Emissaries in the Fog

Fog Drenched HillsThe sky melted into the ground today, wrapping the world with a hush, its light a mere whisper.

It seemed fitting somehow for this sliver of a day that slips in only once every four years, and not always then, bearing secret gifts in its hours.

It made you want to tiptoe, to speak softly, if at all, so that your whole body could listen.

When I walked into its morning, raindrops hung like glistening pearls from the needles of the pines.  Beyond the distant hills, a train whistle blew.   Somewhere between them, a dog barked.

Then, with the clarity of a miracle, a high sweet bird call pierced the air, then another.

Overnight, the season had turned.  Beneath this veil of fog, spring’s emissaries had arrived, singing her coming.

I held my breath even though I was bursting with joy.

Dance to the Day

Grass DanceDance to the day in gladness.  Let your arms fly in the wide sky, and your feet tap down the sidewalks and hallways in celebration.

Let your heart sing your joy for all the gifts given: for senses awake to the wonders, for the oceans of love coursing through you and splashing on every bright shore.

Hear the grand song of being; let it sweep you through the hours.  Breathe its melodies.  Flow with its rhythms.  Abandon yourself to its passion and grace.

It sings for you.  It calls your name.

So dance, and be glad.

The Pioneers

First GrowthSomebody has to be the first to cross the boundary into the unknown, to test the waters, to blaze the trail.

Somebody has to take the first step, to raise the first hand, to risk it all.

It takes a certain kind of courage and boldness, a passion, an eagerness and  zest for life.

Above all, it takes faith, a depth of trust in the Great Yes that transcends all fear and so labels all life as adventure.

It doesn’t have to be you.  We all have our unique missions, our perfect places in the play.

But when the pioneers go forth, it stirs us.  And the very least that we can do is give them our wild applause.

Remember Me

Last Snow.

Because it was her last weekend with us, February put on her winter best.

She will be packing her bags tomorrow, and meeting with incoming staff to bring them up to speed.

But today she was free, and she chose to gift our world with one last, sparkling snow.

The flakes rode in on a great, blustery wind that prepared the way for their coming.  It was evening before they arrived and they fell throughout the night.

In the morning, the world outside our windows was transformed, its beauty leaving us in awe of February’s artistry and power.

Before noon, she cleared the clouds and the sky was a startling blue.   “Remember me,” she whispered, as we walked through the drifts of powdery dazzling diamonds.

Then she turned, and was gone.

Even the Prickly Things

Thistle.

Even the prickly things are loved.  Stones, thorns, scales, shells and shards receive their share of grace.

The light of the Great Yes light flows to all, regardless of our judgments.

It is heedless of form. With freedom and joy,  it gives itself to all.

It penetrates the depths and all the hidden places.  Shadows are nothing to it.  It knows no walls.

The lonely, the fearful, the despised and despairing are wrapped in its mercy.  Its tenderness knows no end.

Be at peace then.  Nothing is lost.  All things are known.

And even the prickly things are loved.

Prelude for Springtime

Green Grass in a Small Stream.

Before we see it, before its taste dances in our mouths, before its first chirp sounds, something in us feels joy’s coming.

Invisible emissaries of delight whisper in the morning and we wake with glad shivers, not knowing why.

Alert and watchful, we step into the day suspecting that miracles are afoot.

Our skin is awake, sensing something in the air. Light darts at us from unexpected angles.  We find ourselves laughing for no reason.

Faces on the street glow with loveliness. Footsteps on the pavement sing of life.  Flowers in a window are almost too beautiful to bear.

We wrap our arms around the gifts.  We do not need to know their whys.

Moved by Love

Beaver hewn tree.

.

Drop by drop, moved by love, the clouds form, the rain falls, the creeks and rivers deepen.

Cell by cell, moved by love, buds open, fruit forms, leaves appear and fall and feed the soil.

Inch by inch, moved by love, the beaver fells a tree, the continents drift.

Hour by hour, moved by love, the earth tilts and spins, the days become night, the seasons change.

Synapse by synapse, dreams form, ideas emerge, a gift from the Great Yes.  Choice by choice, they take root or pass on by.  Choice by choice.

Own Your Own Road

Dog on Country Road

Wherever you are, there you are.  Own your own road.  Be content in its charms.  Feel its endlessness and possibilities.

Just claim it and say, “Yes, this is mine.  I am who I am, and I’m here.”  There’s no need to excuse or defend.

Others can respect that and will grant you your due.  They’ll see that the road is a part of your being, that you belong to it and it belongs to you.  And that is exactly as it should be and is.  And it’s full, and it’s rich, and it’s fine.

Where Happiness Comes From

Wetlands and Blue Sky

What brings us happiness is whatever we believe will bring it:  a smile, a touch, a word, a sight, a fragrance, a good night’s sleep, a sky full of sunshine, warm socks, winning, coming home.

But what if, one fine morning, we found ourselves believing that everything could bring us joy?

What if we knew that we could claim it regardless of circumstances or events?  What if empty pockets  made us laugh?  What if red traffic lights were a cause of joy?  What if being late gave us a smile? And spilled milk, and wet shoes, and the sixth day of rain in a row, and everyone saying no to our offers and ideas were nothing, because beneath them our happiness flowed full and free?

What if we believed that we, ourselves, were happiness embodied, just because we could see and hear, because we could breathe air?

On the Edge of Waking

Woodland Creek

.

.

Light seeps into the dreams now, visions of things to come dancing with sleep’s images.   It’s all a mix.

It won’t be long.  The season of birth is right around time’s bend.

The creek waits and listens for the doe with her new fawn, for the appearance of duck eggs in new nests, for the song of the peepers.

It won’t be long.  But now the woods and waters still dream of sparkling snow and sheets of ice.

Nevertheless, the light seeps in, and here on the edge of waking, all the gestating creatures are stirring in the darkness.