~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
It’s not like you flip a switch and here it is,
full-blown, with lush greens and tulip blossoms.
Spring is more subtle than that, refined,
you might say. She glides in slowly,
sometimes mild and sunny, sometimes
cloaked in rain and snow. But her light
proclaims what her weather may not say,
and new birds were singing at her dawn.
Keep faith. These are but her first hours.
Spring has miracles up her sleeve.
Like a signature quickly fading,
one last curve of snow lines the road.
One last layer of ice floats on the lake.
The winter-bleached fields wait for the plow.
The transition feels seamless, a gradual flowing
of seasons, one into another. And yet, in this moment,
a robin’s call marks the long winter silence
with its alert: something new comes.
You can never go home, they say. What they mean
is that the place you remember isn’t the same
as what’s there now. Everything changes, you know.
Things put on new faces or disappear. New things
tower from places where there was nothing before.
So when you cruise in, it takes time to get your bearings,
even though this is the place where you were born.
You have to scout around a bit, act the part of a tourist
until the familiar emerges from behind the new mask,
until the memories float up from the fragments time
let stand. They’ll be enough to anchor you.
Home is home, the place where your heart
began beating, where you took your first breath.
You hold what was. It shows you what is.
Together you can make your tomorrows.
What great good fortune, little wood sorrel,
to find smiling there, posing as a shamrock
on this St. Patrick’s Day. Wear what name
you will, your mothy wings so gladden
with their green. And how sweetly you sing
Springtime to our wintered-over hearts.
Have you ever heard the statement, “What you focus on expands”? It’s a fact of life, and a good one to remember.
A friend of mine reminded me about it in a recent blog post she wrote. She had attended a conference where one of the speakers, a brain scientist, asked the audience, “How many neurons over a lifetime have you dedicated to worry? Or to fear, or guilt, or limitation of any kind?”
She said his choice of the word “dedicate” really caught her attention. And rightly so. The more you repeat a thought, the more deeply you carve neural pathways for it in your brain. And the deeper the pathway, the easier it is for your thoughts to flow along it. You’re dedicating those neurons with every similar thought. “What you focus on expands.”
When you create pathways of limitation, they become launching pads for a nefarious secondary force I once heard named “the zucchini god”—the one who instantly appears when you think a motivated thought and convinces you that you need a nap or a bag of potato chips first, the one who wants you spend your life being a squash.
The way to avoid making life easy for the zucchini god is to purposefully design the neural pathways you want to create—the ones that will lead you toward the actions that are aligned with your vision of who and how you want to be, what you want to accomplish and attain.
And the way that you do that is by getting clear about what it is that you want. That doesn’t mean you have to set huge goals or create lofty or long-range visions. Your intention can be as short-range as a day, or even less. But decide what is it you want and put it into words for yourself. Ideally, write them down somewhere that you’ll throughout the day as a reminder. That adds the fuel of attention to your intention. And attention plus intention is the key. It’s the magic formula.
The more attention you give to your intention—even if you only read it or remember it—the more you’re building the neural pathways that your thoughts can travel to take you where you want to go.
When you catch yourself traveling down a pathway of limitation, throw a big bright “Detour” sign into the middle of it and turn your attention, your focus, to your intention. Remind yourself what it will feel like to be and do the things you want to be and do: kinder, braver, more persistent, more in control, more creative, more appreciative, more in charge of your choices.
Then take whatever action you can to move toward the object of your intention, even if it’s nothing more than squaring your shoulders, slowing your breathing to relax into the moment, and putting on a smile.
You can continue to grow deeper pathways of limitation, or focus your attention on moving on a trajectory toward your true desires.
It’s like the old American Cherokee story about the two wolves. One evening an old Cherokee told his grandson about a battle that goes on inside people.
He said, “My son, the battle is between two wolves inside us all.
“One is Evil – It is anger, envy, jealousy, sorrow, regret, greed, arrogance, self-pity, guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority, and ego.
“The other is Good – It is joy, peace, love, hope, serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth, compassion and faith.”
The grandson thought about it for a minute and then asked his grandfather: “Which wolf wins?”
The old Cherokee simply replied, “The one you feed.”
Decide to dedicate your neurons to the things that bring you joy and satisfaction. Name your intentions, then feed them with all the attention you can muster.
And may your good wolf win!
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Andrea Bohl from Pixabay
I’m still a quarter mile from the marsh
when I hear them, the red-winged blackbirds,
the males singing conk-la-ree, the last note
sharp and rising, and the females answering
chak-chak-chak in applause. My approach
alarms the males and they fly from the reeds
to the tops of the budding maples, where
they continue their songs. The sun
is glinting off the waters, the bleached
cattails glowing golden in the light.
A pair of mallards, fresh from my dreams,
floats in slow circles near the far shore.
I stand on the hill, glad as the day
to be here, watching, hearing the song.
Except for the edges of the shaded north slopes
and the deep woods in the hollows, the snow is gone.
In its place, a mat of soggy leaves covers the ground.
But more is happening here than meets the eye.
Stand still and you can feel it breathing.
This is the last of winter’s great inhalation, the pulling
back of its bow. And behind the rain and beneath
the mists, miracles are beginning to leap
from the ground, astounding us.
On each of her days, spring brings a gift.
Today, a white hellebore opened,
its petals as white and silken
as angel wings floating above
a cup of pale yellow and lime
in whose center hung a cluster
of heart-shaped ivory seeds,
and all of it so graceful and perfect
that I held my breath in awe.
I always forget how tenderly
spring’s gifts are given, how
deeply they touch my heart.
Nothing got them here but their conviction
that there must be more. Otherwise,
they reasoned, why this incessant pull?
So they let things go as things would go,
not struggling against the heavy dark
or the rigid cold, but following the pull,
pushing through whatever opening appeared
that let them stretch in its direction, never
knowing the pull had its reasons, that
deep within them precious treasure hid.
They knew nothing but the irresistible pull,
and how powerfully it drew them onward.
No wonder, having burst through the soil
into a world of color and sky and song,
they applaud, their tips vibrating with joy.
The lake is nearly still, and standing
on its bank, I am captivated by its colors.
Mostly it’s deep green, but the low sun
sends dazzling gold through the pines
that streaks the lake’s surface between
ribbons of russet and brown where the trunks
of the trees are reflected. I gaze
at it for a long while before I notice
the chunks of white that line the shore
across from where I’m standing. Ice,
my mind says. The last of it. But then,
all at once, a loud honking rips
through the air and the ice
transforms into fat ducks that push off
from the shore and paddle in graceful rows
into the lake’s smooth green, stirring its colors
as if they were artists and the water
their paint.