Learn to Fly

It’s been nearly a decade now since a friend asked me to write “one of your letters” for her to give to her son as a graduation gift. I remember being honored by her request, and moved. I remember doing a lot of contemplation before I wrote it. Finally, the words came to me as if they were a gift of love. I thought they deserved to be shared.

This is what the letter to the young graduate said:

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“You were born with potential. You were born with goodness and trust. You were born with ideals and dreams. You were born with greatness. You were born with wings. You are not meant for crawling, so don’t. You have wings. Learn to use them and fly.”  ― Jalal ad-Din Muhammad Rumi

Rumi’s right, of course. But it’s hardly the whole story. This learning-to-fly business is no easy thing.  Nor is it quickly learned.

For one thing, you have to want it—that ability to soar above the crowd. You have to keep fighting against the pull of mediocrity. You have to want freedom more than you want to belong.

Those ideals and dreams you have in your heart? Define them. Write down what you want and why and keep your reasons close at hand. You will need reminders when the headwinds are strong, when storms come. And storms will come.

No one succeeds without chalking up a list of failures. Don’t be afraid to fail.  Be afraid of not trying to win.  “Wisdom,” an old saying goes, “comes from experience. And experience comes from making mistakes.” There’s no shame in that.  Setbacks and failures are life’s gifts to you, sent as corrections to your course.  Be daring.  Take risks.

Keep a good helping of forgiveness in your pocket. Mostly you’ll need it for yourself.  It will keep you from tearing yourself down needlessly and will help you maintain your humility while you continue your upward climb.

Learn not to blame circumstances or other people when things go wrong. The key to success is the acceptance of full and complete responsibility for every choice you make and for every action you take, for your own response to whatever is happening.   When you inadvertently hurt others, be quick to apologize and make amends.

To the best of your ability, maintain your health. Eat wisely. Exercise. Get sufficient sleep. Learn to relax. Adopt some form of meditation.

Maintain flexibility of thought. Consider opinions that oppose your own.  Be willing, if it serves truth, to discard every belief you’ve ever held. Demand truth, whatever the consequences.  And to the very best of your ability, be honest with yourself and others; that’s what the practice of truth demands.

Nevertheless, be kind. Be gracious and tactful. Allow others the respect and compassion they deserve. These are the hallmarks of genuine maturity and of leadership.

Take time in your life for pleasure and play. To be alive is a profound privilege. And your gratitude is best expressed through your laughter and your joy, through your appreciation of life’s beauty and goodness and fun.

Above all, vow to learn to love, as broadly and fully as you can. For love is the wind which lifts us, and the power that enables us to soar.

You have wings, my friend.  Learn to use them, and fly.

Congratulations on all your magnificent successes thus far! You have honored yourself and your loving family and made all of us better with all that you have achieved.

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Wishing you a splendid summer.

Warmly (with a gentle breeze),
Susan

Image by G.C. from Pixabay

A Solstice Song

This is the day of long light, the birthday
of summer. Drink it in. Let it glide
into your eyes and slide into your pores.
Lick it with your tongue, feel it seep
into your cells and flow through your veins,
this sustainer of life, this spirit of fiery joy.

Celebrate its dawn; embrace its high noon.
Float in the glow of its dusk until
the stars rise and the fireflies
sparkle the night in its honor.
This is the day of long light,
the birthday of summer.
May our hearts dance with it, and be glad.

Farewell, Springtime

 I thank you for waking the earth again,
for gifting it with flowers and robins and fawns,
with ferns and the tender baby leaves of trees,
with lambs and baby goats and donkeys.
And all of it well-established now and ready
to unfold and grow. Thank you for melting away
winter’s frozen world, for replacing the cold
with balmy bare-armed days, and soft air
filled with birdsong. Thank you for rain,
and puddles, and rushing streams.
Thank you for thunderstorms and great winds,
and for your torrid foretastes of summer.
You did it all! And now you leave me
with this parting gift, this pure and tender flower.
I will remember you always, dear Springtime.
Thank you.
Thank you.
Farewell.

The Rising of the Joe Pye Weed

The Joe Pye weeds are tall now,
rising almost over the top of my head.
In their centers, at last, I can see their buds,
still swaddled in leaves. I can almost feel
the energy feeding them, their whiskery petals
pushing toward the light, eager to unfold.
“Great job!” I tell them. “Keep going!”
I imagine the dusky pink of their blossoms,
buzzing with visiting bees who drink their fill.
“Keep going!” I say again. “You’re going to be
so beautiful and so loved!”

The Astilbe

The world is an ocean of green now,
lush and full, emerging in a hundred
shapes and shades everywhere
my eyes can see. I breathe its perfume.
I drink in the rain-washed air that tastes
of summer, here on this hot, moist day.

The rains coaxed open the astilbe.
Its foamy lace dances in sprays
white as snow atop the waves of green.
My eyes scoop it up and crinkle
in a smile at its delicate light.
And the heat of the day disappears.

