~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
On this first day of May, a gentle rain fell
and the lilies-of-the-valley rang their white bells
to join in the rain’s gentle song. Beneath
the lilies’ jade leaves, spring fairies danced
in a cloud of the flowers’ perfume,
the signature scent of the May Queen,
angel of mid-spring blossoms and of all
the newly born. And the day was filled
with their welcome and with the joy
of their delicate song.
One thing about April, she lived up to her legend.
She brought in the rains for the flowers of May,
and scattered bouquets of her own, rainbows
of blossoms and myriads of leaves that painted
lacy patterns against her cloud-swept skies.
She teased us with warm breezes and swept
away the last vestiges of winter’s snow.
She whispered life into the earth’s frozen veins
and sang sweet songs of waking to us all.
And now, beneath soft clouds of pearl,
she slips away, carrying with her our thanks,
our heartfelt joys, our dewy-eyed farewells.
Saying goodbye to April is like watching the petals fall from the garden’s last tulip. It’s such a sad-sweet feeling. In case I haven’t told you, I am in love with springtime. It holds meaning for me on more levels than I could ever hope to tell.
This particular last day of April holds special meaning. For one thing, it begins the week when I will mark my 77th birthday, which feels, I must say, like a significant landmark. Someday I’ll share with you some of the rewards you reap for getting this far. One of them is an awareness of the preciousness of life.
When spring began this year, I made a commitment to myself to savor every day of it. One day, as I was stepping out into a soft, dewy morning, I remembered the line, “See every day as if it is your first, or your last.” It struck me, and I thought to myself that this could be the last April I will ever see. (You never know.) And how I have reveled in her days!
Each one brought new life, new warmth, new color, the songs of returning birds, the start of the parade of flowers. It was as though the Great Yes itself was sending a visible supply of fresh hope into the world. Every single day. And how swiftly they have passed! Even the cold and rainy ones, despite my wish that each one held three times its allotted hours.
Perhaps it sounds silly that someone could grieve the passing of a month’s worth of days. But that’s how it feels, and I’ve known my share of grief. I heard a story once where a woman caught her husband deeply sobbing one day. When she asked what was wrong, the man told her that he just learned he’d lost one of his best friends. The woman told him she was sorry he was feeling such terrible sorrow. And he wiped his eyes and told her his tears weren’t tears of sorrow, but of happiness. “Happiness!” she said, surprised. He smiled at her and told her that only now did he realize how much he and his friend had loved each other, and what a joy their friendship had been.
My grieving over April’s going is like that. I’m so full of the joy that April gave me that I’m moved to tears.
I think that when we lose loved ones – or even cherished possessions or circumstances – after the initial shock and adjustments have passed, the grief that remains is deeply colored by memories and images of the things we appreciated and so enjoyed, as if we were storing them away for safe-keeping.
One of the most comforting things anyone said to me when, decades ago, I lost a son was, “You never get over the pain, but it finds a special place in your heart to dwell.” The pain, after all, is focused on ourselves, on our loss of the physical experience of someone or something in our lives. We hold onto it because it’s all we have left. But inside it, like a thousand-petaled blossom, are all the memories of that precious experience and of all the adventures and secrets and dreams it brought into our lives.
So I say farewell to April with a heart full of gratitude for her loveliness, and a tear in my eye at her passing.
And tomorrow morning, it will be May.
Wishing you days touched with tender beauty.
Warmly,
Susan
Back in the old days, people knew
how to recognize medicine on sight.
When a child brought tiny blue flowers
to her mother, the mother would say,
“Oh! Speedwells! Aren’t they sweet?
And did you know they make delicious tea
and that they will cure what ails you?”
And the child would lead the mother
to the patch where the speedwell grew,
and they would dig little clumps of it
with delight, the mother telling
all the ailments it was known to cure:
cough, rough breathing, hurting skin,
rheumatism, tummy aches and more.
And at home, they would brew some tea,
smiling as they slowly sipped it,
and some would go in a labeled bottle,
an elixir to soothe you and restore
you to health. And they would place
some of the little plants the child brought
in the garden, where the sight of them alone
was enough to brighten your day.
A translucent ivory wonder caught my eye,
an origami of leaves depicting exotic cranes
of some sort, or swans perhaps, just landing.
They could be angels for all I know.
But here they are, yet another
amazement on this fine mid-spring day.
When I first spotted the tulip’s pale petals
I thought this poor blossom was a victim
of the night’s freezing temperatures, the way
she was bent to the ground, dusted with soil.
But as I tended to the garden where she grew
I saw that she was quite alive, and wanting
to stand, but for the little heap of dirt caught
in her curved petal and holding her down.
Making a wish, I softly blew across her petal
and the dirt flew away and she stood, bowed,
but grateful to be free. I noticed that the freeze
stunted one of her petals after all. “No matter,”
I told her. “None of us is without our flaws.
Why, just getting here in the first place
is no walk in the park. We should all be glad
we’re here at all. I, myself, am glad you came,
and so happy that you’re my neighbor.”
When I saw her again a couple hours later
she was standing tall and smiling.
Me, too.
It’s not that nature’s beauty consumes me.
It’s the refuge it provides from the rest of it,
from conflicts and disasters large and small
that blanket the globe; from the endless prattle
of the lonely, because that is the only way
they know to mark the world with their presence,
to connect, to find meaning; from the struggles
for survival, for status, for power, for control,
and for all the touted doodads that promise
to convey them, or to provide relief from the fight.
Walk in the woods. Listen to the trees.
Observe the details in the smallest flower.
See the seasons unfold. Watch the clouds
and stars float above you. Take solace
in an order beyond our knowing, a power
and intelligence we cannot comprehend.
Feel how you are a child of it, how you move
within its omnipresent embrace, loved
even when you are asleep in it, unconscious
of its plan and grace and mercy. Wonder
at its intricacy, its obedience to inviolable laws.
Think how this is but the skin the Yes wears,
this mysterious, ever-dancing curtain of matter.
Think how majestic is the Yes which brought it
into being and bestowed on us our capacities
to see, to taste, to move and desire, to seek,
to find, to love, and to know.
I was going to do my errands first,
then stop at the lake on my way home.
But an impulse prompted me: Stop now.
It was a cool morning, full of sunlight,
blue skies, puffy clouds. Geese sifted
through the grasses at the lakes’ edge
for their breakfast. A lone fisherman
was perched on the far shore. The air
was fresh and tasted like springtime.
As I hiked the worn path lining the lake
I spotted something up ahead. A goose,
crossing the path with five fuzzy babies,
heading toward the water for a swim.
I inched toward them. She was unafraid,
but watchful, and I kept my distance
out of respect as she gathered her brood
on the shore. Moments later, her mate
appeared and the two of them led the chicks
into the water and family floated away.
I watched them for a long while, smiling
and thankful that some impulse told me
something here needed me to see it.
It’s not the circumstances that matter.
So what if, at any moment, this messy world
comes to an end? It has nothing to do
with me, with now. The trees are
dancing in green hoorahs and the earth
is covered in flowers. The mammoths,
they say, died while eating daisies.
If the world ends in ten minutes,
I shall leave it dancing with joy.
Some moments
make all the rest of them
worth it.