High on Happiness

Posts Tagged ‘light’

.
.

Morning comes pouring out buckets of light.  It splashes on the snow, turning it to diamonds.

You can see the hoofprints where the deer were dancing in the dawn.  The trees are still laughing at the sight of them.

The light rolls down the hill, and morning keeps it coming.  It slides down the tree trunks and bounces up into the sky.

The air is filled with it and you feel it shimmering into your lungs when you inhale.  It turns to clouds when you breathe out.  And it’s inside you now, riding your blood, slipping inside your very cells.

And you breathe some more.  And morning keeps turning it up, brighter now and brighter.

.

Think of the power the smallest glint of light contains.  The flame of a single candle can illumine a room, a heart, ignite hope, show the way.

How much more, then, can you, who are made of light, do?   What magic you have!  What beauty!

Strangers find solace in one of your smiles.   Your touch comforts and soothes.  Your gentle glance heals.

And when you turn it on, when you fill it with the breath of your heart, birds sing and stars dance in the heavens.

Shine on, gentle light.  Cast your comfort into the night and bring us home.

Sometimes a certain bend of light makes all the difference.  Falling just so, it pierces jaded hearts.  Eyes that were glazed see again; minds that were closed open to the truth.

The angels never stop painting the world with their hope.  Everyone can be saved from isolation.  A whispered word can lead toward home.  A sliver of song can mend a shattered soul.

The petal of a rose, a feather on the wind, a waft of a sweet, remembered fragrance—anything will do.   Hope takes endless forms.

Sometimes,  a certain bend of light makes all the difference.

.

.

Oh, the fantasies that fill the air this magical, wondrous night!  The wee ones can hardly go to sleep, and the grown-ups push sleep away as they finish casting their spells.

Visions of sugarplums dance on the wind, and reindeer fly the skies.  And legends come alive.  Oh yes, legends become alive and true.

And hearts are filled with hope and with dreams, and souls are filled with light.  And even those on whom sorrow falls feel the love beneath all their longing.

And all our dreams rise: may our best hopes come true.  May there be peace and happy endings.

And high above, the twinkling stars shine, and the Great Yes bows down to enfold us.

Make Merry, Oh Children of the Earth, and lift your glasses high.   The King has come!  The King has come!  And His glory paints the sky.

We, the ivy, sing now our songs of delight in eternal life.  We bid you sing along with us, to play your drums and fife.

Oh, sing of friendship and fortune, of peace spread over the earth.  Sing in jubilation for the Sky God’s wondrous birth.

Bring on your feasts and light your lights, and let your hearts rejoice.  The Sun behind the sun is here!  Lend happiness your voice.

Make this day a festival!  Be led by joy and mirth!  The King has come, and is pouring his love over all who dwell on earth.

Sometimes, when rain falls this time of year, I think it has come in empathy for all the broken hearts, to grieve with them, to comfort them in their sorrow.  Loss is especially difficult to bear when the rest of the world is wrapped in tinsel and bright song.

And so sometimes, the rain comes, pulling its soft clouds over the dazzling sky, to sing its quiet melodies of compassion. “I am with you; I understand,” it sings.  “You are not alone.”

Sometimes it will rain all day and into the night, so great is the need for its healing.

And when it goes, it leaves behind lustrous tokens of its visit, a final message of healing and hope, small pearls of joy, reflecting the morning’s promise.  The light shall return.  Always, the light shall return.

From the crown of the hill, the tall golden grasses raised the triumphant song.  “The light has come! The light has come!  Let us lift our voices high!”

In the valley below them, the young ones asked their elders the meaning of this wondrous celebration.

“All living things long for the nourishment that the light brings, children.  And now, our time of darkness has come to an end, for on this day, the sun has been reborn and will lift us with the truth and wisdom of his light.  You will not understand until many seasons have passed, but it’s not the burning orb that fills the sky of which we sing.  It’s the sun behind the sun, for that is the source of our gladness and life.”

And the elder who spoke was right.  The young ones didn’t understand.  But they felt the joy that was sweeping the land, and it was so bold and full and brave that they could only stand in wonder and listen as the grasses trumpeted their song.

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.

.

With arms open and lifted to the sky, welcome the morning’s long light.

For nine full minutes at seven hundred million miles an hour, it raced to you, just to give you this day, to add its color to the clear sky that you might see its possibilities.

Write what you will on it.  But write with passion, from the core of your heart, with all the joy you can muster.

Spread your wings and sail on the freedom it brings you.  Soar on its updrafts.  Create some of your own.

Take the gift of this new day and sing into it your boldest song.

“One last day,” thought August, preparing to make her final pirouette across time’s stage.   In the beginning, she had been unsure, thinking hers was a minor role in the procession of the seasons.

But now she understood that none of the months danced in vain.  Each had its own special light to give, even she.

She cast her gaze over the field, set now for September’s debut.  She had, she realized, danced summer away until it was but a lingering thought.

She had waltzed its bright greens into olives, and whisked in the cool morning mists.  She had ushered in the goldenrod and turned the thistle to seed.  The late summer berries were bright on their bushes.  Spring’s animal babies were grown and adding warm feathers and fur.  And everywhere, the crickets sang, filling the air with their song.

As she watched the morning’s shadows stretch their blues across the golden field, she bowed to the Sun King.  It was he, after all, who choreographed the dance.  She was both humble and proud to dance it.

And so, as the curtain rose on this, her last act, she leapt into the air, high and bold, and flung sunflowers in his honor, scattering them to all the corners of the field until every darkened place sang of his light.