High on Happiness

Archive for the ‘Happiness Tales’ Category

The big flock of geese that had surrounded him all morning had flown to the far side of the lake.  Now he and one small wood duck had the place to themselves.

He reveled in the silence.  It wasn’t that he disliked the geese.  He thought they were magnificent creatures, possessed of such grace and strength.  They were funny, too, and their antics often made him laugh.  But oh, the noise they made!

The waters of the lake had stilled after the geese left.  Barely a ripple marred the painted reflection of the wooded hill that bordered the lake’s banks as he paddled slowly across its surface, taking it all in.  He could hear the invisible singing of the trees and he tasted the fragrance of their fallen leaves and felt the light dancing all around him.

But it wasn’t only the stillness, or the colors.  It wasn’t only the song or the fragrance or the light, although they were a part of it.  Deep inside, something else, something even more beautiful than the world was growing.   He listened to it closely as he floated on the waters.  It felt like dawn.  It felt like a connection to something wonderful that somehow filled everything.

He glanced up to the wide and limitless sky and thought about the way it held the sun and moon and stars and all the changing colors of the day.  This beauty that was birthing itself within him felt like that, limitless and wide and holding all things.

And his heart was glad, and he swam through the painted waters, filled with peace.

It was crowded in their section of the woods.  In the summer, when the leaves were full, the little ones had to do with very little light.  And they had to learn to push their branches upward because there was little room to stretch out.

Most of the young ones accepted their situation  as the natural order of things.  But on one particularly warm spring day, one of them started to complain.

Just then, two young humans came to sit in the shade at the edge of the woods right beside him.  One of them opened a book she was carrying and said to the other, “Here it is.  It’s from Madame Curie; it’s exactly what I was trying to say.”  And then she read him this:

“Life is not easy for any of us.  But what of that?  We must have perseverance and above all confidence in ourselves.  We must believe that we are gifted for something, and that this thing, at whatever cost, must be attained.”

“You see?” she said.  “We have to believe that we have a gift and keep going until we find it.  That’s what drives us forward.   I know that it’s frustrating when we don’t know what that gift is.  But we have to keep going until we find out.”

The two of them talked a while longer and then they wandered on.  But their words stayed with the young tree, and led him to believe that his discomfort had a purpose that would make it all worthwhile.

He stretched a little higher and raised his branches more.   A robin came and built a nest in them and he watched the babies hatch and learn to fly.

When autumn came and all the leaves had fallen, the young tree looked about him and noticed how tall he had grown.  He saw the nests of grass beneath him where the deer took refuge from the hunters and the cold winds and the rabbits burrowed.  And as he stood there, the late afternoon sun warming his bark, he felt a stirring deep within  in his core, and he recognized his gift and was proud.

The cherry trees that lined the grocery store’s parking lot knew it was time.  Their fruit was at its peak and their leaves had changed to their party clothes.

Below them, the humans had been rolling overladen carts to their cars for a week now and the fragrance of pumpkin pies was wafting daily from the vents above the store’s bakery.  They, too, were celebrating the harvest.

The more delicate birds had already gone, of course.  They weren’t made for the cold that was settling in more deeply every day now.  But as the hardier ones gathered to enjoy the feast the cherry tree set before them, they remembered their summer friends and their bright songs, and they gave thanks for them.

They remembered the lush days of summer and gave thanks for the sun and the rain that helped to create the abundant harvest.

They remembered the spring with its hatching babies and laughed as they recalled how funny they were with their bumpy pink skin and thin down.  And they gave thanks for them and for how well they had grown.

They remembered the old ones who had come to the end of their days and gave thanks for them as well.

The trees had prepared hundreds of cherries, and hundreds of birds came to feast on them.  And they ate, and remembered, and gave thanks.  Then they flew into the autumn, their bellies full and their hearts bursting with grateful joy.

All the other trees had released their leaves days and days ago.  Even the grand sycamores were bare now.

He heard them whispering about him when the wind was just right.  “Why,” they asked each other, “was he holding on so very long? ”

But he did not doubt himself, for he carried a piece of wisdom in his heart.

“The secret to finding your way in the world,” an ancient oak had advised him when he was still very young, “is to realize that nobody else knows your secret, for it is yours alone.”

“Don’t get me wrong,” he had counseled.  “We can all learn much of value from the oaks who have gone before us.  Look to the mighty ones, the towering ones, for your examples– the ones with grace and strength and beauty.

“Watch how they weather the storms.  Listen to their stories.  Observe the hospitality they offer their guests.  Look for the qualities they share in common and adopt these as your own.

“But notice, too,” he said, his voice taking on a tone of importance, “how each one differs from the others.  No two of us are alike.  Each of us has his own unique song that no other oak will ever sing.  It will rise from deep within you, finding its own seasons to express itself, pulsing to its own beat.

“Listen for it during times of stillness, in the depths of the night, and during the winter’s long rest.  And once you hear it, sing it with all your might.

“And heed this, my child,” he continued, with great kindness in his voice, “Don’t be concerned when you don’t get it right; errors are for learning what’s right for us, what’s wrong.  Your song is forgiving and knows the way; its music will not cease just because you take a while to learn it.”

