~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
I heard the buzz of his wings
before I saw him, and I laughed
at the fact that he’d returned.
“Couldn’t resist, hey?” I say
as he settles on the little clump
of barely opened blossoms
“Nope,” I imagine him saying.
“And you were right about
the purple ones.”
The variegated hosta is in full swirl now,
the sight of it transporting me
back to my early childhood days
when I’d stretch out my arms,
toss back my head, and spin until I fell down,
the green of the trees spinning still,
until the scene finally came to rest.
And I would lay there in the fragrant, cool grass
watching the leaves of the cottonwoods
and poplars blow in the breeze from the bay,
and above them, white gulls soaring, their calls
cascading down through the luscious canopy
of May’s lacy unfolding green.
I climbed the southwestern slope this morning.
It’s slow going, strewn with hidden rocks
and roots and vines. Mostly I’m looking
for the next place to put my foot, not only
for my sake, but because the wild violets
and baby ferns are everywhere. I pause
with every step, marveling at the shapes
and shades of green rising from the earth,
at miniscule flowers, and tall ones dancing
on slim stems, and the tiny buds and
newborn leaves on the branches of vines
and trees. I am so immersed in it
that I forget I am there, that such a thing
as me exists at all.
Later in the day I found myself looking
at the slope from its base, at the fresh green
of it and at the way the afternoon light
dappled the hill. I saw the reality
of the trees and recalled how I could feel
their aliveness on my climb the way
you feel your cat curled on his chair
across the room even when you are
giving him no attention at all.
I got to see this, I said to myself.
I got to be here.
Well, hello, Mr. Bumblebee. I know you.
We met here at the pulmonaria
just yesterday. I wondered if you
were the very one I ferried from my kitchen
in a jar a couple days before. Remember?
Let’s believe, just for fun, it was you.
I would have returned here, too.
That’s the color of my favorite flavor.
But come back later for the purple ones.
I’ll watch for you. Come back. Feast well.
I’m so very happy to see you.
Dusk was beginning to move in
when I saw them bound across the road
and up the hill. Only their motion
let me know they were there, so well
did their colors blend with the trees
and the leaves not yet covered with green.
I had seen them last Monday, climbing
the same path up to old roadway that runs
east to west across the face of the hill.
They stopped to graze for a while.
Do deer, I wondered, eat violets?
One by one, they slowly passed,
alert and watching, ready to disappear
in seconds. And then they were gone.
One of my friends posted a news clip on Facebook the other day that told the story of a shopkeeper who put up a billboard over her store facing the highway. In big, white block letters against a dark blue background, it simply said “You Are Enough.”
Now let me ask you something. When you read what it said on the sign, didn’t you feel a little relieved somehow? “You Are Enough.” It’s such a powerful reminder. It’s comforting and reassuring. And all of us can use some of that these days, given the perils and uncertainties of life. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by all the challenges facing us, by the daily demands, and by all the expectations, both our own and those we think that others hold up for us. It’s easy to worry that we won’t measure up.
Then here we are, cruising down life’s highway, and somebody’s put up a sign to remind us that we are enough.
I like how easy the message is to take, too. It’s not trying to flatter you into thinking that you’re some superstar or something. It’s not saying you’re the best. It’s just reminding you that you are all you need to be right now. You’re okay. The next moment that comes along might need you to be something different, and you’ll be enough for that moment too. Because that’s how versatile you are, you wonderful ordinary human being.
Once I heard somebody on the radio say, “Good enough’s the new gold standard.” The perfectionist side of me found the statement annoying. To me it smacked of “settling for,” of not doing your best, of compromising your standards. I generally lean more toward the “good enough is never good enough” side of the scale.
In real life, though, you rarely get to perfection. Few things or situations exist that couldn’t be tweaked for the better. And we have only so many resources available at any given time. So I finally came to realize that it’s wise to do the best you can from where you are with what you’ve got and then to brush your hands together in satisfaction and say, “good enough.” Sometimes I even laugh at my “good enough” stuff. It’s far from perfection, but it meets the requirements of the moment perfectly well. Just like me, “good enough” can be clumsy, or unfinished, or in need of a coat of paint. But it’s serves the needs and desires of the moment just fine, regardless.
The sign the shopkeeper put up over her store wasn’t fancy. But it got the job done. It said all it had to say. It was enough.
Accepting that you are enough, that what you’ve accomplished is enough, doesn’t mean you give up on wanting to be more, to do more, to do better. What it does do is let you is feel at home with yourself, confident that who you are, just as you are right this very moment, is okay. You are enough. In fact, if you look at the whole of you, you’d probably have to admit that you’re rather amazing all in all. But it’s okay not to admit it, or even to doubt that its true. Because you don’t have to know that you’re amazing. Right now, it’s perfectly enough to know that you are enough.
Claim that.
Wishing you a week strewn with good signs.
Warmly,
Susan
This is spring. This is the lush wet green
of her, pouring from every branch, rising
from every inch of soil, gushing
into the fast-flowing waters, licking
every dancing molecule with her song.
This is exuberance set free, leaping
with life, drenching every form
in hues of jade and lime, every leaf,
every blade, the currents of water
and air. All of it Yes, uncontained,
all of it utterly spring.
Bells the color of sky rise from earth’s fresh green.
waltzing in the wind, happiness wafting from their petals.
On this most magnificent day, may there be gladness.
May there be joy. May all hearts be filled
with sky-wide Yes and singing.
Over the decades of birthdays past
life has grown complex. When you are young,
you think that you will reach the place
where dreams come true and live,
content and at ease, to the end from there.
Then reality happens, challenging all
you had supposed, its seasons carrying you
to places far beyond your dreams, testing
your courage, and endurance, and faith.
Life, you find, is fierce. Its lessons come
at great cost. But oh, the quiet places,
the treasures you gather along the way—
the rays of truth and wisdom, the touch
of human hands, the songs of the teachers
who sing in nature’s voice, the smiles
of children and strangers, the company
of family and friends, and always,
the infinite Yes of sky, reminding you,
despite any evidence to the contrary,
that you never truly left home
and are always wrapped in loved.
And so, arriving at this birthday present,
I celebrate sunlight spilling through lacy trees
onto fresh grass and wild violets
and give thanks for another day of waking
in this most amazing world.
For days, it’s been raining and the hillside’s a mess.
But I went out anyway, every day, watching for the ferns.
Then, finally, today, they were everywhere, as if
some bell had rung at midnight, telling them to rise.
I confess, it took me a little while to spot them,
given the soggy tangle of decaying leaves
and the upsurge of blades and curls of new green.
But here they were, newly born, their stems
wound ‘round in protection of their baby fronds.
I counted fifteen in this one family, the bold ones tall,
and some just breaking through the soil. In summer
they will cover the hillside like waves on the sea,
billowing in the breeze. And I will watch the show
and tell them I remember the day that they were born.