The sound is silvery and shimmers in the air the way frost shimmers in moonlight. You don’t perceive it with your ears the way you perceive ordinary sound. You feel it, almost like a tickle, just inside the top of your skull. You have to be very still, letting your breath flow like thin layers of silk. The sound rides them, your breaths, and being made of high and delicate vibrations, rises to the very top of you, where it plays. You don’t see the fairies either. But again, you feel them, their almost visible gossamer bodies dancing all around you as the music shimmers, like frost, in the air.
Once again, a single flower, smaller than an American dime, catches my attention as it floats in a sea of green. I bend to peer at it more closely and it rewards me with the intricacy of its sweet design. Only then do I spot the tiny ant perched beside it, to whom, I imagine, this tiny blossom must seem colossal. What worlds we pass by! What stories and wonders unfold, untold and unseen, by the sides of the roads!
I have come to the conclusion— well, I have come to accept the obvious, which is that we seem to be visiting an increasingly
weird curious horrific magical mysterious, oh yes, that, certainly that, and supernatural, multi-dimensional, in a rather awe-inspiring way.
planet. At least I find it so. Few things are certain, and even with those, change is the only constant. There’s no use, I decided, in trying to figure it out. You’re better off wandering through the meadows, appreciating the daisies and the warmth of a fine summer day.
“Wow! Thunder! Lightning! How ’bout that, campers!” I wrote in my journal as I sat down to begin this letter to you. “And now the rain and the scent of it and the sploosh of tires on the road, and still, thunder rolls off to the west. “
I remember watching storms on the Saginaw Bay as a child. Of course we watched stars on clear nights as well. But the thunder storms were something special. Let me tell you about them.
Sometimes I’d be asleep and my dad would come into my room and wake me to ask if I wanted to watch a thunderstorm. Then he’d carry me out to the enclosed sun porch overlooking the Saginaw Bay and sit me on the big swing between him and my mom, and they’d snuggle up against me, and we’d rock and oooh and ahhh at the show. When the lightning flashed, you could see the boughs of the poplars and cottonwoods whipping in the wind and the white caps on the waves on the Bay. It was wonderful.
I was never afraid of storms, having been introduced to them in such a cozy, secure way. What a gift that was, I think, looking back. I learned that storms had great power and were to be respected. When a tornado ran through a nearby town one year, we went on a drive to see just how deserving of respect wind could be. Dad showed me how lightning could cleave the broad trunk of a tree.
But respect for potential danger is different from fear. Fear blinds you. Respectful awareness lets you assess your situation, take stock of things like possible shelters or exits or the location of helpful tools. And you make that assessment in a flash, your brain being such a magnificent piece of work, then go back to paying attention to whatever drama is unfolding before you, ready to respond with action, or with ooohs and ahhhs.
So, I was thinking about that scene of snuggling with mom and dad and watching the storm when a soundtrack began playing in my head. (Sometimes my mind just does that.) It was the cast from the Rodgers and Hammerstein Broadway hit “Carousel,” singing “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” If you’re of a certain age, you might remember Elvis Presley singing it, too.
“When you walk through a storm,” the lyrics say, “keep your chin up high, and don’t be afraid of the dark.” Do that, and keep hope in your heart, and you’ll never walk alone, they say. I think they’re right. I smiled, even if it felt sort of schmaltzy to have that old song play. Fact is, there’s a lot of encouragement in the song. It reminds you that storms are always followed by light and a world where larks sing.
My mom and dad packed a lot of warmth and comfort in their hugs. I have so much that I’d like to give a piece of it to you, as a present, just because. Fold it up and put it in your pocket, and the next time you face a storm, hold it in your heart or your hand to remind you, “Chin up; you are not alone.”
Be like water, holding onto nothing. in stillness, reflecting the heavens, in motion, responsive to all. Be clear, possessed of your own nature. Nurture the living. Support what is adrift and carry it to shore. Dissolve all barriers. Flow with ease past all apparent obstacles. Bubble with laughter; release all sorrow with your tears, Be warmed by light, and know that even when you are frozen, you hold the light within. Cascade freely into the depths of the unknown, roaring the Grand Yes as you fall, for everything is an adventure, set forth for your learning and delight. Move unceasingly toward your Source and sing the songs of joy on your journey. Be like water.
The time when everything comes into its own, pushes its potentials across the invisible line between being here and not. Petals unfold, wings unfurl, shells break. And however slow the seeming pace, it’s all in constant motion, everything flowing full force into more of exactly what it’s meant to be, playing exactly the part its meant to play, and reveling in the rhythm of the song.
They didn’t hear me as I stepped from the woods, and as soon as I saw them, I stepped back into the trees, pausing only long enough to snap a picture. This wasn’t, after all, something you saw every day, a father and son perched on the creek bank, examining what they caught in the little blue net. I want to hold the image of them in my mind forever, as if that could ensure that thirty years from now this boy, grown, would be crouched on this bank with a son of his own, teaching him all the special secrets.
What if, in mid-winter, you threw open your door, and instead of soggy leaves and drifts of snow you found yourself face to face with a world drenched in green and swept with flowers? If you weren’t so accustomed to this knee-deep technicolor summer that crept in almost without your notice—leaves, stems, buds, blades, blossoms— or if, suppose, you would be leaving in the morning never to return, if this was your very last chance to drink in the sight of these red-veined purple petals, wouldn’t the wonder of them seem a gift, a blessing? Wouldn’t your eyes spill over with thanks? Wouldn’t you feel that everything that brought you to this moment was destined, and worth it after all?
This is a real place, a few feet from my kitchen door. Imagine! Imagine floating in on wings whose colors match the world around you, eager to taste the blue droplets of nectar that draw you, and you take all this for for granted. Imagine.
And just think. Six months ago, as I peered at the mud and snow and ice that filled this very spot, only that and nothing more, it was impossible even to dream of an early July morning and the tenderness of hosta blossoms kissed by the warm rain. Now here I am, alive in that impossible dream.
