The geese are gone. They gathered their young ones and off they went, honking with joy, their strong wings lifting them in their great V formations, heading south. But this place still bears the feel of their presence. We leave our imprints on all that we touch. And standing here on the pond’s edge among the bleached reeds, I smile, remembering spring’s fuzzy goslings, marveling at the way they grew into elegance in a few short months, much like the swan in the fairy tale. A crow calls from a tree across the water. “Hear! Hear!” he says. “Yes,” I whisper to him, “I do,” as the sound of geese honking floats silently above the pond.
“Okay,” said November, washing the gold from the trees, spilling it all over the road and the lawn, “Enough of that. Now, let’s get down to business.”
It’s as if she has a switch of some kind that she flicks half-way through her stay. We’ve had our spell of magnificence. Now comes the rain, and the dark, and the cold.
It makes me want to hibernate deep in my cave, and not come back out until the berries are ripe.
I want the long green of summer, and its warmth and light.
I growl to myself. It all went away far too soon.
But just as I was thinking that and feeling like quite a crabby bear, my eyes fell on an index card that’s pinned above my desk.
“How easy can I let this be?” it says.
And all at once, I remember.
I love those words: “How easy can I let this be?” The moment they wash into my awareness, a kind of gentle softness flows through me. I remember that I can let this be easy: the rain, the dark, the cold.
What did I think I had to steel myself against? Why did I think it had to be hard?
“Easy” is just a state of letting-things-be, and being with them. And all you have to do to get there is to let go of your preconceptions of how things “should” be, or of wanting them to be different than they are.
When things seem hard, it’s because we’re reacting to an old movie in our heads instead of responding to what is real right now.
Right now, it is raining, and when I let myself be at ease with that, I hear the sound of the raindrops softly striking against my window pane and see them shimmer as they slide down the studio’s antique glass. They look a bit like jewels against the sketch of wind-blown woods behind them.
It’s cold out tonight. But when I am at ease with that and step outside, my skin feels awake and alive, and a fresh alertness brightens my mind. And when I come back inside, the warmth of the house wraps around me and welcomes me.
Easy lets you pay attention and to ride the moment’s flow.
Even when the moment holds pain, or regret, or sorrow, if you can put aside your resistance to it and allow it to be what it is, and allow yourself to experience it fully, you will bear it with so much more depth and grace.
Easy lets you discover the moment’s meaning. It points you toward what you are doing or could do, right now, easily.
Easy is a kind of listening – as if you are hearing a new sound. It’s listening to what is around you, and to what is within – and that is always new, for the world and you are ever-changing and this moment never was before. Easy allows you to embrace it and opens you to its wholeness and wonder.
Try it. With a sense of curiosity, just ask yourself, “How easy can I let this be?” and notice what happens.
On this gift of a day may the flowing hours with their sun-sparkled colors and rippling ribbons of sound, with their air kissing your face, its flavors teasing your tongue, with their perfumes of earth, and water and sky, on this very day, may this very hour bring your heart joy and contentment and peace.
Throughout the afternoon I watched the last maple leaf twirl dizzily in the wind and cold rain, the trees on the hill above it swaying in the mighty gusts. When day’s last light slid into shadow, it was still holding on. By morning, the tale would be told.
By spring, I will, I know, be longing for a broader pallet, one drenched in greens and pastels. But today, November is painted in her range of neutrals beneath this blue and lavender sky, and I find that my eye is pleased at the soft, stark subtlety of it all, her hues looking like the pelt of some wild animal stretched across the rolling hills.
As if a curtain lifted to reveal a grand new setting for the next act of the play, the field had been transformed. Gone were the gold and crimson hills. Gone the goldenrod. In their place, a wonderland stands, the pale, bare limbs of the sycamore dancing with the last leaves of the russet oaks below the dark hills. And at their feet, acres of goldenrod, white now and as fluffy as snow, spread to the field’s edge, a sneak preview of things to come. We walk through the billowing stalks, laughing, and Betsy says they look like hats that elves would wear.
