“One last thing,” June called as she pranced out the door, “Remember that I love you, no matter what.”
She left tokens of herself everywhere. Hillsides strewn with crownvetch, roadsides lined with asters and yarrow, corn in the fields, reaching for the sun.
She hadn’t been all we expected her to be, all we wanted. But the fault was ours; she had done her work to perfection, and with joy. And now, here was the earth, bearing her imprint of summer and fragrance, stretching all the way to the horizon.
As the last bit of dew dried on the grasses that tickled our ankles, we inhaled her scent, and, from the distant hills, heard her fading song: “Remember that I love you. No matter what.”
Don’t think that just because the hillsides are strewn with countless hundreds of them each one isn’t special. Don’t think that for a minute. Every single blossom is shaped and painted with great care. Each one is unique, however universal the basic design.
The Great Yes doesn’t repeat itself. Every moment it is fresh and new, unfolding in glory after glory its endless song.
Take nothing for granted then. There’s no such thing as common splendor.
Even when it isn’t clear at first glance, life has an order to it. The whys aren’t always ours to know. Let them go.
The dance has its beauty, even when its rhythm eludes us. Even when the play turns tragic, even when the song is a dirge, even when every shred of meaning escapes our grasp, love abides.
Trust that: Love abides.
Everything turns. Everything yields: night into day, season into season. Our view is too narrow to measure it, or to judge.
But deep within, our hearts know.
Be a world-tipper, one who stands tall with arms flung wide, trumpeting your joy.
Be the one who makes the difference, who turns the tide from dark to light, who brings in the dawning of happiness.
Color the world with your twinkle and shine. Give a hoot, give a wink, give a word, give a smile.
Stuff your pockets with kindness and pass it out to strangers. Scatter love as freely as popcorn; there’s always plenty more.
Be the bright bloom beside the dusty road, and sing out your deep-throated joy. Go ahead. Tip the world in life’s favor.
The creek, waiting for rain, pulls itself into its center. Its fishes huddle together in the narrow depths. They wait, too.
The trees gaze down on the naked slabs of shale, the heaps of exposed stone, caressing them with breezes and shade.
It is a time for stillness. Frogs burrow in thick mud along the shores, holding their songs until nighttime. The whirring insects and the slow flow of water over stones make the only sounds.
This is primordial ritual, performed in obeisance to summer’s sun. The earth displays her patience; her children wait quietly for rain.
Summer’s perfection dazzles, and still she pulses on. Her will to create knows no bounds. To bring forth all potentials is her joy: Become! Become!
Stretch! Reach! Climb! Multiply! Let every possibility have its moment in the sun.
And let there be turnings, and the contrast of night. Let there be leisure and the savoring of work well done.
One breath, one moment at a time, it rhythmically unfolds, with such ease, and loveliness, and grace.
As I gazed at the first rose to blossom in my garden, suddenly a vision of Margie’s brilliant smile flashed into my mind. God, I loved her smile. I loved her.
Margie died in a flash flood back in the ’80’s, but her spirit lives on in my heart. And from time to time, I see her sparkling Irish eyes and hear her laugh. And sometimes I hear her singing, this, her favorite song:
Lyrics and Music by Amanda Mc Broom
Some say love, it is a river
That drowns the tender reed.
Some say love, it is a razor
That leaves your soul to bleed.
Some say love, it is a hunger,
An endless aching need.
I say love, it is a flower,
And you its only seed.
It’s the heart afraid of breaking
That never learns to dance.
It’s the dream afraid of waking
That never takes the chance.
It’s the one who won’t be taken,
Who cannot seem to give,
And the soul afraid of dyin’
That never learns to live.
When the night has been too lonely
And the road has been too long,
And you think that love is only
For the lucky and the strong,
Just remember in the winter
Far beneath the bitter snows
Lies the seed that with the sun’s love
In the spring becomes the rose.
Lyrics are for non-commercial use only
and are the copyrighted property of others.
These are the jeweled days, sparkling with hues of emerald and jade, of sapphire and lapis, burnished with bronze and gold.
Their hospitable air strokes our skin with the gentleness of down and is perfumed with the fragrance of green, growing. Heaped clouds soften the sky.
They invite us to take our ease, to slow ourselves enough to breathe in the richness that surrounds us, to savor it, and to fold it, lovingly, in our memory’s store.
“Remember,” their breezes whisper. “This day is a gift of joy, given for you.”
Let the hillsides and roadsides be bright with your song and all the world leap now with joy. Fling open your arms and spin with the sun. Trumpet your yes with bold gladness.
Reach high. Stretch tall. Breathe your best dreams.
Dare everything. All you can lose is dark lies.
Let no drop of passion go unspent. Be it all. Give it all. And trumpet your yes with great gladness.
Only because I spotted the tip of her wing did I find her. I was watering the flowers.
“What’s there?” I said, kneeling down to look up at the hydrangea leaf from below. “Oh, my!”
“Look! Look, Bob!” I said excitedly to my neighbor who had raised his eyebrows, watching me crawl beneath the bush. “Look! It’s a Luna Moth!” I had never seen one intact, alive; I’d only found wing fragments in the grass on lucky days.
She was larger than my hand, and she took my breath away. What a magical being!
“They only live for seven days,” I told him. “Look! Isn’t she beautiful?”