Sometimes, when I really stop to look, the beauty is almost more I can bear. Take these wild asters, for instance, strewn in such abundance at the edges of the field that their very numbers make them seem commonplace. And yet, what subtle hues their tiny petals wear; how ornate their decorated centers, how perfect the choreography of their opening, one by one by one, until the entire pathway is filled with their tender song. Oh, again I say, please, let me never take such gifts as these for granted.
All love goes beyond words. Some of it’s so deep you can’t even think it, only feel it in your heart. And then there’s the love that’s made of all the bits and crumbs of love there ever were. Why, it’s so big that all it can do is paint itself all over everything, right before your very eyes.
I have to confess that it’s been work to keep a positive perspective on life this week. It was as if Murphy himself had moved in and delighted in throwing obstacles my way. And in the larger world, well, you have only to turn on the news to see that things appear to be coming apart at the seams.
What’s helped me the most is accepting that this is life. And gosh! Good or bad, I get to live it. I get to experience the whole range of human emotions – from irritation and anger, shock and disappointment, anxiety and grief, to gratitude, serenity, hope, and joy.
And by accepting, I mean allowing myself to experience whatever emotion is flowing through me at any given time. Not to fight it. Not to push it away. Not to want to hold onto it. Not to judge myself for it. But simply to let it be and to feel it.
It helps, too, to look at the story I’m telling myself about whatever circumstance I find myself in, and to ask myself, in Byron Katie fashion, whether it’s true and whether I can be certain, and how I would be without that story.
When I do that, I often find an old Zen story coming to mind that reminds me that none of us has any idea how things will turn out, or what fortunes await us. Maybe you’ll remember it; I’ve shared it before. It goes like this . . .
Once upon the time there was an old farmer who had worked his crops for many years. One day his horse ran away. Upon hearing the news, his neighbors came to visit. “Such bad luck,” they said sympathetically.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” the farmer replied.
The next morning the horse returned, bringing with it three other additional wild horses. “How wonderful!” the neighbors exclaimed.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” replied the old man.
The following day, his son tried to ride one of the untamed horses, was thrown, and broke his leg. The neighbors again came to offer their sympathy on his misfortune.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” answered the farmer.
The day after, military officials came to the village to draft young men into the army. Seeing that the son’s leg was broken, they passed him by. The neighbors congratulated the farmer on how well things had turned out.
“Maybe so; maybe not,” said the farmer. ###
That story has served me well over the many years since I first heard it. I hope it will stick with you and serve you, too, when you’re tempted to label your circumstances as ‘good’ or ‘bad.’
As a final thought, let me say that the beauty of emerging autumn has held me in its arms this week, too, reminding me that for everything there is a season, and that the seasons turn. This is life. And we get to live it. And that, my friends, is miracle enough and then some.
Imagine being so bright with joy that you shone like the afternoon sun. Imagine standing with your face to the sky, hiding nothing, offering everything that you had to give, holding nothing back, for no other reason than your overflowing thanks for the incredible wonder of being.
It’s a day of contrasts, summer and autumn vying for center stage. The warm sun tangos with a cool wind. Green grasses sprout red seeds. Late flowers open while the first leaves fall.
But it’s the scent that tells the tale. This is an autumn perfume, musky, ripe and dry. It catches you by surprise, and you breathe it in deeply to confirm it is what your memories recall.
Something about it makes you want to fly down the path in joy, as if something wonderful is waiting up ahead.
I dream of nothing more than this: to be completely alive, to hurl myself into each vibrant moment with all my heart and mind and soul.
I want to feel starlight crackling down my nerves, and salty oceans pulsing through my veins. I want to hear the grass laughing as I walk barefooted through the morning dew.
I want to cry at the softness of skin and fur, and to be startled by the depth of eyes. I want to shiver at the sweetness of bird calls and to feel the echo of spoken words in every cell of my body.
I want to lose all the labels and stories and maps, all that classifies and judges, anything that says no, or can’t, or should, anything that separates or shrinks back.
I aspire to nothing more. I will settle for nothing less.
We come for a brief season, sparks of the Inextinguishable Flame, to bring its light, to show its glory.
We do the best we can, never knowing how far our light will reach, how many hearts will hear our song.
Oh, we may preen and boast, but deep inside we bow to love, seeking to give it, and to receive its blessing.
And however brief our stay, however soon our passing, our songs sing on. For we, each of us, are children of the Flame, written across eternity, remembered forever, and forever alive in its unfathomable, holy fire.
Deep in the core of your heart lives a knowing, something surer than eye or word can tell, a fixed reality, transcending all illusion. Trust in that, and flow in its grace.
The leaves fall to the creek floor like careless drops from the brush of some artist. Splattering the rocks with rust and bronze, pale yellow and shades of green, they and the creek make a painting of their own. But this is no accident. There’s nothing careless here. It took eons to produce this scene, time beyond measure. All for this moment, this one breath of a day, when the light and the air were just so, and it was early September.