I hadn’t walked by the creek with a dog in a very long time. But today, one came along and reminded me what they know: Immediacy. That’s it. No labels. None of this “grass” “leaf” “creek” “tree” stuff. And forget judgments, about caring whether it’s hot or cold, hard or soft, dry or wet. It’s all motion, all a gigantic shifting of ever-delicious data pouring in through mouth, eyes, ears, nose, feet, skin, hair. Every bit of it your favorite. Every bit of it singing your name.
Blessed are we when we have a companion who lingers by our sides as we travel our days, someone whose heart holds our own gently, who flows with our moods without judgment, who understands our thoughts and ways, someone who makes the days of peace more lovely, and the days of darkness easier to bear, who lends strength when we are weak, and who applauds us when we’re strong, someone whose smile is warmer than sunshine, and whose love lets us know that our life is worthwhile.
It’s become an annual tradition, the telling of this tale. Pour yourself a mug of mulled cider, sit back and enjoy . . .
I noticed with a bit of disgust that before Halloween had even come to a close, the clerks at the local department store were busily stocking the shelves with Christmas-themed goods. Some of me wanted to run screaming, bury my head under my covers and not emerge until, oh, December 23rd or so.
It’s not that I don’t like Christmas. But when it begins so early, we’re all just sick of it when it finally arrives, and instead of peace and joy, we find ourselves feeling nothing but relief that it’s finally over.
Nevertheless, as the saying goes, it is what it is. And what, exactly, is this tinseled decoration? Nothing but a shift in the colors on the shelves and the music on the speakers. And I am free to make of it what I choose.
When I remembered that, I thought about what I learned from the blackberry thieves.
One summer, I looked out my second story window and noticed a station wagon parked on the path adjacent to the field I own across the highway. And in my field, I saw a man in a straw hat helping himself to the wild blackberries that were growing there quite abundantly that year.
I felt a bit peeved that he felt free to drive onto my property and help himself to the berries. But they were plentiful, and neither I nor the birds were going to eat them all. I decided just to wish that he might enjoy his find.
But the next day, he was back, and he had a woman and a dog with him. And he and the woman were filling pail after pail with berries and putting them in the back of his old station wagon.
I thought that was a bit over the top and decided I would walk down and confront them. Were they selling my berries or what? But by the time I got my shoes on and headed out the door, they were gone.
Again, I told myself that it was no big deal. If they were my friends, I reasoned, I would be happy to share.
The next day, they came again. And now I had a plan. I would go introduce myself, make friends with them, and tell them I hoped they would enjoy the berries.
I walked down into the field, petted the mutt who came bounding cheerfully over to greet me and looked into the wrinkled face of an 80-some year old man.
When I introduced myself and said it was my field and I was just curious what they were going to do with so many berries, he was flabbergasted.
He lived in an adjoining town and his nephew had given him directions and told him it was my neighbor Bob’s field, and that Bob wouldn’t mind if they picked berries there. They planned to freeze them, and his wife would make jam and pies. I told him I didn’t mind either, I just decided I’d feel happier sharing with friends than with strangers, so I thought I’d come down and make his acquaintance.
I invited him to pick all he wanted and took one of the quarts he offered me with a handshake and a smile.
They never came back. But I often thought they were sent into my life to teach me a lesson about the importance of interpreting events in the kindest possible way.
One day in mid-December, I was hanging Christmas decorations in my living room when there was a knock at the door. It was the berry picker. He’d brought me a freshly baked blackberry pie that his wife had made and bottle of home-brewed blackberry wine.
The pie was one of the best I’ve ever eaten. And the wine was smooth and sweet and tasted like friendship and summer.
Remembering that story, I decided I’ll let the colors and music that so suddenly sprang up in the neighborhood’s stores be triggers for feelings of peace and generosity and joy.
That’s what it’s supposed to be all about anyway, isn’t it?
Wishing you peace as we enter the holiday season—ready or not.
Even though the storm clouds are heavy and dark, light streams down. Even though we are frightened and confused, grace surrounds. Look up; look within. Let illusion dissolve. Beyond and beneath you, truth broadcasts its word. Even though there is darkness, love rains down.
