.

The morning brought gifts, as all mornings do, its chances streaming in the window, rolling across the floor.

Waking, she gathered them up by the armload and spread them on the table, shivering with glee, as she ate her toast and jam and watched the lacy snowflakes fall outside her window.

How could she choose among such dazzling possibilities, each a door to fresh, unfolding world?

She gazed at the falling snow.  And quietly, within her mind, a voice spoke:  “Do what you love, and joy will follow.”

When she glanced back at the choices, one shimmered brighter than all the rest and called to her heart, and she knew.

So deep is her sleep that she appears lifeless, her spacious curves lying there, unmoving, under the broad sky.  But beneath the thin blankets of last year’s crops and grasses, she calls the tomorrows into form.

Birds’ nests dance inside her, and baby rabbits in their burrows.  She dreams the ants coming forth and the dandelions, the tadpoles, the snakes and the fishes.

And through it all, the song of the Great Yes weaves in melodious ribbons and blesses her, and she sighs at the sweetness of it all and sleeps.

Mothers and fathers woke children from their beds and led them outside to see the sight, for it appeared only rarely and this might be their only chance.  “Remember this,” the parents would whisper.  “Remember this always.”

“What is it?” the awe-struck children would ask.

“We do not know,” the parents would answer.  “Some say it is the home of the gods who call us into being and bless us with their love.  Those who are lucky enough to glimpse its beauty are said to carry hope in their hearts all their lives, even in times of great darkness.”

And the children held their parents hands and leaned against their warm bodies, watching until morning came.  And although most of them would never see the ring of moons again, their hearts were filled forever with its glowing, pearly light.

Before they inhabited their earth-forms– the strong, tublar stems, the sleek, slender leaves–the grass spirits thought that they knew exactly what lay ahead.

They were, after all, well-schooled.  They knew about the life cycle of the grass forms, about the vicissitudes of weather, the varieties of soil. They had learned about birds and bugs, caterpillars and butterflies, and about the host of plant forms they might have as neighbors.

Yes, they felt quite prepared as they set out on their adventure.

So imagine their surprise when they actually felt the powerful drive inside them pushing them to split open their seed casings and sprout through the moist soil, when they tasted the fresh air and drank the sparkling rain, when they felt the warmth of the sun, the caress of the breeze, the magnificent song of it all and the motion and splendor of sky!

What teaching could have told them of this beauty?  What words could contain this grace?

When their earth season had run its course and they rose from the forms they had worn, leaving them behind in lovely heaps on the earth mother’s floor, they were filled with unspeakable joy.  And they sailed on it, higher and higher, giving thanks and singing hymns of praise.

But now it was time for things to settle down.  The earth-children needed some quiet time to prepare for what was ahead.

She pulled out her palette of winter hues—the muted grays and browns and greens, the dazzling whites, the crisp blue of shadow and sky—and painted the winter hills with a fresh, sparkling layer of snow.

It did the trick.  It pulled the dream of winter over all their eyes, and they worked and played and supped from great bowls of thick soups.

And by the time she picked up her brush again to deepen the blues and bring in the evening skies, they were tucking in the wee ones and yawning their yawns.

Never had she dreamed she would end up in such a beautiful bouquet.  It was like being in flower heaven.

She settled in with the roses, pine cones and greenery, and held her breath, wondering what would come next.

“Where are we going?  What is this for?  What should I do?” she whispered to the red rose beside her.

“Ours is a special mission,” the rose said.  “We were chosen as symbols of the love of the Great Yes and intended to express its beauty and joy. “

“Of course that is the purpose of everything that the Great Yes brings into being.  But we, dear child, are being sent to sing the song in celebration of the way that love touches human hearts.”

The little chrysanthemum was still for a moment as she absorbed the meaning of this honor.  “How can I do that?” she asked the rose.

“Just be yourself, child.  All of us are made from love.  Immerse yourself in its power and beauty; know that it shapes your every petal, and then let it flow from you in gladness.   Just be who you are.  Just be the love.”

(Today, my friends, I’m pleased to share a holiday story that first appeared here two years ago.  Enjoy!)

“It was Christmas,” Jen told me, “and my son was six.  Like most six-year-olds, he was really excited about the coming holiday.

“The problem was that I was flat broke.  It was all I could do to put food on the table.  But I wanted to do something to make Nate’s Christmas special.

“One day, just as the shopping season was in full swing, I got a crazy idea.  ‘Nate,’ I said to my son, ‘Would you like to play a Christmas game?’  Of course he was eager to play.

“’Well, it’s a secret,’ I whispered, putting my fingers to my lips and looking around as if to see if anyone was listening.  ‘Here’s the deal.  You and I own absolutely everything in the world.  Everything!  It’s all ours!

