Life’s boulders come in all shapes and sizes: Doubt, worry, fear, blindness to resources and possibilities.
You go around a turn, and there they are. Massive and heavy, they stop you in your tracks, and leave you asking, “What should I do? What should I do?”
(It’s a trick question; the ‘should’ is the clue.)
Try asking these instead: “What’s my next step?” “Around? Up? Another way?”
Then keep climbing. Go ahead. Take the risk. Make the dare.
It’s worth it for the view from the other side.
Love, like water, flows to the depths and seeks out all the hidden places.
It works its way down, seeping through minute spaces, finding secret openings, dissolving all the barriers in its way.
It rains down from the heights, and cascades over the edges. It shrinks from no risk. It washes endlessly against our shores.
It revives the faint and quenches the thirst of the parched and longing.
It sings in the sunshine and dances to the rhythms of the moon. It’s playful and boundless and free.
It is the gift of life and its carrier; it courses through our hearts and bathes each of our cells.
Love pours down, and returns to itself, over and over, without end.
“Let there be green!” sings sweet April as she makes a final sweep across the land. “Let there be healing and transformation. Let there be renewal and joyous, loving life.”
And here below, the last buds open to her command and their tiny leaves burst forth. The juicy grasses dance in the dewy air, and along the creek’s banks, the mosses come alive.
Then, as newborn animals romp across the emerald fields, and blossoms of every hue wave from every corner, she floats through the arch of a rainbow and disappears, and wee birds sing her song.
Along the trail, the trilliums bloom, pure in their perfection. They’re fragile blossoms, with a sweet determination to trumpet the few, precious notes that are theirs to sing in the endless, flowing song.
In human terms, their lives are brief. A week, maybe two, and then they are gone. But they make the most of their days, setting an example, leaving their lessons. They revel in the woodland’s light and shade, and dance with the birdsong and breeze. They broadcast their joy.
May we do as much, rising in gladness, determined to dance and to sing.
Somewhere in the universe, I’d like to believe, thousands of planets sail around their suns tipped just so. And once in every circling, flowers wake from a winter’s sleep, birds sing, and tiny leaves open on the tips of the trees.
Somewhere, always, it is springtime and life is reinventing itself anew. The song, with its all its hope and promise, is soaring, and sailing from sphere to sphere.
And wherever we may go when once we leave these earthly shores, may we find ourselves in worlds that are blessed with springtime, to the ends of eternity.
The sky goddess brought out her cherubs today, dusty golden fuzzballs so small you could hold them in your hand. They puffed themselves up against the cold of the water and paddled in her wake as if it were no trouble at all.
So sure was she that they were behind her that she didn’t even look back. She just led the way, setting the example, her head held high.
But she was listening, and her bright eyes took in every movement along the shore.
We stood motionless, feeling privileged as we looked on in wonder and joy. Here, right before us, were miracles afloat.
It’s under stormy skies that true beauty shines. Anyone can be happy in the sunshine.
But when darkness falls and cold winds blow, you see whose dignity is true, and whose heart is filled with courage. You see who stands, who falls, who tries, and who surrenders.
And don’t we just thrill to the defiant ones, who stand tall and face it all, and say to the fates, “Bring it on!”
Walking past, you hardly notice them. They’re just another patch of white on yet another shrub. It’s like walking in a crowd, where the faces just blur into the sea of faces, none really catching your eye.
But when you look closely, interested in finding out what’s really there, you discover rare jewels before you.
It kind of makes you wonder who that stranger is, brushing past your shoulder, what astonishing beauty you’d find if you took a closer look.
To pause, pulling all your awareness into this swiftly flowing now, to open yourself to its beauty, is to stand on the threshold of all truth.
This moment, with its pink dogwood floating in the sky, with robins singing, even in the rain, holds all the goodness we could ever hope to know.
Here, all the mysteries are written plain. Here, all the secrets are revealed.
Hush now; listen to the soaring song. Drink its essence. Breathe in its love.
As if to quell our exuberance, April hauled in the clouds, brought in the rain, and dropped the temperature a couple dozen digits.
Her ploy worked. We settled right down, got our chores done, cooked some soup.
Outside the window, strings of green seeds dangled from the trees like necklaces tossed aside after the ball.
But they made us smile anyway. There’s no stopping it now.
The six-year-old pressed her nose against the windowpane and watched the tulips getting pummeled by the rain. “April showers,” she sang, as she turned, “bring May flowers.” And you winked at me as she skipped off to play, and we sipped our tea.