High on Happiness

Posts Tagged ‘being’

To them, green was everything.   It was their way of being in the world.

Green was the way they danced with the sun, the way they made flowers, the way they made seeds, the way that life went on and on.

It was the ultimate freedom and luxury, the perfect balance of rest and play.

Through green, they expressed their joy.  Green was their reason for being.  It rose from their very cores and pushed their boundaries outward  in splendid, unfolding forms. It nurtured them and made them strong.

It was the path of their journey and its destination.  And now was its season, and they reveled in its song.

In the small space between notes, between breaths, between each heartbeat, the stillness shines through.   It’s not so much an absence as an Allness, the very heart of that which is beneath all being and gives rise to it.

You can’t say it in words.  It’s like a thought before you think it, love before it beats through your veins.  It’s quieter than the falling of snow on a windless day.  It’s ceaseless, without bounds or beginnings.  It cannot be weighed or measured, seen or heard.  It’s at once intimate and unknowable, filled with unutterable peace and unimaginable power, the source of all we are and all we’ve been and all we shall yet be.

And even though it confounds us, it comforts us as well, for its movement gives rise to the Great Song, and its music plays us and dances through our souls.

The little crownvetch blossom could have been overwhelmed at the amount of work to be done.  Hundreds and hundreds of cells had to be fed and cared for, after all. Their timing had to be precise in order to open her petals.  Everyone had to put on the right color and stand in the right place in line.  But she didn’t give a thought to any of it.

Overwhelm wasn’t something she believed in.  She was confounded when she heard how much energy the humans poured into it.   But they were beings fond of great drama and that was just part of their play.

She, on the other hand, was a small roadside flower.  And her part was simply to bloom in the sun, and to experience the bliss of it in her heart.  She let the sun take care of the timing of things.  She left the care and nurture of the cells to it, too, and to its partners, the earth and the rain.

It was the job of the cells themselves to find their right colors and places, and she wholly trusted them to do so.

And so she lived with a divine nonchalance, experiencing her life as a flower, floating on the deep, deep bliss of being exactly who she was meant to be.

It didn’t matter that no one saw.  It wouldn’t have mattered if thousands had seen.

She gave no thought to the fact that others around her had already accomplished their great work, or that some of them were behind.   They were a part of her, and she of them; there was nothing to compare.

The warmth of the sun pleased her, but it never occurred to her to think its light was accenting her beauty.  She didn’t think of herself at all.

That her bright leaves were falling from her boughs was no concern.  She watched them sail on the morning’s breeze and delighted in their freedom.

She was consumed by a single desire: to bring forth the gold from within.  That was what drove her.  That was her ecstasy and joy, her entire purpose in being.

And so, on this October morning, she spread her branches and sang her song.  And all the world was glad.

Like everything that breathes, she came into the world with one pure intention.  It swam through her cells and poured through her veins.  She was meant to be, she knew, exactly what she was, and she reveled in it, even though what she was continuously changed.

Unlike the humans who shared her world, she never lost sight of her mission: to drink in the experience of being alive.  She gave herself to it completely.

So clear was her intention, so uncluttered by contradictions or doubts, that every moment seemed fresh and new.  She couldn’t stop paying attention.    She gave herself wholly to every detail: the heat, the cold, the darkness, the light, the pleasure, the pain, and always the ceaseless flow.

Hers was a life unclouded by comparisons or judgments.  All she saw was pristine beauty, everywhere and always, as life danced its flawless dance.

To the people who passed by, she was nothing but a common weed, a splotch of white along the autumn roadside, unworthy of note.  But oh, if they could have heard her soul singing!  If for one moment, they had stopped to look, to really look at her, to see the beauty in her radiant flowers, perhaps the secret of her happiness would have been revealed.  Perhaps she would have whispered to them her immaculate truth: wholly be.

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Every hue its place in the rainbow, every note has its place in the song.  Every motion, every season, every leaf and bug and star plays its part in the magnificent unfolding.

Even those things that live in the darkness.  The things we call vile; the things that repulse.  They, too, play their part, although you must stand at a great distance to see it and look through clear eyes.

Nothing goes to waste.  Nothing is unused or in vain.  Everything serves; everything supports and contributes. Every thought.  Every gesture.  Every breath.  Every word.

A hand larger than we can conceive weaves it all together into one endless song according to laws too high for us to comprehend except in the deepest reaches of our being.  And they guide us and shape us, as they do with all things, so that we, too, are a part of great harmony of it all, whether we know it or not.

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