“‘But, see, there’s so much of it that we don’t have anywhere to keep it.  So we made stores and we put the stuff there, and we let people come and buy it and take it to their homes to enjoy.  Cool, huh?’

“’Really?’ Nate said, all big-eyed. ‘Everything?’

“’Yes,’ I told him.  ‘Absolutely everything.  Would you like to go visit our stuff and see how much of it there really is?’

“’Sure!’ he said.  And off we went.  Nobody paid any attention to two more shoppers pawing through the merchandise.

“We started at the local dime store and looked at the cowboy hats and goldfish and parakeets and clay.  Then we went to the toy store, and Nate was in heaven, sitting on bikes, pulling games from the shelves, trying on a baseball glove.  He carefully lifted a big red fire truck from one of the shelves.  “Boy, I hope somebody takes this home,” he said.  “It would sad if it just sat here in the store.”

“We went to the sporting goods store and he tried on ice skates and lay on a big toboggan. We looked at kayaks and fishing rods and tents and canoes.

“’It’s a good thing we have these stores!’ Nate said.  ‘We sure own an awful lot of stuff!’

“I got into the game, too,” laughed Jen.  I tried on dresses and rings and dabbed on samples of perfume as we toured a big department store.  We sat on soft sofas and watched the display TVs.

“We must have spent five hours, just going from store to store, laughing and pretending that the whole world was ours.

“We were exhausted when we got home, and as happy as if we really did own everything. We had supper and some cocoa, and after his bath, I read Nate a story and tucked him into bed.  As I bent to give him a good-night kiss, he flung his arms around me and squeezed me tight.  ‘We really had fun today, didn’t we!’ he said.

“’We sure did, buddy,’ I answered.  ‘Have a good sleep and sweet dreams.’

“’Mom?’ he said, looking me right in the eyes, ‘I really love you.’

“’I love you, too, Nate,’ I said.  And as I turned off the light, I knew our secret was really true.  Everything that mattered in the world was ours.”

From the crown of the hill, the tall golden grasses raised the triumphant song.  “The light has come! The light has come!  Let us lift our voices high!”

In the valley below them, the young ones asked their elders the meaning of this wondrous celebration.

“All living things long for the nourishment that the light brings, children.  And now, our time of darkness has come to an end, for on this day, the sun has been reborn and will lift us with the truth and wisdom of his light.  You will not understand until many seasons have passed, but it’s not the burning orb that fills the sky of which we sing.  It’s the sun behind the sun, for that is the source of our gladness and life.”

And the elder who spoke was right.  The young ones didn’t understand.  But they felt the joy that was sweeping the land, and it was so bold and full and brave that they could only stand in wonder and listen as the grasses trumpeted their song.

She watched as, one by one, her leaves turned brown, her berries fell to the ground.

It was, of course, the season for their going.  And yet, with all her heart, she wanted to hold on to one last berry to raise to the sun on its birthday.  (She so loved the sun!)

It was only days away now.  The earth would tilt no farther and the sun would begin its glad return.  And all the woods would ring with Alleluia.

Her strength was all but gone.  Yesterday, the twig that raised the berry could bear its weight no more, and with a cry it bent, nearly breaking.  But still she held on.

Even though she was bent and broken, it was enough that her last, bright berry remained.  And she knew in her heart that she could hold on, and would.  It was the only gift she had to give.

Two more nights would pass before the birthday’s morning.  And the little shrub, her love filling her heart with courage, sent every shred of strength she had to the few sinewy threads that held the jeweled berry.  And the nights passed.

When the dawn broke, a gentle snow was falling.  But the clouds were high and light and through them, she could see the stars, melting into morning.   A great hush fell upon the woods as it waited in excitement for the sun’s first rays.  Finally, the grand holy day was here.

Then, just as the snow quit falling, the brilliant orb rose over the horizon and the woods burst into song.

The little berry began to dance on the soft breeze, and as it swung there on its last little threads, it began ringing out its song.  And the tinkling of its bell was so clear and filled with love that it reached all the way to the sun, and the sun’s rays reached down and held the small shrub in its warmth, and whispered, “Thank you, my child.  Be at peace. You are loved.”

December picks up her pallet, with its subdued shades of grays and blues, whites and browns, and paints a winter dream along the edges of the pond.

Time slows to her touch, crystallizing the dream into a poem within a poem, within a poem.

It tells how the wind is sweeping down from the north, carrying snow, and how its cold is so deep that even the sun cannot warm it.

It tells of long nights, and of caves and bright fires, and the way that lullabies will fall from all the sparkling stars.

It tells of a transformed world, strewn with silence and diamonds, where edges are smoothed and the songs of things are piercing and clear and laden with hope and new meaning.

There is more.  Within its layers, this piece contains the whole.  And time, though slowed, will reveal it.