~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
On this gift of a day
may the flowing hours
with their sun-sparkled colors
and rippling ribbons of sound,
with their air kissing your face,
its flavors teasing your tongue,
with their perfumes of earth, and water
and sky, on this very day,
may this very hour
bring your heart joy
and contentment and peace.
Throughout the afternoon
I watched the last maple leaf
twirl dizzily in the wind and cold rain,
the trees on the hill above it
swaying in the mighty gusts.
When day’s last light slid into shadow,
it was still holding on. By morning,
the tale would be told.
By spring, I will, I know,
be longing for a broader pallet,
one drenched in greens and pastels.
But today, November is painted
in her range of neutrals beneath
this blue and lavender sky, and I
find that my eye is pleased
at the soft, stark subtlety
of it all, her hues looking like
the pelt of some wild animal
stretched across the rolling hills.
As if a curtain lifted to reveal
a grand new setting for the next act
of the play, the field had been transformed.
Gone were the gold and crimson hills.
Gone the goldenrod. In their place,
a wonderland stands, the pale, bare limbs
of the sycamore dancing with the last leaves
of the russet oaks below the dark hills.
And at their feet, acres of goldenrod,
white now and as fluffy as snow,
spread to the field’s edge,
a sneak preview of things to come.
We walk through the billowing stalks, laughing,
and Betsy says they look like hats
that elves would wear.
I hadn’t walked by the creek with a dog
in a very long time. But today,
one came along and reminded me
what they know: Immediacy.
That’s it. No labels. None of this
“grass” “leaf” “creek” “tree” stuff.
And forget judgments, about caring
whether it’s hot or cold, hard or soft,
dry or wet. It’s all motion, all
a gigantic shifting of ever-delicious
data pouring in through mouth,
eyes, ears, nose, feet, skin, hair.
Every bit of it your favorite.
Every bit of it singing your name.
Blessed are we when we have a companion
who lingers by our sides as we travel our days,
someone whose heart holds our own gently,
who flows with our moods without judgment,
who understands our thoughts and ways,
someone who makes the days of peace
more lovely, and the days of darkness
easier to bear, who lends strength
when we are weak, and who applauds
us when we’re strong, someone whose
smile is warmer than sunshine, and whose
love lets us know that our life is worthwhile.
It’s become an annual tradition, the telling of this tale. Pour yourself a mug of mulled cider, sit back and enjoy . . .
I noticed with a bit of disgust that before Halloween had even come to a close, the clerks at the local department store were busily stocking the shelves with Christmas-themed goods. Some of me wanted to run screaming, bury my head under my covers and not emerge until, oh, December 23rd or so.
It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. But when it begins so early, we’re all just sick of it when it finally arrives, and instead of peace and joy, we find ourselves feeling nothing but relief that it’s finally over.
Nevertheless, as the saying goes, it is what it is. And what, exactly, is this tinseled decoration? Nothing but a shift in the colors on the shelves and the music on the speakers. And I am free to make of it what I choose.
When I remembered that, I thought about what I learned from the blackberry thieves.
One summer, I looked out my second story window and noticed a station wagon parked on the path adjacent to the field I own across the highway. And in my field, I saw a man in a straw hat helping himself to the wild blackberries that were growing there quite abundantly that year.
I felt a bit peeved that he felt free to drive onto my property and help himself to the berries. But they were plentiful, and neither I nor the birds were going to eat them all. I decided just to wish that he might enjoy his find.
But the next day, he was back, and he had a woman and a dog with him. And he and the woman were filling pail after pail with berries and putting them in the back of his old station wagon.
I thought that was a bit over the top and decided I would walk down and confront them. Were they selling my berries or what? But by the time I got my shoes on and headed out the door, they were gone.
Again, I told myself that it was no big deal. If they were my friends, I reasoned, I would be happy to share.
The next day, they came again. And now I had a plan. I would go introduce myself, make friends with them, and tell them I hoped they would enjoy the berries.
I walked down into the field, petted the mutt who came bounding cheerfully over to greet me and looked into the wrinkled face of an 80-some year old man.
When I introduced myself and said it was my field and I was just curious what they were going to do with so many berries, he was flabbergasted.
He lived in an adjoining town and his nephew had given him directions and told him it was my neighbor Bob’s field, and that Bob wouldn’t mind if they picked berries there. They planned to freeze them, and his wife would make jam and pies. I told him I didn’t mind either, I just decided I’d feel happier sharing with friends than with strangers, so I thought I’d come down and make his acquaintance.
I invited him to pick all he wanted and took one of the quarts he offered me with a handshake and a smile.
They never came back. But I often thought they were sent into my life to teach me a lesson about the importance of interpreting events in the kindest possible way.
One day in mid-December, I was hanging Christmas decorations in my living room when there was a knock at the door. It was the berry picker. He’d brought me a freshly baked blackberry pie that his wife had made and bottle of home-brewed blackberry wine.
The pie was one of the best I’ve ever eaten. And the wine was smooth and sweet and tasted like friendship and summer.
Remembering that story, I decided I’ll let the colors and music that so suddenly sprang up in the neighborhood’s stores be triggers for feelings of peace and generosity and joy.
That’s what it’s supposed to be all about anyway, isn’t it?
Wishing you peace as we enter the holiday season—ready or not.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by the Author
Even though the storm clouds
are heavy and dark, light streams down.
Even though we are frightened
and confused, grace surrounds.
Look up; look within. Let illusion
dissolve. Beyond and beneath you,
truth broadcasts its word.
Even though there is darkness,
love rains down.
Expanding across the vast sky, trails
veil its blue, send the sun’s light back
into space, as if that were a cure,
laughing in disdain at those who argue otherwise.
Getting there is one thing.
The destination’s the main reason
for the journey after all.
But it’s not everything, and maybe
not even the most important.
When you reach it, another
will soon take its place. Always
there is more to see and do.
Maybe it’s the journey itself
that matters most, the times
you paused simply to look around,
to feel yourself being, alive,
savoring the company and the view.