~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
I got to see another March, the birth
of another springtime, the beginning
of this year’s parade of the flowers
with their songs of promises fulfilled,
prayers answered, praises sung,
despite all that opposed them.
And here stand the wild daffodils,
ruffled sunshine, gently dancing
their thanks and farewells. My heart
chants with them: Thank you, March.
Thank you, March. Thank you, March.
Farewell.
Overnight, the temperature dropped
below freezing, and in the morning,
there you were, fallen flat on the ground.
Sometimes the world seems so unfair.
I spread sunflower seeds on the rocks
and the chickadees came, chirping
their songs, as always, no matter what,
and unfailingly making me smile,
even today, when I thought you were lost.
It was well after noon before I braved
the day’s cold a second time, the sun
having issued its irresistible invitation.
And there you were, tall and glad,
basking in the light, as if it were nothing
to rise from your sprawl on the ground,
your life force all but turned to crystal
from the cold. Stunned, I stared, my eyes
moist with gratitude for spring’s undeniable,
ever-returning proofs.
Okay, little lamb. You did it.
Laying there in the new grass,
your baby hooves tucked up,
your ears poked out, your face
wearing that little lamb smile,
you stole my heart. My eyes
send you pets as warm as
this new spring sunshine,
and I sing you welcome,
little one. Oh, baby!
You stole this old girl’s heart.
Sometimes, especially when it rains,
I feel so sorry for us all. Not just for me,
but for the neighbors down the road,
and this one’s brother and that one’s wife.
All of us. Everywhere.
I walk outside when the rain stops,
just to breathe the soft air, to clean my heart
and clear my mind.
And there you are, little flower, drops of rain
perched on your petals and leaves,
dancing, regardless.
It’s not easy being March, straddled
between winter and spring, subject
to moods that fluctuate from dark
to bright, from warm to freezing in less
than a day and not one mood enduring.
Nevertheless, you get to usher in spring
and to return the singing of birds to the land.
So when it rains today, I’ll choose to see
the drops as tears of joy. It is, after all,
the season of birth, when something
that never was before arrives,
and changes everything.
When spring rides in, they tell me,
wherever her pony steps, coltsfoot grows.
I believe them. The pony’s step is light.
It flies more than it prances, touching ground
just here and there, when spring pauses
to take in the view or to plant special flowers.
Years ago, I found one of her favored spots
and I return each year seeking evidence
of her visit. This year, I confess, I climbed
with apprehension. Last fall, workers dozed
a path at the very edge of the woods
that circle the reservoir, exactly where
the coltsfoot has always grown. Would spring
still pause here? Could coltsfoot rise
through this packed clay? The leaves
were wet. I had to climb carefully.
Then, half way up the hill, I stopped
to gaze up its slope, and there they were,
patches of them, little sun-coins, beaming
yellow rays right into my heart. Coltsfoot,
I beamed back at them, whispering their name.
She was here! She was here!
Sometimes, when I’m just bobbling down the stream, living my ordinary life, I’ll wonder to myself, “What shall I write in this week’s Sunday Letter?” This week, I kept hearing the faint whisper of the word “encouragement.”
Well, heck yes! Of course I want to encourage. Who couldn’t use a bucket or two of that nowadays? I mean, look around. It’s a wreck out there. And sometimes the wreck even spills into our very own lives.
But where to start? Maybe, I thought, I could get some ideas from my quotes file. When I opened it to “Encouragement,” the very first one I read, a line from a Karen Moning novel, made me laugh: “It’s just that in the Deep South, women learn at a young age that when the world is falling apart around you, it’s time to take down the drapes and make a new dress.”
What wonderful advice! Think about what it’s really saying. If you’re going to face a world that’s falling apart, you need to shore up your self-confidence, by remembering who you are, and wrapping yourself in that knowledge.
That brought me to a second quote from my file: “She remembered who she was, and that changed everything.”
And just who are you? One of those most complex of creatures – a human, being here, wherever here is, doing the best you can with what you got. That’s one of the things that identifies us as human, I think. We keep trying to do the best we can with whatever resources we can discover.
Sometimes those resources can seem mighty slim. Sometimes they seem no match for the wreck outside the door. We all get discouraged and bruised along the way. We make mistakes, take wrong turns. We underrate ourselves and our resilience and ingenuity. But that’s exactly when we need to pull down the drapes and whip up a smarter costume. Try on a smile. Shine your shoes. Straighten your shoulders. So far, after all, you have managed to get from one moment to the next, all the way to this one, right? You have momentum on your side, not to mention buckets of tools and talents, and, of course, the life force itself.
Long story, but I found myself telling a friend the childhood tale about the little red engine that had to climb a big, steep hill, pulling a big, heavy train behind him. He was undaunted, this brave little engine, and he kept saying to himself with every turn of his wheels, “I think I can, I think I can,” until he made it all the way to the top.
I think you can, too.
I’ll leave you with one final quote from my file by singer-songwriter Ed Sheeran. It’s a good one to remember. “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, then it’s not the end.”
Just keep going. And enjoy the journey.
Warmly,
Susan
You’re shining so boldly,
and I was so glad to see you,
that at first I didn’t notice,
little daffodil, that you felt shy.
I understand. You’re the first one.
There’s no one here to tell you
that you are unfolding perfectly,
and that you will love it here,
where rain and sun dance
and stars sparkle at night
and a gazillion green things
grow all around you. You’ll see.
Soon, your friends will open, too,
and you will tell them that
they are doing it perfectly,
and all of you will boldly shine.
I’m washing dishes when I spot them—
another spring surprise, suddenly arrived.
They seem to make their campground
in the same space every year, half way
down the south hill. I never see them
marching into place. But you can tell
that’s what they were doing. They come
before the grasses and the rest of the green
and settle at the base of the ancient maple.
There they stop, raise their lemon-lime flags,
and laugh until the sound grabs you: Hello!
I dry my hands, pull on my boots,
and climb the hill to greet them—today’s
gift—to let them know I heard them
shouting out their song and to share
with them this draft of welcome joy.
Rain fell all day. But some time after noon
it paused, as if to get a breath, to replenish
its clouds. I threw on a jacket and boots
and set about searching along the path
that leads beneath the quince at the base
of the southern hill. I’m on the lookout
for baby ferns. Not yet, I see. Not yet.
But look at that chorus of stems standing
at attention on that heap of moss, raindrops
dripping from their green hats. And there,
a patch of those round little mushrooms,
and the bud beginning to swell on the quince.
Then, as I turned to go back to the house,
I saw them – Spring Beauties! I blinked
in disbelief. They unfailingly surprise me,
appearing before I expect them, tiny fairies,
so delicate, so filled with light and grace.
“I love you, springtime,” I whisper to the woods
and the sky, fully trusting them to deliver
my message just where it should go.
“Even in rain, springtime. Even in the rain.”