~ A Joy Warrior's Journey
She mixes up some pails of color
and hands them to the elves.
September is less than ten days away.
Let’s give the red and the yellow a whirl.
and see how they look in the sun.
Let’s see how they mix, how they blend.
Don’t go crazy now; just do
this one tree—this one, where few
will notice. Try a few patterns,
some speckles, some stripes.
Leave a touch of green here and there.
That’s it. Good job. What do you think?
Are we ready to go? Let’s start
with the sumac and vines, okay?
All day, the air, heavy and damp,
pressed against our skin like steamed towels.
Not a leaf moved. Even the bees
seemed slow, as if they were rowing
from one drooped blossom to another.
And through it all, one prayer prevailed:
Relief! Then, as if this one request
had finally reached the required level
of ascent, the sky took on the color
of marmalade and the trees began to dance
in its glow, buoyed by a cool wind filled
with the fragrance of rain. And when
it came, falling from the luminous sky,
all the earth, revived and joyous,
sang.
What was that? You wanted butterflies?
Let me whisper a secret. So did I—
those little wafers of color darting among
the flowers, sipping their nectar,
tracing happy flutterings in the summer air.
Yes! What a delight!
May each flower be sweeter for them
than the last. May every moment
of their lives be filled with perfect joy.
This week, I watched as a series of nasty energy waves ensnared a bunch of folks in my circle of loved ones and acquaintances. A couple of the waves that hit were made of nothing more than incessant aggravations. But some were huge and full of fury. And they came out of nowhere, without precedent or warning. I won’t burden you with details. I will say that I got caught in a couple of them, too.
There was a time when blows as hard as these would have been enough to knock me down and maybe even drown me. But luckily, over the years, I’ve learned how to ride them.
(I like that description, by the way, because it reminds me of an old poster that shows this robed, bearded old guru, soaking wet and riding with outstretched arms and a broad grin on a surf board atop a big, rolling wave. “You can’t stop the waves,” the poster said. “But you can learn how to surf.”)
Ah, yes. Surfing the waves. It’s not a skill that you develop overnight. Well, unless you’re one of those blessed few who are suddenly struck with enlightenment or maybe have a near-death experience that convinces you that in the end all is well.
Nope. It takes practice. It’s one of those things that are simple, but not easy. And it’s not easy because you have to remember to practice it. In essence, it’s a matter of being in the present, of attending to what’s right in front of you, of what you’re doing right now.
We get caught up in playing emotionally charged tapes from our past – like the argument we had with someone this morning, or something somebody said that pushed one of our buttons . Or we get lost in problem-solving for the future, like planning what we could have for dinner or what might happen at the meeting tomorrow. The present zips past without our even noticing. We’re so mesmerized by our mind-movies that what’s right in front of us is absolutely invisible.
I went for a walk once with a friend who suffered from schizophrenia. He was taking his meds and in an upbeat mood that day. As we walked he was telling me about his favorite Broadway plays and singing the lyrics from them with heart and animation, as if he were the star performer on the stage.
Every now and then, I’d point out something in the environment that caught my eye. “Oh! Look at the trim on that house!” I’d say. Or “Isn’t that a beautiful flower!” Then I’d let him talk and sing some more. He sang wonderfully and was very entertaining.
As we got back to my house, I pointed out one more thing that I noticed. He stopped in his tracks and looked at me in wonderment. “Can you do that all the time?” he asked incredulously.
“Do what?” I asked. I had no idea what he meant.
“See what’s out there!” he said.
His comment gave me a profound insight into his situation. The thoughts in his head were so intense that for someone to notice what was in the immediate environment seemed an act of magic.
But the fact is, without being ill at all, most of us spend nearly all of our time lost in our own inner dramas, in our thoughts and our interpretations and our memories and problem solving. We’re just wired that way. We live in our stories instead of in the actual moment that’s unfolding all around us. And we react with our emotions to whatever stories we’re telling ourselves, instead of seeing what is real and choosing how we want to respond.
The key to escaping from these inner movies is simply to practice noticing what’s really going on right now. In fact, that’s a question you can learn to ask yourself: “What’s really going on right now?” (Jot that down and put it somewhere that you’ll spot it from time to time.) Then tune in to the moment. You can practice doing a body scan, for instance, to see where you’re tense right now and let that area soften and relax up a bit. Or notice what your posture is telling you. You can take a sensory break every now and then and notice what data each of your senses is offering you. You can stop from time to time to see how long you can keep your attention on your breathing. You can describe to yourself what you’re doing: “This is me, washing dishes, seeing the soap bubbles, feeling the warm water and the texture of the plates, hearing the sounds they make as I wash them.”
The big benefit of staying in the present is that you learn not to make programmed judgments about what is happening. Things are just happening. Right now. You don’t know where they’ll lead. The future isn’t here yet and could hold anything. So you’re not upset, or giddy, or frustrated, or angry. You’re not projecting into the future or resurrecting reactions from the past. You’re not comparing what’s going on to what you wanted or feared. You’re simply observant, and maybe curious, and probably more awake, and most likely quite appreciative.
Don’t worry; you won’t get stuck there. You’ll still look for the way that events have meaning for your life. You’ll still have real problems that require real solutions. But you’ll look at things from a refreshed perspective, and the rhythm of the waves will be just that – a rhythm that you learn to flow with, atop it all, wet maybe, but balanced and at peace.
