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.
When I was surfing through miscellaneous videos this week I happened across one that said, given all the stress in our worlds these days, it’s important to give ourselves a little extra care. She recommended that we each do 3 things daily to care for ourselves, even if they’re only very small things.
That seemed like good advice, of course, but it brought to mind articles I’d see in magazines with titles like “10 Things to Do for Instant Happiness.” They’d list ten little things in an inane kind of way and you’d get a little smile from it and go on with your day. None of them ever said, “No, Seriously! Do these 10 things.” But maybe they should have.
Anyway, I thought it might be fun to see if I could come up with a list of mood-brighteners. I jotted down these:
* Spend a few quality minutes with your pet. Even if your pet is a plant or a rock.
* Go for a walk. Find a tree. Look at its bark, its shape, its leaves, its movement. Put your hand on its trunk and see what you feel.
* Watch a bird fly. Imagine what it feels like to fly like that, to see what a bird would see.
* Put on some great music and let it move you.
* Stand in front of a mirror and tell yourself out loud three things you really like about yourself.
* Get a brief glimpse into the world of elephants from National Geographic on YouTube.
I was right. It was fun to see what ideas flew into my mind. (And finding the elephant video was pretty cool, too.)
But then I remembered what I wanted to focus on was the idea of doing three things each day to show yourself that you care about you. Seriously. In fact, I think consciously choosing to do just three things for yourself each day could be a game-changer.
I already do lots of things in a day because I know I’ll enjoy them. Lots and lots. I dive right into most days on the lookout for treats and surprises. It’s healthy to expect joy in life. But what if I decided to do something inspirational, or pleasurable, or beneficial with conscious attention to the fact that I was doing it for myself simply as a way of caring for me, of appreciating myself? What if I asked myself what I could do for me and then followed through on whatever idea came to mind? What if I took just a moment each day, one in the morning, one at noon, one at night, to do something that brought me comfort, or satisfaction, or contentment, or peace?
What if I made that a habit? What if I committed to doing it every day, no matter what?
I kind of like those “what if’s.” They intrigue me. I think I’m going to give it a whirl. How about you? Seriously.
I don’t think I ever told you, but maybe from the way I smile at you, you know. Let me tell you anyway. I think of you as a sort of honor guard for spring, bearing so boldly your flags of variegated green, as if green were everything, your way of being, the wave that brought you to dance in the sun, to put forth tall flowers and offer your seed that green might forever go on. Green, your path and purpose. And now is your season, and I salute you and your song.
Near the middle of April, the south slope begins to don its green, all gossamer, as if the hue were floating above the soil. In the morning light, it’s intense and glittering, as if cut emeralds were scattered across the land. But around noon, when the sun is white and high and the shadows of the trees run straight downhill, ten thousand spring beauties steal the scene, their tiny star petals sparkling in the light, and I, turning to see them, give thanks that they and I are here, at this brief moment in time, in mid-April, when birds sing in the woods, and the world wears a certain light.
A school bus passes by and suddenly I am ten years old, just finishing fifth grade, riding home with my classmates, all of whom are bursting with anticipation for the moment the bus comes to a stop, and the door opens, and we are free. Free! And it’s springtime, and we have hours to play before supper. We open the windows to let in the perfumed air, bouncing on brown leather seats as the bus rolls through the potholes. We look to see if Jamie’s golden retriever is waiting for him at the edge of the road as we come to a stop and the red metal flag pops out from the side by the driver to tell the cars around us to stop so Jamie can safely cross the road. The dog’s whole body is wiggling as he waits. The bus makes bus noises as we move on. We count the stops before home. Only two more. Then me.
Opening from nowhere, from the long, gray cold, from spring’s relentless burgeoning forth. the magnolia floats beneath an April blue sky, as if it were nothing,
as if its pastel pinks, its smooth flesh, its graceful rise came as easily as breathing, as effortlessly as morning breeze, as if its sheer, magnificent being were no miracle at all.
The hillside is a riotous mess now. Everywhere, green sprouts rise despite the winter’s debris, winning the contest between the green and brown. Several days ago, over a week now, I got a notion to spot a baby fern on its first day and to watch it unfold into full fernhood. I have searched daily and searched diligently, carefully eying the ten thousand details lest I miss it, the first one’s birth. Until today, I had to say, “Not yet.” But today, on a cold and misty April morning, just as a robin sang from the woods – the first I had heard this year – I spotted it, already tall and rising from its curled sleep. And now I get to watch it grow.