Storm’s End

Even as it took its leave, the storm showed its power.
For the last two days, rain has fallen in heavy sheets
on the parched fields, the sky flashing with lightning
and roaring with thunder so loud that it set dogs
and their masters alike cowering in apprehension.

It was noon of the second day before I saw
the first patch of blue sky. Driving past the fields,
revived now and green, I stared in silence at the sky
as the tail of the storm sailed overhead
like some majestic ancient navy, armed for war
and dwarfing the vista that, just days before,
had seemed to stretch on forever.

Covered Bridges

The old covered bridges are rare now, but loved
and cared for with a nostalgia-laced reverence.
When you walk through one, you can almost hear
the sound of horse hooves and wagon wheels
echoing up from the worn wooden floor. You imagine
the horses, the travelers, leaning into a moment of relief
from the sun’s glare, from the rain, from the sleet and snow.
Even the horse feels it. The windows are cut high to shield
the rushing river from the horse’s view. Only his ears and nose
tell him what lies beneath the solid planks beneath his hooves.
He is unafraid. He never loses his rhythm.
You know this just by walking through the bridge.
It holds its memories well and whispers them unceasingly
to lucky passersby, and to the river.

Wild Grasses

The wild grass conforms to no law
except the law of the dance.
It surrenders authority to nothing
but joy, to the Great Yes of being,
and to that it bows, knowing
that it governs the cycles
with knowledge and love,
and is beneficent in all its ways.

Other Worlds to Sing In

Today is Father’s Day here in the USA, and I’ve been thinking about my own dad, a good man, loved by all who knew him. Dads matter, you know. If you’re a dad, I wish you an outstanding day. If you have a dad, think about how lucky you are, and tell him.

If your father has passed away, I’m posting this story from last year again especially for you. Its ending gave my heart a warm glow as I thought of my own dad, and of other dear ones who have gone.

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This is one of those little hometown stories you don’t hear much any more. It’s about my neighbor’s son-in-law, Shawn.

Shawn worked as a meat cutter at the big chain grocery store up the road a couple miles. He’d always nod and smile when he saw me. But ahead of his job, the passion of his life was his membership in the township’s Volunteer Fire Department.

Last winter, Shawn took ill and was diagnosed with one of those “turbo-cancers” that have sprung up in the past couple years. They develop quickly and effect different areas of the body simultaneously or in rapid succession.

Shawn fought it valiantly. But last Tuesday the doctors said there was no more they could do and sent him home to die surrounded by his family.

The family set up a bed for him in the living room where he could look out the front door at the neighborhood. There was something special coming, they told him, they wanted him to see.

A few hours later, as a light rain fell from a pale sky, the sound of a fire truck’s siren ripped through the air, followed by another, and another, and another. Trucks had come from departments all around the county. One even came from E. Palestine, Ohio. Shawn hadn’t been able to fight the fire the night of the derailment there last winter, but his wife went, fighting along with the rest of the department.

The bond among fire-fighters is strong. They came this night to tell Shawn they loved and respected him, to honor his years of service. The red and white lights of their trucks glistened in the rain as they drove in a slow parade all around his block, sirens wailing.

Shawn watched from his bed, smiling. Two days later, he was gone.

My heart goes out to the family. They’ve been through the wringer the past couple years. But it never got them down.

I was thinking about Shawn and his family yesterday when I came across a short story called “The Black Telephone.” It’s a beautiful little story and worth a read. In one part of it, the story-teller’s pet canary dies. He’s just a little kid at the time and the death confuses him. He goes to a wise older friend. Here’s the excerpt from the story:

I asked her, “Why is it that birds should sing so beautifully and bring joy to all families, only to end up as a heap of feathers on the bottom of a cage?”

She must have sensed my deep concern, for she said quietly, “Wayne, always remember that there are other worlds to sing in.”

Somehow I felt better.

I felt better, too. For a minute, I imagined a grinning Shawn giving rides to smiling children and puppies in a big shiny fire truck up in some corner of heaven.

You know, it can be a tough world. There’s a lot of pain and sorrow here. Remember to be kind. And when you lose someone dear, take comfort in remembering that there are other worlds to sing in.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Steven Iodice from Pixabay

Saved by Bugs

Not often, although it’s a wonder,
but sometimes, I let the daily news
upset me. How could it not?
All this vitriol and division,
all this manipulated rage.
Today was one of those days.
I went outside to clear my mind.

The air was as thick and heavy
as my mood. But then a flicker
caught my eye and I turned
to see a damsel fly lighting
on a hosta leaf. It swept me,
as damsel flies always do,
back to my childhood.
And suddenly I remembered
the scent of Aunt Maybelle’s
petunias on mornings like these,
when the world was still new
and beautiful. I thanked
the little messenger. Funny
how you can be rescued
from your gloom by a bug.

Later, the day turned dark,
and I started to slide again
into my weariness with the world.
But then I remembered seeing
the season’s first fireflies last night,
brilliant and flickering like Christmas
lights through the dark boughs
of the spruce. And I remembered
the peace within me.