High on Happiness

Archive for the ‘The Feeling of Happiness’ Category

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There are peoples who live in the far north whose language has many words for snow.  The big lacy flakes and the round icy ones have their own names.

As I looked out my window this morning I nodded knowingly.  “Sneaky snow,” I said.  That’s how the name translates for the nearly invisible flakes that softened my view.  They’re called that, I’m told, because these tiny flecks are the kind that stick and cover the ground.

It took them all day to do it.

But by late afternoon, their work was complete.  The hillside was shrouded in silent white and looked for all the world like a painting for a Christmas card.

I was sure deer would walk past at any moment, and I watched for a while.  But none appeared.

Tomorrow I will look for tracks coming down the hill.

The days are brief, so while the sun shines, let us be merry, my friend.  I’ll wear my party dress, you wear your green, and we together we will sing songs.

We’ll sing for the seasons, and for the high skies, and sing for the rain falling down.  We’ll sing for the darkness, and sing for the light, for the clouds, for the moonlight and stars.

We’ll sing for the creatures who romp and who fly, and for those who slither and swim.  We’ll sing for the flowers and berries so bright, for the bushes and grasses and trees.

We’ll sing for hope, and we’ll sing for love, and for hearts that are bursting with joy.

Soon the snow will blanket the ground, so let us be merry and sing.

Whatever you have become, wherever you may be, I send you wishes, my child, on the wind.

May your days be filled with discovery and gladness.  May you walk with fine companions down smooth and sunlit roads.

May your heart be filled with hope and celebration.  May your laughter fill the skies.

May you find comfort for any pain, healing for any hurt, peace for any turmoil that may ruffle your soul.

May you continue to be playful and kind, and to brighten the spirits of all who surround you.

May you revel in adventure, and rest on sandy shores beneath a setting sun.

May beauty surround you; may goodness and truth be yours.

May you know that you will live in my heart forever, and will be forever loved.

Shadows fall across paths of everyone—you, me, the lady down the street.   All of us have our hours of darkness, of pain, of loneliness and doubt.

We’re weak then, when the color is cut from our worlds.  We find no solace even in our fondest memories.  And hope only leaves a bitter taste in our mouths.

I understand; I have walked my share of miles through the places where light is gone.  And I can tell you this about shadows: Behind them is the light. And whatever stands between it and you cannot keep it from you forever.

Say to yourself, “This is only a shadow,” and hold a comforting pillow of peace in your arms.  Shadows pass.  And even in the darkness, you are known and infinitely loved.

The car radio’s music lingered in my mind as I headed down the trail to the lake and I found myself humming “The 12 Days of Christmas” as I strode along.

“What will my True Love give me today?”  I wondered, thinking of the Lord of Beauty.

Just then, they came into view—a flock of geese floating silently on the lake just above the dam, their sturdy, long-necked bodies mirrored perfectly on its surface.   In a mesmerizing ballet they swam, graceful and sure, with patterns that mimicked their ordered flight.

I watched until their dance took them to the far edge of the lake.  Then I played with the Christmas carol’s lyrics as I walked back to the car.  “Six swans a laying, seven geese and then some,” I laughed.  Who could ask for more?

Morning came with its thin light.  Even the gold reflecting from the distant hills couldn’t warm it.  I woke from cozy dreams beneath heaps of soft blankets, my cat curled against my belly, purring.

I lay there for quite some time, watching dreams and half dreams swirl slowly into waking.

Finally I rose and pulled back the window curtain, and there, to my surprise, was a masterpiece, an original Jack Frost!

“Jack’s back!” I shouted with delight.  Tink yawned.

“Jack’s back!” I told her.  “See?”

How could she know the thrill I was feeling?   That these exquisite designs had mesmerized me since I was a child?

I bent to examine this first-of-the-season gift more closely and ran my fingers across the window’s inner pane and smile.  “Thanks, Jack,” I whisper.  “Welcome back.”

The majesty of the Yes flows forth, unrolling the heavens, spangling them with sparkling joy.   It sweeps the face of space and galaxy after galaxy appears, shimmering with its light.  Worlds tumble into being. Layer after layer it fills the void with unfathomable dreams.  It laughs and mankind appears and starfish and flowers, and its love enfolds every species and all their members in its tenderness forever.

The Yes is flowing forth, and heavens and nature sing.  On this day, on this planet, all of nature sings.

Despite the long darkness, sometimes there comes an irrepressible joy.

Bounding over the hills, it leaps and flies, sprinkling the earth with bright bits of cheer, with dollops of spicy gladness.

It runs across the feet of babies and they giggle and grin.   It climbs tall branches and they burst forth in berries.

It skips across ponds and its bubbles wake the fishes.  It blows through the bedsheets leaving Technicolor dreams.

It makes carousels sing and rings bells and wags the tails of dogs. And sooner or later, it’s going to find you, too.  There’s no escaping it.  Just give in.

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The day doesn’t know that it is the last one in November.  It doesn’t think itself significant in any way.

But because it hangs there, at the end of my calendar, I want to hold on to it, to stretch out its moments, to make it take its time.

It has its own time, of course.  But my mind can stretch its blues and grays, its bare branches and still unfrozen pond, even as the first snowflakes drift down from the sky.

I want to live inside the grass, to feel what it is to curve, just so, in the wind. I want to be inside its thin blades, one side sun-warmed, the other cool, with the long tall stems rising above me with all their light seeds.

I want to know the joy of their dance, of their strength, of their suppleness, even when their prime has passed and their green is gone and they are dry yet curving in the wind and hearing the song of the seeds dancing in the air above them like a thousand birds.

And I want to be the thousand birds, waiting to fly, waiting for just the perfect moment, just the perfect breeze, and in the meantime singing to the blades below because they curve so gracefully in the sun.

Yes, yes.  On this late November day, as I stand at the edge of the wetlands listening to the wind, I want nothing more than to be the grass curving in afternoon sun.