~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Suppose they have to agree,
before they can live as butterflies,
to a life that spans mere days.
But as compensation, they are offered
the freedom of flight on beautiful wings
through a world of brilliant flowers
in every color their eyes can see
and each one a feast of nectar so sweet
it would make them giddy with delight,
and every butterfly you see said Yes
to the bargain. Who could blame them?
Would you not have have said Yes, too?
The sun behind the flower of the sun
washes its light into the halo of petals
that shoot in joyous yellow flames
from the spiraling seed-birthing center,
feeding it, that it may feed others in turn,
a metaphor and mandala.
Shine on, bright flower. Shine on.
May I always remember, no matter what comes,
that once upon a time I visited a place
where people rode horses across lush deep valleys
just to ride, crossing the wide, rocky creek at the shallows,
then climbing the trail through the leafy woods toward home,
the sound of the creek playing in rhythm somehow
with the clopping of the horses. A few birds called.
But except for that, there was silence, and warmth
and a breeze, and the world felt alive and perfect,
and watching the riders, I felt joyous peace.
On those days when you just feel so great,
when your whole body feels so fine,
when the sky is so clear and the sun is so warm,
and everything’s singing its song,
you go right ahead and strut your stuff, babe.
Dance through the world like you own it.
“Only in quiet waters do things mirror themselves undistorted.
Only in a quiet mind is adequate perception of the world.”
~Hans Margolius
The deeper your contentment, the calmer your mind.
The calmer your mind, the clearer your perception.
The clearer your perception, the more beauty you see.
The more beauty you see, the more ecstasy you feel.
Seek contentment.
While digging around in my archives the other day, I found this “Blast from the Past” that I wrote in 2010. I was writing about character strengths at the time and this one was about the strength of optimism. I called it . . .
“The Breakfast of Champions”
None of it matters: Where you were born, who your parents are, how tough you had it growing up, how many boulders you had to climb over, what the competition was doing.
What matters is whether you’ve got heart, how much you want to be, how deep you’re willing to dive into the life force within you, what stories you believe and tell.
Especially the stories. You either have excuses or you have reasons. It’s up to you. You either let it get you or you don’t. You see people who came from the sorriest of life’s lot wearing medals, champions risen from the dregs. What kinds of stories do you suppose they listened to and chanted to themselves in the dead of night? Tell yourself those kinds of stories.
The ones who win life’s prizes don’t let a missing leg or drunken dad or empty wallet tell them that the whole deck of cards is stacked against them. They see what they have, not what they lack.
If they stumble, they don’t decide they’re worthless. They tie their shoes or watch out for cracks and keep on with the race. They remember the times they did well, beat the pack, sunk the putt, hit the target, aced the test. They believe in themselves. They tell themselves “I can,” and “I will.”
They fly the banners of hope and high expectations. They eat optimism for breakfast and dine on their victories at night, and even if the victories are small, they find enough of them to make a satisfying meal.
Life is for the brave. It sings like a riot of trumpets for the ones with the daring and guts to keep going even when things are tough. And it sends happiness to dwell in their hearts and applauds them with standing ovations.
Wishing you a week of courage and joy.
Warmly,
Susan
Along the roadsides now, the summer wildflowers dance.
I walk ankle deep in them, naming them as I go – red clover,
daisy, Queen Anne’s lace, butterfly weed, and tiny yellow ones
whose name I do not know. The air is fragrant with their scents
and the scents of the grasses and of the corn in the fields they line.
Earlier today I learned that to make a single pound of honey, bees
must visit two million flowers. “Here they are! Here they are!”
I call to all four corners as I twirl in joy beneath the early August sun,
laughing because, of course, the bees already know.
In this one instant of reality
a delicate swallowtail lights
on the blazing red of an azalea,
just inches from my face,
for a sip of nectar from its central
circle of tiny flowers, the sun’s
hot light drenching it all so that
the colors burn themselves
into my mind even before
the swallowtail rises to vanish
in a dance in the far trees.
Be a world-tipper, one who stands tall with arms flung wide,
trumpeting your joy.
Be the one who makes the difference,
who turns the tide from dark to light,
who brings in the dawning of happiness.
Color the world with your twinkle and shine.
Give a hoot, give a wink, give a word, give a smile.
Stuff your pockets with kindness and pass it out to strangers.
Scatter love as freely as popcorn; there’s always plenty more.
Be the bright bloom beside the dusty road,
and sing out your deep-throated joy.
Go ahead: Tip the world in life’s favor.
“Take all you want,” my neighbor said.
as we drove in his old golf cart to the far corner
of the farm where they grew beneath the power lines.
They hung heavy and gleaming from thorny stems
that rose into the sky or hung in tangled brambles
that wound in twists to the ground. I had to move slowly
and carefully as I reached for one after another,
planning the trajectory of my hand’s travel,
thorns finding my bare arms anyway, and
me not caring at all, a few scratches seeming
a small price to pay for such rare treasures.
Red-winged blackbirds and robins called from the trees
at the property’s edge, the breeze from them licking
my face as the high sun blinded me and burned
my skin. But the berries were jewels, nearly
falling into my hand as I touched them, making
a soft plumping sound as I gently dropped them
into my bowl, and I kept on until I got them all,
every last perfectly ripe one. A few, of course,
went straight to my watering mouth as well.
Some of them are frozen now, and will wait
until Christmas to be made into pie. And some
became jam and glisten from the centers
of thumbprint butter cookies, a gift of thanks
and gladness for my neighbor, the very least
that I could give in exchange for the gift
of this memorable hour.