Thick, woolly clouds pressed down against the steeples and treetops outside my office window all day.
On the electric wires, birds gathered to plan their strategy. “The ice is coming!” they chirped excitedly.
My coworkers were chirping, too. “This could be bad. They’re saying up to three inches of it.”
Management pulled out the policies, rushed them out system wide. We’re a hospital, after all; we plan ahead for disasters.
I went about my tasks, watching the drama play.
Atop my file cabinet, the purple oxalis has spouted a delicate little blossom. Regardless of the coming storm, inside, it’s always spring.
“Oh, now,” whispered the trees, as the billowy day began to fold herself into the night, “We come to sing our praises for the creation of the light.”
Imagine that moment, when light was born. Imagine an absolute silence, a timeless emptiness where nothing existed, nothing at all, not even the breath of God.
And then, in one enormous flash, suddenly light appeared, with the stuff to make whole worlds riding in its waves.
Imagine it, containing in its brilliance all potentials, all dimensions and the laws that would govern their dance.
Imagine the light traveling so far and so long and so wondrously that it made trees that would stand on a snowy hill as a January day folded into night, lifting their branches in praise.
Walk lightly in the world. You write your tracks on hearts, you know, everywhere you go. And hearts are tender.
Hearts are tender and the world can be cold. Even the most dazzling life is sometimes streaked with shadow.
Let the impressions you make, then, be those of gladness, encouragement, and healing. Leave some gentle laughter in your wake, a draft of comfort.
You never know when one small smile or single word of kindness will make all the difference.
Winter waltzed out and sat right down, her white gown glittering in the spotlight. Then, flashing a wicked smile at the crowd (which expected the same dreary same old), let go with a trill of notes that made them gasp and sit right up in their velvet seats.
She was one cool player, this mama, her hands flying over the ivories, her head thrown back in a laugh.
This was some new kind of jazz, fresh and spicy, and it sent little shivers up their spines, made them feel like someone was brushing snare drums behind their eyelids.
And the captivating rhythm of its smooth red arpeggios caught up their spirits in its joy and made them want to fly up like doves and disappear in the dazzling, billowing sky.
Deep within the Ocean of All Possibilities, an impulse ripples. We don’t know its cause. We call it desire, and say it comes from Source, from God. But those are just the words we use to pretend we’re wise.
Still, we sense its holiness. At least our words point us in the right direction.
What wasn’t there before now is, in all its fullness, alive and original, containing potentials beyond our dreams.
And now it rises, from nothingness, sparked by an impulse, one pure notion propelled by the unquenchable urge to unfold its joy.
For all their magic, mere words, as we know them, aren’t enough. They’re far too thin and static, even the richest ones, to say it.
The “I love you” of the Grand Yes requires everything. It needs every pebble, every grain of sand, the molecules of air, the photons, the laws of physics and chemistry, all the numbers of pi, every minute, every mind: even the tiny ones of amoebas. It needs the whole sky and all the spinning worlds. And even that cannot tell the whole of it.
Yet–and how it astonishes you when you see it—not a speck exists that does not say it all. That’s how perfect it is and wondrous.
The love letters are everywhere, in everything. Just look!
Even now, just out of sight, shy rabbits huddle in the grass, and deer, and all their cousins. Far more is happening than meets the eye.
Beneath the snow, wee miracles are hidden, curled tight inside their sheltering pods, burrowed in, floating in their secret seas.
Oh, the wondrous potentials that wait beneath the surface of things! Now they are hardly even dreams. And yet they hold the patterns and something nurtures them, something tender and wise, as they creep toward us through time.
Here on this still afternoon, you can almost hear them. In the crisp air, the diamond flakes of breeze-borne snow seem to sparkle with anticipation.
But the patient sky, keeping the rhythm of the seasons, spreads winter across the land. The miracles are meant to be exactly where they are, resting beneath this deep beauty.
In the magical space between waking and sleep, the morning dreams flow down. “Come,” they whisper, “Step inside.”
Their voice is smooth and silver, like moonlight on water, and it echoes in the tunnels of your mind, beckoning.
You must be very still now, or day will come and cover them with forgetting. But if you are very still, they will swirl over you and reveal their secret worlds.
Listen now, this is important. The first stories they tell you aren’t real; they’re only bits and pieces of your yesterdays strewn like socks on the floor. Pay them no attention.
Look for a path or a stairway, a door or an opening of some kind. Look closely at the quality of light around it; listen for faint music. Follow where it leads you. Describe to yourself what you’re seeing so you don’t sink into sleep.
Pick one object as a key and bring it back with you to help you remember. Write the dream down. Ask what it means. Listen to what it tells you.
Tomorrow, the morning dreams will flow again, in the magical space between waking and sleep. And tomorrow the door will stand open for you, and all the secret worlds will sing their songs.
What if each task was a privilege and joy, and you accomplished it with ease?
What if you decided there was no one you had to please?
What if you let your work be play? What if you thought it was fun?
Wouldn’t it wow you?
Wouldn’t it wow them?
Wouldn’t it get things done?
Imagine the magic you could perform if you took on each job with pleasure, if you dug right in as if you thought you were digging for wondrous treasure?
If you slipped into each moment with confidence and delight, imagine how smoothly things would flow, how many things would go right.
It’s all a matter of attitude. You can make things tough, you know. Or you can dance through the minutes gracefully, like grasses in the snow.
The little shrub sat by the edge of the abandoned playground in the snow. Since they drained the lake last spring, no one walked here any more.
It might have been lonely. But it was too filled with joy to think about what was missing. Instead it celebrated how much it had been given.
Here was the snow, after all, sparkling in the sun, and the sun itself, painting everything with light. And now and then, geese would descend from the sky, and strut their comical struts and tell the tales of their travels.
It might have felt inadequate, tucked as it was beside the towering pines. But it was too glad in its being to compare itself with others. It simply rejoiced in all its good fortune.
The soil that nurtured its roots was roomy and rich; the clouds brought it rain. It had good neighbors. It had the gift of life itself, freely given, asking nothing in return.
It had the starry skies at night, and the song of the wind playing on the slopes of the hills. It had the seasons, each with its own wondrous gifts.
And so it grew and put forth its lovely colors and sang its melody of gratitude, which, as it turned out, erased every potential complaint.