terrain, the vast stretches of rolling corn fields, the stubble from the harvest glowing golden in the afternoon light.
I am humbled, as I often am when the sky is the bringer of joy. It reminds me that even the darkest clouds are transient, and that beyond them, joy remains. Eternally.
When I pass the little lake on my way home, I find it shrouded in a dim haze. The glimpse of light had been just that, a glimpse. Now the sky would wrap the quickly waning year in its mists and carry it off to The Lands of When.
Farewell, 2021. Farewell.
Maybe ten miles from here, somewhere off one of the main roads, you can see their farm. I haven’t been past it in years. My memory is that it was one of those old family farms that had seen a few generations. Frame barn and outbuildings, painted white and red, well-kept and maintained. Donkeys maybe. A large garden. As I said, it’s been years.
I saw them perform live at some local festival when they were all still in their teens. Each of them is a highly skilled, talented musician. Their repertoire is wide-ranging, with something to speak to everyone’s heart and tapping toe.
I’m happy to see that the girls are still wearing their homemade gingham dresses. Their mother, who home-schooled them I’m told, taught them all homesteading skills. I believe someone told me that she passed away of cancer a couple years ago. She left behind a beautiful and amazing legacy.
This photo of them popped up on my Facebook timeline today with an announcement of the family’s upcoming performance at a rural Methodist church somewhere in the area. I envision a packed house. You can check them out if you want. On Facebook, they’re simply Echo Valley.
I thought you’d smile, knowing a group like this exists in rural 2021 America. Imagine astounding music, and keep smiling,
Finally, the sun has come out. Endless days have passed since we weren’t blanketed by dull dark clouds. I pull on the hat with the fuzzy ear-flaps and then the rugged boots, making a double bow so they won’t come untied. The jacket: zipper, snaps. (Sigh.) The gloves.
It’s worth the effort. I am cozy in the cold air and excited to be drinking in its colors. I have to walk along the berm of the 2-lane truck route that divides my property until I get to the right of way. I squeeze past the gate and neighbor Bob’s big antique tractor that guard the land, his and mine, against unwanted intruders. And then I am in the field, at the valley’s floor, and it is magical here. I am impressed by the fine job Bob did mowing, given the antique status both of his tractor and his body.
The thing I like about these walks—I call them photo-walks because I always have my camera with me and it is eager to capture the wonders of the day—the thing I like about them is that I have to stay in the present and pay attention, to be RIGHT HERE. Because anything could happen or unexpectedly appear. The world, after all, is a magical place. And you wouldn’t want to miss a good one now, would you?
So I get to breathe in the early winter fragrance of the air, to taste it. I hear the branches tapping in the light wind, the dry stalks crunching beneath my feet I’m heading toward the beaver pond. I haven’t seen it for months. The earth is getting muddy now.
Dreams float past as I walk. They’re like transparent clouds. Memories. Checking in on friends, But always alert as my eyes note the textures and colors of the land beneath my feet: Stop! Look!
Oh, my God. I feel so lucky.
Thank you!
I love you!
Thank you.
At the bottom of the valley across the field from my woods runs a creek. I imagined that I took an hour every day to roll a love note scroll-like and gently slide it into one of the glass bottles waiting on the rack on the wall.
Some days I might send a story. Some days maybe a photo or secret might go. I would carefully seal it, and wrapping it in wishes for good fortune, carry it to the stream and let it go where ever it was destined to go.
I liked that picture.
I often think in images. Seems efficient. Images can capture so much in one flash.
So this is my second love-note. And here you are, reading it.
Perhaps it was meant to be.
Well, after this one’s done. This one is the first, leaving only 99 more.
It all started when I was scrolling through an old external hard drive in search of something in particular. In the process, I happened across a folder named “100 Day Challenge.” I didn’t have time to travel down any old rabbit holes just then, but the title has pestered me ever since. I have a vague memory of it reviving my writing after a long, long drought. It doesn’t matter. Sometime I’ll see it. Or not. What matters now is that its mere title, “100 Day Challenge,” has prompted me to ask myself , “With what would I like to be challenged right now? To what would I be willing to commit myself to daily action for 100 days?” Gosh, a hundred days would take me to the verge of spring, get me through the winter.
I told myself as I headed into mid-fall that when I had accomplished all that stuff on my do-list, I could paint. So I’m going to do some of that. I decided I would set up in my bedroom, transforming it into my winter studio. I could look down to the west through the window, to see the passing traffic on the road and the lilac bush with its chickadees and titmice and jays. Yesterday I ordered a card table I could paint on. It will be here by the end of the week and I’ll indulge my inner painter.
But not every day for 100 days. Just often.
I want to put my 100 days into adding a daily something to Notes from the Woods, as I originally intended. I’ve been thinking about it for a while now. I have a sense of how it can go Today, just after I started writing this, I heard Jim Croce singing ever so quietly from a far away room in the back of my mind. “If I could put time in a bottle . . . ”
That’s when the image formed of a stack of empty bottles in a simple pine rack on the wall, each one waiting to be sent on its mission.
So that’s how this Bottles stuff started.
Image by chris18769 from Pixabay
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
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