High on Happiness

Archive for the ‘Happiness Tales’ Category

The little bud was living in darkness, curled tightly within herself, when the thought first drifted across her mind: I could make flowers and leaves.

Ordinarily she would have dismissed it as impossible.  It was ludicrous even to imagine that she could become something so grand.

But she was weary of her ordinary thoughts, and this one was so charming that she invited it to stay.  She needed company anyway.  The world had grown harsh and cold, and she was lonely.

As the idea danced for her through the long winter nights, she began to fantasize that she truly was a gorgeous display of flower, fruit and leaves.

She imagined herself swelling larger and larger, then opening beneath a springtime sun.   She could feel its warmth and she imagined bobbing at the end of her branch in a song-filled breeze, surrounded by beautiful, laughing friends.

Day after day she held the image, becoming one with it, giving thanks for the joy and fulfillment it brought her life.

When springtime’s sun finally poured its warmth on the world, the little bud opened to its light, slowly stretching her little leaves and folded flowers.

She bobbed in the song-filled breeze and laughed with her neighbors.  And it all felt so easy and natural that she never gave a thought to the tightly wound, inward-turned bud that she had been just months ago, when a sweet, green dream had drifted in her door.

After two long days, the snow finally melted.  In the beginning, its cold, brilliant crystals were exhilarating to the newly sprouted crocuses.  But as the hours wore on, they had to concentrate harder and harder to maintain their forms.

They noticed, of course, the way the cold affected the outer cells of their delicate stems.  But they were well-trained.  “Just because a thought comes to your door,” their teacher had counseled them, “doesn’t mean you have to entertain it.”  So they kept their attention on images of themselves growing taller and stronger, and of opening their petals to the sun.

As night fell, the work required all their might.  But one of them began humming the Anthem to the Sun and they were all encouraged.

Despite their hopes, the snow didn’t melt on the second day.  But no more fell, and they still held their tightly furled petals high.  That night, all of them hummed the sun’s anthem together.  And they held on, and held on.

By the time the sun rose on the third day, the snow was quickly melting.  They could feel its warmth on their petals, and one by one, they began to unfurl them, embracing the brightening light.

A warm breeze brushed past, gently welcoming them.  Angels dressed as birds sung from the trees.  Finally they opened themselves fully to the day, reveling in its beauty.

“What a ride!” one of them whispered, and they all heartily laughed and then raised their Anthem high, singing their joy to the entire world.

They knew what they were in for.  The little crocuses learned about earth weather long before they took on form.

But that of course was mere theory.   And this snow was very real.

They wrapped their petals tight, giggling.  Little shivers of delight over their good fortune ran all the way down their stems.

Not every crocus got to face the snow.  The challenge, they knew, was immense.   They would have to hold fast to their vision and mission, to deny every dark shred of doubt.

No one thought it would be easy or that success was guaranteed.  But the adventure was its own reward.  And they would fly their hope flags to the end.

The first thing March set out to make clear is that she’s a girl of unrestrained whims.   Consistency isn’t her forte.   And she has no use for opinions.

She’s a wholly free spirit who will not be caged.

She’s come to dance, and she knows all the steps and the rhythms.

She’s a quick change artist with costumes in her trunk of every fabric and color.  She’s sweet and mild, and crazy and wild, all in the blink of an eye.

Belly up, boys.  You’re in for a show.

But hold on to your hearts.  She steals ‘em every time.

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The green cathedral rises, called by a sound within itself to awaken to the light.

It reaches, filled with fierce joy, its pillars building themselves on the swelling song, arching with its grace.

Something holy and glorious is coming, a child of the sun, a note never before sung, yet known from the beginning and destined since then to be.

And now is its time.

Angels gather and flit among the branches of the trees.   Earth creatures come out from their burrows.

The wind is whispering far and wide that a miracle is near.  It brings a gift of rain.

And the green cathedral rises, higher and higher.

This is my favorite place, she said.  All you can see is sky.  I like to hold my arms out and feel the way we’re falling into it.

Sometimes I come here at night and feel myself falling into the stars.

They’re up there right now, you know, just past that thin layer of blue beyond the clouds.

She sat down on the field’s stubble and offered me an apple from her pocket.

Don’t you ever wonder, she asked, how it can all be?  You, me, this tree, this rock, right here in the middle of all this sky?

She patted the ground with her flat palm as she spoke, then she rubbed her hand across the dry grasses as if she were caressing the cheek of a baby.

I bit into the apple and tasted its tart juices exploding in my mouth.  Then I sat down beside her and watched the racing clouds as we fell, endlessly, into the sky.

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She dreams, on a frosty morning, that she is migrating with the wild geese.

The wake of air that trails from their wings makes tunnels of spinning light as they stroke into the frozen dawn, their calls echoing against the cold.

Ahead, she sees a bay, steel gray, and she falls with a flurry of downy white flakes to its ice-heaped edges.

Near the shore, winter reeds pen haiku with invisible ink on fresh snow.

An Irish setter walks past, stopping to read the lines, burying his nose in them.

“Bailey!” a woman calls from a house that sits on a rise above the shore.  “Bailey! Come!”  And the dog trots off.

As a pale pink sun pushes above the horizon, its light spiraling in tunnels through the snow, the calls of geese echo from across the bay.

When she wakes, she finds a gray feather resting on her pillow, glistening with snow.

Spring has arrived in Frost World and luscious flowers are twirling down from skies, perfuming the breeze as they fall.  They blossom every year on this exact day, and on this exact day, the joy birds return.

For weeks, the skies will be aflutter with blossoms and birds.  Then the Frost World meadows will turn again to growing their feathery ferns and wildflowers.  And the joy birds will depart for their year-long circling of the globe.

Flocks will venture forth in every direction, their flute-like melodies trailing behind him, and sail the skies until every creature on every continent and in every sea has been touched by their song.

Then next year, just before their songs begin to fade in the memories of all who have heard them, the birds will return, and the blossoms will fall, right on this very day of the year.

High above her, the little pine could hear the great needled boughs of the tall ones moving in the wind.   They protected her from its fierceness, but even so it had whipped thick layers of snow atop her branches.

She loved the way it sparkled.  And she loved the way that shimmering sheets of it blew through the air when the weight of it sent it tumbling from down from above.

Sometimes a red cardinal would flit past, or a bluejay and their colors seemed remarkable in the snow.

After a while, the wind died down and except for the soft plops when balls of snow fell from the tall trees’ branches, the forest was still.  Shafts of pink and gold light slid between the trunks here and there, tinting the snow with dazzling pastels hues.

Then night came with its moonlight and stars.  And the little tree sighed at their sweet melodies.  And she drifted off to sleep, thinking that this had surely been the most beautiful day of her life.

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Between the bouts of snow, the mosses showed off their wares, a sneak preview of things to come, layered on the fallen logs.

It’s textured velvet in shades of green this season, skin tight.  Look how they cling and follow the contours. I think they have a hit on their hands.

The grassy green was nice.  But I especially liked the ones that leaned toward gold.

In the end, I ordered all three. “Wrap them up,” I said, “I’ll take them.”