High on Happiness

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Pick a getaway place to go in your mind when the stresses of life bear down.  Fill it with sunlight and a soft breeze.   Imagine it goes on for miles, and that here there is no time.

Fill your lungs with its soft, light air.  Imagine hidden flowers and singing birds who wear the colors of a sunrise.  Stretch yourself into its spaciousness; drink its peace.

This world is yours alone.  No one can take it from you.  And every time you come here, it becomes more real, and you become freer.

The dream stream is rolling now.  Put your hopes in a little canoe and push off from the shore.

Hear the sweet you-cans singing from the trees that line its banks.   Breathe the fragrance of flowering expectations that line its shores.  Watch the possibility fishes leap and play beneath you as you paddle down the stream.

Relax into the flow.  The current is in your favor and will carry you where you want to go.  This is the stream that’s in love with dreams, and it’s rolling toward Come True River.

As soon as the flower fairies heard the alarm, they rushed into motion.  The frost dragon was coming! There was no time to waste.

They flew in great waves, each type flocking to its own species.  And hovering over each blossom, they extended their glistening wings as shields from the rain and frost that the dragon breathed down.

Most of squadrons beat the frost dragon with only minutes to spare.  But alas, some didn’t arrive in time, and many little blossoms were lost.

The fairies who came too late to save their charges gently gathered the still and fallen petals in their arms and carried the little flowers’  spirits to the home dimension.  There they would be comforted and warmed, and celebrated for all they had accomplished before their fall, and for the bravery with which they hung on to the last.

When dawn came, the frozen breath of the frost dragon still filled the air.  The sun climbed slowly over the eastern hills and grew and grew in might until the last vestige of the dragon’s work was burned away.  And all the valiant blossoms who still remained—and they were beyond number—spread themselves to dry in the morning’s welcome light, and the fairies wept with joy at their beauty and their courage.

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There was a method to her madness, to March’s mix of sunshine and snow, her wild winds and balmy days of calm.  Everything has its purpose after all, whether we see it or not.

March had to wake her children from their slumbers, but not so quickly that they birthed too soon.  So she lifted them just to spring’s threshold, and then lowered them back into dreams.

And oh, how they dreamed as she rocked them, practicing how it would be!  Hooves, wings, pollen, petals, beaks and fins swam through their rainbow worlds.

And all the while, they stretched and grew, their cells dividing, their parts taking on finer form.

And March danced on, with loving inconsistency.

Morning had to push hard against the leaden sky to make her entrance.  And even then, she came draped in shrouds of gray like some weary ghost of herself.

We ate heaps of scrambled eggs and spread our toast with red jam, not so much for the flavor, but because we were starving for color.  The late night TV had promised snow.  Even that would be a break in the monotony.   But none came.

And noon was no cheerier than morning as it dragged its long hours across the threshold.  We resigned ourselves to the dreariness and went about our tasks with all the industry that we could muster.

Outside, as if it was rushing our subliminal prayers to the gods, a wind began to sweep through the trees.  And as if in answer, the clouds broke into puffs and the day spread its last light, bright and golden over the final hours of the day.  And we gathered great armfuls of thanks and hurled them into the cold air, laughing, and grateful, and glad.

Deck the boughs with balls so jolly
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Bring the cheer on!  Yes, by golly!
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Sing we joyous, all together,
Fa la la la la, la la la la.
Of the love that lasts forever
Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Rising from sleep’s gossamer layers, we flow into the day, the night’s riches and rubble tumbling in a shadow play against the waking light.

Shall we hold those fading images?  Coax them to spill their secrets? Wring them of their worth?

I’m told that’s what the wise ones do and become the wiser for it.

Or shall we just trade them for the brightening thoughts that are tugging us into the day and go on, as if nothing of consequence had happened?

The valley was filled all day with heavy mists and rain, looking spooky with the crooked arms of the bare trees silhouetted against it.  I dreamed last night of cats, and this morning one cried at my bedroom window.

I heated apple cider, stirred it with a cinnamon stick come all the way from Ceylon, and listened to the rain, clawing like sharpened fingernails against my window, the wind whining down my chimneys, crows calling to one another through the cold, wet air.

It was late afternoon before the rain stopped and the fog cleared away.  From across the creek, I heard coyotes howl.

Then Old Sol, the Jack of all Lanterns, threw his light on the distant hills, turning them Halloween orange.

I watched bats circle above the trees, gave the cat some milk, and bit into a pumpkin drop cookie.

Long before last winter’s snows had melted, Mother pictured this day.  Not that this is the ultimate one.  That is still to come.

But today was one of the milestones, a Sunday in August when wild sunflowers would stall tall beside the lake, the pale, fluffy blossoms of the joepyweed beside them, their colors reflecting in the waters at their feet.

She decided to plant them at the base of the beloved old tree, the one whose life had passed now into other realms of being.  They could sing in memory of it and be a token that, here, life goes endlessly on.

Across the lake, she envisioned cattails, whose tall strong reeds would frame the scene when viewed from afar, and grasses that would yellow just in time to echo the sunflower’s bloom.

Today, her plan came together, taking on tangible form.  And gazing at it, she smiled gently and sent her thanks to all the elementals who had worked so tirelessly to bring it about.

Many more days of beauty lay ahead, of course, before winter’s curtain would fall again on this year’s production.   Her scenes were kaleidoscopic, an ever-changing panorama of beauty.

But this day was one of her favorites, and her heart swelled with a sense of fulfillment and pride as she watched its moments unfold.

You can choose to feed with the gaggle, ingesting the common fare.

But if you hear a drumbeat calling from somewhere over there,

And its rhythm sets you dancing and makes you want to sing,

You’d be wise to follow it and see what it will bring.

It might not be very easy to walk away from the crowd.

They might taunt and tease you, and laugh at you out loud.

Just hold your head up high as you go; listen to your dream.

In the end it will crown you with honor, success and high esteem.