It’s my favorite summer sitting place with its canopy of spruce boughs and the endless green. On days like today, when a breeze whispers through, all the trees waltz to its song. In the morning, the air is filled with bird song. At night, fireflies sparkle, their lights floating all the way up to the tops of the trees and beyond until they look like shooting stars.
Memories float up from the weathered pine floor, stored over thirty-some years, a parade of dear ones, conversations, confessions, laughter, comfortable stretches of silence, dogs, cats, once, a painted turtle. Mostly it’s just me, my thoughts adrift in the spaciousness, the Yes of it, wrapped in sweet contentment, drinking its deep joy.
At the edge of the lake the water iris sings ringed by reeds from which her golden sisters grow. Behind her a deep patch of wild forget-me-nots bob in the afternoon sun, calling her to our attention, as if her beauty could be missed, as if we would not hear her song.
Hot breezes blow, a foretaste of summer. The heat awakens the catalpa’s buds, and suddenly they burst into hundreds of blossoms, white and ruffled, clustered among the tree’s large, heart-shaped leaves. You could imagine they were mounds of snow or ice cream if you were longing for relief from the day’s fiery air. The sight of them is alone enough to cool you. Such is their grace, offering refreshment, just when we need it the most,
I leave the novel I’m reading on the porch where I’ve been enjoying the sun, the wisps of high cloud, a robin’s song, and go inside to answer the phone. It’s Bob, a friend who lives ten miles to the west of me. Get on your bikini, he says. I’m grabbing the boat. You got whole barrels of rain coming your way. No way, I say. But when I go back out, a wall of clouds thicker than tar is racing in from the west, gobbling up the sky as it goes. The birds are wild with warnings. I grab my book and things that might fly away—the tablecloth, the potted plant, the plastic chairs—and run inside, beating the downpour by seconds. I put the plant in its accustomed spot and watch the scene melt through my rain-pelted window. Who needs a novel when the world itself offers such tumultuous drama!
No matter what you imagine awaits you around the next bend, no matter the clues or reasons or signs, you never know. The river always has its surprises, twists and turns being part of its nature. Consider it part of the adventure. The best that any of us can do is savor the calm when it blesses us keeping our paddles at the ready. The next set of rapids could lurk just around the curve. But be assured, all our best wishes eventually come true, just rarely in the shapes and or at the times we, with our limited vision, had dreamed.
You there, beaming your golden smile, trumpeting your song as if the world were your kingdom, as if you intended to proclaim joy from shore to shore, you can be my sunshine on this cloudy summer day. I’ll take your song and sing it. I’ll beam your message of joy. Let the clouds grow and the rain fall, and may they sing, too, until everything is shining with your golden, perfect song.
I sat on the porch enjoying the play of the hundred shades of green, feeling the warmth of the air, . . June. How beautifully June.
Due to a minor incident earlier in the day, I found myself thinking about the passive-aggressive spectrum I travel from time to time. I noticed that it’s a long gentle slope from the peak of my passivity to the red line where my aggression begins. It takes a lot to rile me. How sharply my aggression builds once that red line is crossed varies from situation to situation. I stay alert to the energies at play and strive to respond appropriately with as much wisdom and grace as I can muster.
Aggression is a mighty force. Bridled, it serves as a tool. Strive to be its master, so that it may serve you well, acting in accord with your truest aims and sense of direction.
It’s not easy, though, I must warn you, to develop even a modicum of skill in handling our potentially self-destructive tendencies, It’s one of those “not for sissies” games. Nevertheless, if skill is what you truly want, rest assured that life will present you with endless opportunities to practice, at whatever level you need,
When it comes to aggression–which can be expressed as everything from mild sarcasm to monstrous revenge or rage–It’s a tough course. It’s not in the nature of aggression to succumb to restraint. You have to tame it, using whatever tricks of the trade you’ve acquired over the years. Sometimes you have to invent or discover new ones. For me, it’s been a highly instructive and rather bumpy road.
But it’s been well-worth the effort. Rewards always more than compensate for the losses along the way. All exercises in self-mastery are like that, in my experience. Not only do you gain skill in controlling another aspect of self-expression, but you get added benefits along the way. Sometimes it takes a bit of living to see that, but it’s true.
One of the prizes I got for working to shape and direct aggression, for instance, is a far greater amount of patience than I had before. And patience is a beautiful reward. It gives you a place to rest for a while, to breathe easily and take in a wider view. It lets you return to your center again, to a welcoming acceptance of what is.
You can design your own self-mastery practice, by the way. All you have to do is notice some part of yourself that causes you more pain than pleasure and decide to work with it. That means paying attention to it so you can learn what triggers it, then noticing when that negative part of you is being triggered, then noticing that you can actually chose not to respond in your usual way.
One trick that helps is to play”The If-Then Game” with yourself. Before the next triggering event comes along, ask yourself, “What if such and such happens? What could I do instead of my habitual response?” Then imagine some alternatives. Do a little brain-storming, letting yourself come up with all the ideas your mind can create, even silly or outrageous ones. Dismiss no alternative; your conscience will sort out possibilities that are within the bounds of your principles. Your goal is just open the door to a whole, big bunch of possible alternatives. So let your imagination soar. Play out the alternatives you come up with in your mind.
Next week, I think I’ll retell the story of the black raspberry thief. It’s a great example of the way unexpected rewards show up when you put a good alternative into action.
Meanwhile, I’ll wish you a week where you suddenly notice places where you’re sliding into the mud of habitual negativity. “Oh, look! I was going there!” See what simply noticing does.
Few places are totally barren or wholly devoid of hope. Life pushes itself through the smallest cracks, takes root in the most unlikely places. Eventually, the longest winter gives way to spring. The darkness gives way to light.
Be at peace.
We, who are not made of rock, are filled with more possibilities than we know. Keep faith alive in your heart; hold fast to your aspirations. Regardless of appearances or circumstances, life will make a way.
Love pushes itself through the narrowest openings. In the rockiest places, it spreads its boundless grace.
June writes her message in symbols— the wild rose, the bee gathering its pollen. It’s all too pure and tender for words, too ancient, too universal. We see, and our hearts respond with longing for those moments when we ourselves drank of this mystery, transported by its perfection and joy.
Knowing that Earth is no Eden, that those who venture here are subject to the dark as well as the light, the Great Yes sends healing. It comes in countless forms— in gentle smiles, in skillful hands, in words and music. It flows in the veins of trees and of plants. And today it dances the dance of the legendary yarrow, its white blossoms filling the fields, lining the roadsides. The sight of it alone holds the magic to heal your spirit. Leaf, blossom, stem, all can heal, comforting, soothing ailments and wounds, chasing the no away. May you be whole. May you be blessed. May you know that you are loved.