The young oak had been through many seasons now.  He had, to the best of his ability, followed the counsel of the ancient one who had spoken such wisdom to him all those summers past.  And now, as he stood tall and confident in the autumn sunlight, he heard the old one’s words echoing across the days.  “Unfold in your own time, my lad.  March to your own drum.”

“Every moment of your life is infinitely creative and the universe is endlessly bountiful.”  ~Mahatma Gandhi

One day, an old tale goes, God was walking in His garden when He bent to peer at the waters of a beautiful, still pool and saw, for the very first time, the perfect reflection of His own face.

Immediately, He gave out a great laugh, and it rang, booming, throughout infinite space, creating worlds upon worlds as it rolled.  And that’s how the universes came to be.

That one, booming laugh still vibrates today, bountifully birthing all the shining worlds and all that fills them.   And every dancing particle partakes of God’s nature, creative and loving, and mirrors His endless joy.

In the outer world, November’s work was all about turning down the light, fading out the color, snugly tucking things in for winter’s long night.  And she went about it deftly, humming soft lullabies to all the seeds and creatures as she made her preparations.

“Dream sweetly,” she crooned to them.  “Dream of all you have experienced in the year’s bright seasons.  Dream of all that you’ve done, with such laughter and joy.  Dream of how you came to be here and why, and of all you will create and accomplish when you wake.”

Their dreams, she knew, would be like all dreams.  Some would be clear and vivid.  Some would be fragments that seemed to make no sense at all.  Some would drift past as filmy as morning mists.  It didn’t matter.  It didn’t matter whether they were clear or understood or remembered.  They would leave their messages behind regardless.

Deep within them, they would hold the mysteries and revelations of the Great Dreamer who caused it all be.  And the Yes would sing through them and into the tomorrows to come, shaping them, with all its hope and power and grace.  And while they were lost in the dreamsongs, all the seeds and creatures would be comforted, knowing they were known, and connected, and loved.

The water elementals were in love with speed.  As fine as it was to lay languid in the sun in a clear, still pool, when it came right down to it, speed was the best.

They loved evaporation, too.  Sailing up through the atmosphere was sweet.  But tumbling back down as rain, especially when they could hitch rides on a good, strong wind, was even better.

They couldn’t help themselves; they simply adored being in motion.

So you can imagine the exhilaration they felt as the cascaded down the mountainside heading for the falls.

They were beside themselves with glee, and the whole forest quivered with the sound of their tumultuous laughter.

Over the rocks they tumbled, stirring themselves into a white froth, racing each other to see who would be first when they got to the edge.

They lay panting and exhausted when they finally reached the flats.  But oh my, were they happy!  “Look at all the ground we covered!  Look how far we’ve come!” they gasped between breaths as they gazed at the high lands above them.

They fell asleep that night, floating in the moonlight, proud of the day’s achievements, and dreaming of the adventures tomorrow could hold.

“Peace,” the milkweed murmured to the seeds that had grown within her.  “Gratitude, appreciation, joy.”

It was a secret that she had learned from her own mother: Seeds grow stronger and more beautifully when they’re nurtured and sent forth with love.

“Enthusiasm, faith, delight,” she chanted.

She felt the morning sun warming them.  She wrapped each one in her pride and in her fervent wishes for its happiness.  The moment for their departure, she knew,  was near.

“Have courage, wisdom, and kindness, my children,” she whispered.  “Playfulness, service, learning, hope.”

She saw the distant treetops dancing in the breeze and laughed quietly at the way the little seeds were wiggling in excitement.

“Serenity, happiness, and health, my darlings,” she sang, as the breeze danced in and carried them away.  “Have fun, sweet ones,” she called as they drifted into the sunlight.  “Always, always, I love you.”

Like all the other months, November had her mission.

She would release the lovely leaves from their summer service and weave the great blanket with their fallen forms.

She would summon Jack Frost, and order the north winds to carry him from his arctic home.  And they could bring the wooly snow clouds for her, too.

Her timing had to be precise.  Seeds were still readying themselves for the journey to their winter homes; wee creatures were still gathering their winter stores and growing their coats in preparation for the winter’s cold.

And so she asked the leaves of the oaks and the maples if some would volunteer to delay their departure, to be the final coverlet on the earth bed below.

It was exactly the opportunity the red oak and golden maple wanted.  They were like people at a party who discover each other just as all the other guests are going home.   A kind of magnetism connected them and they so wanted to spend more time talking.

November smiled to herself when they volunteered.  She had seen this kind of friendship before, the kind that’s built on those long conversations that keep going long into the night.   She thanked them and told them she would return to take them home after she put all the milkweed seeds to bed.  It would be, she assured them, quite a while.

Then she turned and glided down the hill to the meadow, the quiet rustle of the great conversation ringing softly in her ears.

The nights come early now and we creatures burrow in our caves, wrapped in flickering fire light.  The shadows dance on the wall and supper cooks, its fragrances winding around us like smoke.

In the corner, the children play their games, laughing, and when we eat, they bring the tales of their days with them and we tell ours and the stories push away the darkness.

Then there is only the sound of sleeping.  The fire fades. The velvet darkness returns.  And we drift back to the golden days and float down the river of dreams, remembering what was.