Imagine that you’re standing on this bridge right beside me, looking at the astonishing details of this tranquil summer scene. That’s the Little Beaver, and I’ve seen beavers here, from this very bridge, no longer than a year or two ago, right over there. How many cars cross here in a day would you suppose? A couple hundred? Maybe more? Could be. How many who cross even turn their heads to glance at this? They already know it. It’s the creek and trees. Imagine we stand here together, taking it in, smiling in the moist, warm air, listening to the creek’s songs, our bodies lightly swaying with the dances of the trees.
A touch of lace graces the garden now, its airiness bright, despite the dimmed light of yet another rainy day, as if it were trailing across a bride’s gown as she glides, pure of heart and filled with hope and dreams, down the aisle of a candlelit cathedral. The sight makes you pause in reverence somehow for this tender display of faith and joy, despite the darkness of the world. Grace is like that, proving, as the poet said, that the heart has reasons that reason cannot know.
The insistent call of a jay gets my attention: “Hey-hey!” he yells, over and over. I laugh, squawk back at him from the studio window, then head downstairs to grab a cup of seeds. This is the second time we’ve played this game. The first time, as soon as I noticed the call, I realized he was saying, “Hey! Food Lady! Hey! You! We need more seeds out here. The chipmunks ate them all. Hey! Hey! Food!” “Guests who think they own the place,” I mutter. But he’s smart, this cocky young fella. He amuses me, the way he’s already trained me to respond to his call. And I have a photo of him enjoying the feast, a snacking chipmunk hiding behind the astilbe in the corner.
Imagine that I’m up in the attic of this old, wood frame house of mine. Dust sparkles in the light filtering through the shutters and I’m going through the contents of an old foot locker that I haven’t opened in years. I pull out a manila file folder and open it to find pieces I wrote over a decade ago.
I don’t know what led me to this discovery. But later, when I asked myself what it was all about, an inner knowing came to me. It was so I could share two of the pieces with you. Consider them little gifts of thanks to you, just because.
The first one is called “Grace in Rocky Places.” It goes like this:
Few places are totally barren or wholly devoid of hope. Life pushes itself through the smallest cracks, takes root in the most unlikely places.
Eventually, the longest winter gives way to spring. The darkness gives way to light.
Be at peace.
You, who are not made of rock, are filled with more possibilities than you know and have eternity in which to fulfill them.
Keep faith alive in your heart; hold fast to your aspirations. Regardless of appearances or circumstances, life will make a way.
* * *
And the second one is “A Blessing for Your Journey.”
May your pathway open into sunlight and stepping stones show you the way.
May the waters be placid around you, the breezes mild and the weather fair.
May each step you take enlarge you, expanding your vision, your courage and faith.
May you dare the unknown with confidence and find loveliness wherever you go.
May your heart speak thanks for every grace offered, and your hands reach out in kindness to all you meet along the way.
May you hear the Great Yes whispering all around you and breathe in rhythm with its song, knowing that it sings for you, and of you, for you are one of its own.
* * *
It’s good to rummage around in your attic every now and then. I’ll be wishing you a week of interesting discoveries.
Three young ferns rise from the middle of a patch of grass I planted this spring. Not wanting them to spread, I go to pull them. But there, a toad is nestled in the grass taking the curly fronds as shelter from predators and rain, looking up at me through his gold-lidded eye, a toad smile spread across his face. I greet him. He lets me take his picture, pet his back. I left the ferns. I’ll pull them on another day.
There’s no real access to this lake, just a small patch of dust in the brush off the shoulder of a two-lane road. One year, on New Year’s Eve, serendipity led me here to see how the sun set precisely into the center of that grove of trees on the opposite side of the lake. Every year since, I’ve come to watch it bid the year farewell. Behind the trees, double train tracks run from East Palestine, Ohio. I walked them one frozen afternoon last February when the derailment halted traffic for a day. It was, I figured, my only chance. Now, as the fresh summer sun dances among the lily pads and licks my arms’ bare skin, I breathe the warm, moist air and remember how the year began here and recall the sharp smells and the cold.
Almost every day now I go check on the berries. They ripen quickly, and it’s always a race with the berry-loving birds. Today, I wasn’t the only one taking their measure. A little spider, its body round as the ripening berries and blending nicely with their coloring, sat on one of their leaves. “You, too!” I say to him as a kind of greeting. We berry-watchers form an instant bond. “Yep,” he says. “Getting closer.” “Any day now,” I agree. We’ll keep a keen eye. “Maybe I’ll see you tomorrow,” I say. “Yep,” he answers. “Good luck,” I say as I turn away. “Yep,” he says. “You, too.”
Then, all at once, here it is. Summer, come to put things through their paces – us among them – to lure us forward and if need be, to push us with a shout of her one constant word: “Become.” Look, she says, you’re a seed. Get it? Everything you need to do what comes next is already a part of you. And all you have to do is get out of the way and let it take you exactly where you need to be in order to be exactly who you are. “Become,” she laughs. That’s her work, and that’s her song.
I sit on the porch on this mild afternoon with the birdsong floating on the breeze through the slightly moist air, the sky adrift with soft clouds. A yellow swallowtail pirouettes through the branches of the spruce. I have but one thought: This is Spring’s last day. And look how softly she says farewell as she drifts away, leaving a world of green where none was when she came. The woodlands bow their rustling leaves to her as she passes by. Beyond the meadow, strewn now with daisies, the creek sings. I think this hymn is an anthem of thanks, and of joy, and my heart joins in the song.
Everything is possible. The rain-dreams of trees, for example, can summon rain on a late spring day. The wishes of butterflies open the petals of flowers. Send a loving thought anywhere; it will find its way. Dream of peace, and you will feel it unfold, spacious and free, in your very own heart. Today I heard the sky song of the year’s last iris. Ask anything of the dawn. Everything is possible.