Wishing you presence, right here, right now, all week.
Warmly,
Susan
Image by Devon Chandler from Pixabay
I pluck these ripe, juicy days as if they were berries and heap them in my basket of remembrances to contemplate on cold, winter days. I’ll sit with snow drifting outside my window and recall these fields filled with bees and wildflowers and remember the steamy heat and how the sun burned my neck and nose.
I’ll remember the fragrance of it, the carrot smell of Queen Anne’s lace, the dry honey of the goldenrod. And I’ll see this golden field with its crown of Joe-Pye Weed standing tall against the deep green woods, waltzing in the breeze.
It may not entirely warm me. But it will tell me to hold on and remind me that even snow doesn’t last forever.
I’ve been listening lately to lectures by Dr. Jordan B. Peterson, a clinical psychologist and professor emeritus at the University of Toronto, whose complex thoughts attract me with their depth and insight. When you listen to him, you need to stop doing anything else and truly listen. He speaks quickly and packs each sentence with layers of meaning. But listening thoughtfully is worth the effort it requires of you.
One of the ideas he conveyed in the lectures I heard this week is that dragons, in mythology, represented (among other things) chaos. And that slaying them makes you a hero.
Our own lives are a constant battle between chaos and order, and to be a hero in your own life means you slay the dragons that are bringing chaos to it so that you can have less confusion and greater clarity and competence in your life.
The first step in battling your dragons is the toughest. You have to face the fact that they’re there. You know that they are, and that they’re keeping you from being all that you can be.
Dr. Peterson says that the secret of overcoming your dragons is to take responsibility for them. Taking responsibility builds your character and gives your life meaning. It allows you to aim for living on a higher level than you are now.
Here’s how he says to do it. You know there are things in your life that aren’t in order, where you’re not together, and they’re causing you some discomfort or suffering. Every morning, or every night, ask yourself what those things are.
Ask as if you’re asking someone you really want the answer from, not telling yourself or preaching, but sincerely asking what needs to be put in order. You can easily name five of them he says, “Bang-Bang-Bang.” These are the little dragons of chaos. “And they’re just little, but that’s good, because you’re not much of a hero warrior, so maybe little dragons are all you can put up with right now.” So you name them and the begin sorting them out.
You ask yourself which one you’ll put some work into, even if the work is tedious or boring, or whatever it is that’s been allowing you to put it off. And you do the work. You sort those things out.
And what happens is it will bring more order into your life and when you wake up tomorrow, you’ll be just a little more focused and together. Then you ask the same question, “What are my dragons?” and the next problems will be a little more complex and challenging, and you sort those out. And you keep going with this, and you become stronger and more clear-headed for the next set of dragons you take on.
If you continue to do that, you’ll find that your room gets cleaned, your health improves, and your house gets put in order, and then maybe you can stick a finger out and begin looking at the dragons in your community. By that time, you’ll have some real personal power and self-confidence, and some practice at identifying dragons and taking them on.
Now that, he says, is an interesting and exciting game. “If you started doing the things that you know you should do and you did that diligently, what the hell would you be like in ten years?” You might not reach the very pinnacle, but you’ll be a lot better off than you are now, a lot less self-pitying and resentful, with a lot less suffering in your life, a lot less cruel to yourself and other people. “And that’s a pretty good start.”
So here’s to slaying dragons. Which ones will you start with today?
Wishing you a sharp sword and hardy determination!
Warmly,
Susan
Did you know that
some butterflies drink tears?
It’s true. Proof that the Yes is made of love.
Walk through the world with compassion.
Whether it shows or not, all of us are damaged goods.
Train your gaze to fall more on the good than the wounds.
If butterflies with torn wings can still fly, still freely offer
their gifts to the world, so can you, my friend.
So can I.
You sweet little babies, I see you there
lining the edge of my garden
with your blossoms no bigger
than my pinkie nail.
I see you, rollicking with laughter
just because there is sun
and the fun of beaming
for yet another day.
And yet you beam, I’ve noticed,
even when storms come.
I forgot your name years ago,
when I first tucked you
in the ground. Since then
I’ve seen you weather
frost and drought and snow.
I think it’s your joy in simply being
that keeps you keeping on.
Would you laugh even more
if I told you that now I fondly
call you “Teach?”
The first bank of storm clouds floated toward the eastern sky, leaving in their wake a field of sleepy flowers. In the west, the sun dipped behind a second, deepening heap of clouds, but not without saying goodbye.
To the flowers, it all seemed a dream now, the rain, the glow of the sinking sun, the cool air. They surrendered their colors for the night, lending them to the passing clouds.
As they drifted more fully into their dreams, a lullaby sang to them. It was a high, soft, sweet song and it enveloped all the creatures of the earth. Even those whose ears could not detect the sound felt its benevolence in their hearts. It sang the names of every one of them, wishing them peaceful hearts, and assuring them that they were deeply loved. And the flowers sighed with happiness and slept, wrapped in serenity and fragrant joy.
In quiet, hidden places, the earth holds peace. It pools there, in the leaves and the waters and the flowers, and it breathes, waiting.
When a child of the earth wishes, or hopes, or prays for comfort and relief, the pools open and their peace floats gently to the petitioner’s heart.
And all you have to do to feel it is to be still and breathe softly, welcoming it and knowing that you are dearly loved.