At dusk, the gloom of the day
suddenly gave way to a wash
of color in the western sky.
A blush of lavender and coral,
it seemed somehow a sign
of hope, a promise glowing
through the calm and silent air.
Christmas, I thought.
That’s what it’s saying.
That’s the promise.
That’s the hope.
Think peace. It will change you.
Let it float through your mind
as a soft, gentle breeze.
Think hope. Let it rise up
like the first mists of dawn.
It will lift your heart.
Think kindness. Let it
flow from your eyes,
touching all that you see.
Kindness will change you.
Think forgiveness. Think grace.
Walk through the world
whispering thank you,
Then watch how it all transforms.
The peonies float on the afternoon light
as if they were boats on a deep green sea, their scent
rising like prayers from their luminous centers.
As May’s final days come to a close, she offers these
gifts as her farewell, placing them with love
on the altars of our hearts that we may carry
her blessings and her joy in our memories
until she makes her return. For always,
she will bring renewal; always, she will usher in rebirth.
And so she sings, “Be merry, my children.
Let hope be your guide. For always,
you are cherished. Always, you are loved.”
The budding trees dance their welcome to the Springtime.
You never know when it will be the last one. Anything
can happen, and for all its brilliance and potential, mankind
has once more pushed this spinning globe right to the brink.
Nevertheless, today the sky is blue and sap is rising,
and robins dart in little flocks above the fields. It’s true,
what the poet said about hope. It springs eternal. So
let us dance and may the life within us swell in gladness.
Why are we here at all, if not to give thanks?
At last! Sunshine!
It’s not that we doubted it would come.
It’s just that we were taken up
with the sheer holding on
through what seemed an endless gray.
And now, here it was at last,
painting long blue shadows
and glittering the snow,
its afternoon rays tinting the trees red,
coloring our hearts with fresh hope,
turning out thoughts toward spring.
Hope dangles from the sycamore’s branches
Wrapped in thick shells against the winter’s chilled air.
Behind layers of clouds that hold cold rain
An infinite sky speads, star-filled.
Even on this dull December afternoon,
Beauty dances for the opened eye.
Everything whispers of tomorrow.
All day the winds roared, pummeling the trees, ripping limbs, downing branches, hurling everything it could catch across the fields, the lawns and roadways. Clouds that dwarfed mountains rushed across the sky like speeding freight trains, late to deliver rivers of rain.
All who could take shelter did, man and birds and beasts alike. Whispers of “Danger!” flew through the air.
But then, as if the Yes itself sought to remind, a radiance of hope arched across the sky and all who saw it forgot their fear and were filled with awe at its beauty. And the clouds gave way to the sun, and the winds became a healing breeze in answer to their trust.
The Yes sends its blessings in shafts of light that fall, ever so silently, on the heart’s soft ground.
Walk softly, my child, and feel your heart respond. Feel it rising in hope and renewal. Feel it leaping with joy.
Even when you walk through thick forests of doubt, the light will find you. It knows your name; it gave birth to your soul.
Walk in peace, my child. You are known, and seen, and loved.
It’s more than just the darkness of the sky, the low, threatening clouds. You can smell it above the day’s heat. You can feel it on your skin. The birds have stopped singing. Except for the occasional flicker of a firefly, nothing moves.
The horizon is streaked with color. But half an hour ago, you were looking at clear sky. Now, you can hardly see the road beneath your feet. This storm is moving in fast. Those colors on the horizon are the last you’ll see today. You hold onto them like ribbons of hope, sent from the sun before it disappears.
To the south, a streak of lightning splits the air, waking the trees, setting them dancing in a suddenness of wind. And moving across the field, you hear the pelting rain as it moves across the field and you step inside your door, safe, and chilled with wonder.
At the edge of the woods, the joy flowers bloom. Keep walking.
At the far edge of night, the light dawns. Hold on to your hope.
You never what waits around the bend. Expect miracles, expect solutions. Go, as a friend of mine says, for the tiny, magnificent triumphs that come when you keep on keeping on.