High on Happiness

Posts Tagged ‘release’

Throughout the day, the lake had been bustling with activity.

Fishermen and their families were fishing.  Kids lined its shores skipping rocks.  Swimmers thronged the little beach.   Picnickers grilled their lunches, their radios booming music, and filled the air with laughter.

Even the geese were out in full force, knowing some of the humans would bring bread, even if the signs said not to.

The lake loved all the commotion.  It loved the way the humans’ murmurs and laughter, their music and shrieks hovered over its surface and ricocheted off the trees along its bank. It was grateful to be there for them and delighted in their play.

But today had been exceptionally raucous and the thick, humid air pressed their sounds heavily against its waters.  By mid-afternoon, it was beginning to dream about midnight and the quiet it would bring.

Just then, as if summoned by the lake’s weariness, a sudden strong wind moved through the trees.  Lightning danced in the clouds.  Great peals of thunder swept across the valley.  And then the rain came with a fury, sending all the picnickers and swimmers and fishermen and their families away.  Even the geese sought refuge.

The rain kept up for over two hours.  And when it ended, no one was left along the lake’s shores and the only sound was the singing of birds and the drips of raindrops from the trees.

The lake’s waters calmed and it breathed a long, soothing sigh of release and gave thanks for the day’s adventures and for the late afternoon calm, and most of all, for the deep pleasures of being a lake.

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Here comes March, gamboling in like a newborn lamb, its promises in tow.  Watch now.  The season of birth is here, the time of new beginnings.

Out of the long darkness the light comes, pulling winter’s dreams from beneath their blanket of snow, quickening them.

Let the magic of the dance begin.  Even now, its music is hurtling down the hills.  The treetops sing it, their buds swelling to its sounds.

Now the air and waters and earth are filled with the burgeoning promises. And all things that live in them – all that moves, all that hopes, all whose dreams have been waiting for release – rejoice in the light and are glad.

Now is the season of letting go, of releasing into time’s stream all that is lifeless and brittle, all that no longer serves.

Loose the stained leaves from your story, the pages of blaming and grudges, the images of sorrow and regret. They are but dreams, you know.

Let them go.  It’s as easy as waking.  Let them ride the winds like phantoms into yesterday and fade into her depths.

White tomorrows wait to fill their spaces. The globe will soon tilt toward the light, and possibilities will shimmer down around us like snowflakes on a winter morning.

The wind kicked up out of nowhere, riding a heap of rolling clouds.  It was a cold wind and smelled of rain, and I headed toward home, hurrying to beat the storm.

As it rustled through the newly opened leaves in the thicket beside me and bent the boughs of the trees, I felt a little rush of exhilaration at the drama of it.  And then I laughed out loud when Led Zep’s lyrics from “Stairway to Heaven” sang themselves through my mind:

“If there’s a bustle in your hedgerow,
don’t be alarmed now.
It’s just a spring clean
for the May queen.”

I’ve always liked that line.  Sometimes you need a sweep of strong emotional energy to clean out old debris.  A bit of a rant, a snit, a tantrum, a good cry can be just the ticket sometimes to bring you to the point of release.

It’s like this: ball up your fist really tight and squeeze it as tight as you can to a count of ten.  Then slowly relax it and uncurl your fingers and feel how light your hand feels, as if it wants to float.  See?  Nothing to be alarmed about.  It’s just a way of cleaning things out to make way for a new flowering.

I looked up “spring cleaning” at Wikipedia and found out it’s a universal practice, often performed in preparation for a culture’s holy days or feasts.  Here in the States it was the custom to clean in the windy months of March and April because you could have the windows open before the insects hatched and let the winds blow the dust out as you worked.

Got some inner clutter you want to clear out?  Now’s a great time do put some energy to it.  Go for a brisk hike in the wind, pen your rants in a journal, get to the gym and pump some heavy iron.  Or just sit quietly and look at the mess.  Concentrate on it with all your attention, not making any judgments about it, just seeing it for what it is: old, constricted emotions that you need to clean.  And then imagine a wind blowing through, picking it all up and sweeping it out the window to a place far, far, far away.

Have a spring clean.  May’s right on the horizon.

So this is it, she thought.  Here I am, a yellow violet on a woodland floor.  I’m not a rare and elegant orchid, or a ruffled rose exuding heady fragrance in a garden, or even a cupped tulip on the edge of a manicured lawn.  But I am a violet.

And look how beautifully the sun shines on me!

She had dreamed grand dreams when she was still a bud, unfolding.  As she felt her green leaves unfurl, and sensed the DNA of orchids directing the shaping of her cells, she imagined she was destined for greatness.  She would be among the queens of the flower kingdom.  She imagined herself opening in an exotic botanical garden where she would be protected, pampered and highly admired.

So when her petals first stretched themselves open and she took a look at herself, she was quite stunned to discover she was but a lowly cousin of the grand orchids whose genetic heritage she shared.  She was still more stunned to see that not only was she not in a finely tended botanical garden, she was in no garden at all.

Had she been a human, she might have tumbled into a snarl of resentment, even anger, or despair.  She might have felt cheated by the fates and decided she was a victim of misfortune, left to the mercy of the wilderness and weather.

But violets are simpler than humans, and far more skilled in accepting what is.  So despite being quite surprised at the reality that faced her, the little violet quickly released her fantasies and looked around to see what was really what.  And that’s where we stepped into the story, you and I, just in time to hear her exclaiming “And look how beautifully the sun shines on me.”

As the kaleidoscopic moments moved across her little violet life, she would discover wonder after wonder – the insects with their iridescent wings, the marching armies of ants, the singing of the leaves in the boughs above her, the sparkle of dew and starshine.

That’s the luckiness of being a violet, this skill at accepting what is.  Once you get the knack, wonders appear.  Wonders and wonders and wonders.