~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
Sometimes I’m sure I see them dancing.
Not just their branches, the whole tree.
They do that, you know, when they think
you’re not looking. Usually at night,
or deep in the forest where humans
seldom go. But here we are, in the midst
of March, the mistress of moods,
and she’s scattering snowflakes
in shining bright sun, and how,
imagine, if you were at tree, could you
keep yourself from dancing?
Deep in the center of us, something knows.
No matter how uncertain the path, how many
the unexpected obstacles or how formidable,
something leaves clues, whispers from beyond
the bend, drops a sign, shines a light. The key
is to remember that it’s there and worthy
of our trust. Watch. Listen. Go with ease.
Keep on.
On your way out the door, smile.
Let your grin linger on the threshold
for a while and roll across the floor
just to let them know, as you leave,
how good it was to be there, to give
them a picture of you to hold
when they think of you
in your absence, when they think
of your coming for another stay.
Overnight, the maple’s red buds burst,
freeing their tiny leaves to reach for the sky,
etching a scarlet lace against the deep blue
where days ago, there were but bare twigs.
And from one of the high branches, a call
sounded forth, clear and high, a single note
followed by a pause and then repeated.
From across the way, an answer came,
filling the pauses, and waiting for a reply.
Back and forth the two birds called
to one another, as if their sole mission
was to mark the opening of the buds.
And their song went on and on.
Yesterday I photographed her when she came for breakfast,
her plumage fluffed up against the day’s sharp cold,
and thought how a certain tenderness rose inside me
at the sight of her subtle colors. She, whose mate
is so flamboyantly red, is the modest one of the pair.
Today, a sudden wind hurled her against my window pane
and she fell, dead, beneath it. In the blowing snow
I gathered her soft body and found a protected place
for her beneath the ancient spruce I call The Guardian.
What a terrible emptiness it leaves inside us
when a dear one goes.
A two-lane highway cuts across this slope,
a truck route, lightly traveled. On its far side
the slope continues, even more steeply,
to the flat, wooded valley and broad field
down below. I was watching the snow fall
when a movement caught my eye. A buck,
tall and regal, was bounding down the hill.
Just then, a car sped up the road, doing maybe
fifty miles an hour. In less than a second,
their paths would intersect. I held my breath
to brace myself against the imminent collision.
And then, as if it were born to do so,
without as much as a heartbeat’s hesitation,
the deer leaped into the air in a high, perfect arc
above the speeding car, and bounded down
into the field, disappearing in the woods there.
And the snow continued to fall on the hill
as if nothing had happened at all.
It was an odd winter, with hardly any snow
and none that stuck around over a day.
I count that as a blessing, considering
the other challenges the season held.
The relative mildness was a comfort
and a gift. But still, when snow fell
for a couple hours this morning,
the child in me was glad, and we climbed,
she and I, up the hill atop crystalline flakes,
listening to the silence, feeling the dance
of the soft light that caressed the bark
of the trees. Often, I’ve found, what is
surpasses all you could have imagined
or hoped for. Haven’t you noticed?
I wish you could see the smile on my face as I write these words to you. I’m sliding invisible gifts your way between each and every letter. You could be starting to feel them right about now.
I want to say a few more things about my experience with what I call “the chem bomb situation.” Just a few. Then we’ll move on. Okay?
For starters, let me say I’ve had some sizable shocks in my life, but this one topped them all. I’ve seen the story morph in the media over time. Now, in most places I’ve seen, it’s something like “the train derailment that spilled some toxins in Ohio.” And the train derailment was bad, erupting in a fire so fierce that over 50 regional fire companies responded. But what was worse, and that goes unmentioned now, is that a series of events led to dumping tank cars of toxic materials into a pit and setting it on fire. An enormous cloud of a million pounds of toxins, trapped by a thick layer of clouds, spread over miles, followed by rain.
I’m about five miles down wind from “ground zero.” I watched the black toxic cloud coming at me from my kitchen window. It hung over my house and land a long while, turning it darker outside in late afternoon than any midnight I have ever seen. Over the next several days, my body kept surprising me with new symptoms, and according to local reports many others were experiencing the same.
It was quick a shock to discover what had happened. All I knew for sure was that I was in a significantly altered world. I gathered all the information I could find to help me figure out how I wanted to respond. After a while, I realized that I had no control over the circumstances I found myself in. I couldn’t “fix things” or make what had happened un-happen.
“So,” I finally said to myself, “what are my responsibilities here?” And myself reminded me that my primary intention is to be a joy warrior. I saw that in order to do that effectively, I must first attend to my own health and stability. So that is where I focused. I honed my diet and allowed my body to sleep as much as it needed. I did my research, made my observations, kept my notes and logs. I consciously turned my thoughts toward things that brought me inspiration and joy, I ventured out with my camera. I made photographs and poems. I listened to good music and read good books. And now, at long last, I believe I am gaining the upper hand with my symptoms. I am strong enough to expand my focus to other things.
That’s the last I intend to say about the whole chemical bomb business. I just wanted to sum up what really happened here. But the world is awash in disasters. May God have mercy on us all. Besides, I have better fish to fry. For one thing, I want to tell you a story.
It was cold and windy and spitting bits of rain when I came out of the store, pushing my grocery cart through the parking lot’s puddles. As I neared my car, I saw that a man was huddling against the car next to mine, his hoodie pulled up against the weather, having a smoke before he got in his car.
He glanced at me briefly then side-stepped his way to the back of his car so I could open the door on mine and stow my groceries. He remained with his back to me the whole time, probably to shield me from his cigarette’s smoke.
I finished putting my groceries in my car, and as I guided my empty cart between our cars to take it to the collection rack, I said, “How ya doin’ today?” The man spun around and looked me right in the face, his blue eyes crinkled into a smile above a grizzly, white beard, “Why, thank you!” he said, his voice filled with surprise, as if I’d just handed him a thousand bucks. “Thank you!” I returned his smile and wished him a fine afternoon.
That’s the whole story. I thought you might like it.
Thank you for bearing with me as I adjusted to my region’s catastrophe. May you forever be free of such things. They’re no fun at all. And life these days seems to dish out plenty of challenges for each of us without them, doesn’t it? So may we kind. And may we see life’s goodness and beauty as we journey together on the trail. I’m so glad to have you along.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by scottgardner from Pixabay
I see you, brave little leaves,
poking up from last year’s survivors
into the mild March air even though
the nights still promise more frost.
I understand; I came early, too.
You can only wait so long before
you just have to make the leap.
Comfort is fine, as far as it goes,
but oh, the irresistible lure
of new adventures!
In the corner of the garden, heliobores wear
crystal droplets fallen from a colorless sky
in ribbons of frozen rain and snow. March,
who transports us from winter into spring,
performs her mission adeptly, with subtlety
and grace. We shiver in the cold, tempted
to scowl. But there, in the corner of the garden,
bold blossoms open, singing songs of resilience,
painting our minds with sweet hope.