July wraps up her drama and folds it in her wings–the searing heat, the grand storms, the moments of perfection. She makes a place near her heart to tuck the fireflies and lilies and tiny nameless flowers.
We watch as she spreads herself across the evening sky, her great wings unfurling above the horizon.
Light streams down around her and the trees sing their farewell.
We stand at the edge of the field watching in awe as she sails off into the sunset. “What a show!” we whisper to each other, “What a show!”
You don’t have to be a king or a rich man. Each of us gets our moments in the sun. Its light shines on us all.
Mostly, it’s a matter of following your heart, letting it take you where its Great Yes most wants to be.
Wake to the glad morning expecting fresh nectar, and fresh nectar is what you’re likely to find. Right there, spread for you beneath the golden light, inviting you to claim your place on top of the world.
For all thoughts sent in kindness, for all laughter that rings in sheer delight, for the look of love in a small child’s eyes, let us be glad and give thanks.
Let us give thanks for the silvery calls of birds, for the gurgling of brooks and of babies.
Let us be glad for morning mists, for snuggling kittens, for raindrops on pristine petals.
For all things pure and innocent, let us be glad and give thanks.
Life is tough. Given the smallest touch of light, the tiniest measure of rain, it can flower.
It doesn’t need manicured gardens. It can rise from rubble and ruin, from twisted heaps of dying vegetation.
It finds the smallest cracks in concrete and rock to plant its roots, then thrives.
So don’t tell me stories about your hard past. Tell me what got you through it, what you used to overcome.
Tell me what it was like to see that first, faint glimmer of light and how it kindled hope in you.
Tell me how the taste of liquid possibilities revived your spirit and your will.
Tell me how you were down, but not out, and what made you rise again.
Where did you get the inspiration to blossom so, here in this near-darkness?
Sometimes the stream dries up. What had been freely given stops its flow.
Shocked, we ask, “Has love died?” And love, with all compassion, laughs.
The hard way is as much a gift as the easy. Looking back on it, we will see its countless treasures: how it taught us and deepened us, how it made us wiser.
Walking the rocky stretches, we come upon secrets and revelations. We’re made more alive and aware. We hone our strengths. We discover our truths. We learn to value what we had carelessly taken for granted.
Never despair. The Yes is always singing and upholds you. And in the rocky stretches, it writes your name large in its heart.
If I were a tiny butterfly, I’d play in the tall, purple flowers. I would tickle their petals and nibble their pollen, and play hide-and-seek for long hours.
I would laugh with the blossoms and flit through the sky, watching the big white clouds sail by. I’d giggle at bees, so fuzzy and fat, and at the grasshoppers with heads so flat.
I would listen to the singing of leaves in the trees as they rustled in the passing of the warm, summer breeze.
Oh, life would merry, my happiness high, if I were a wee little white butterfly.
The swallowtail woke expecting a feast. For days, inside her chrysalis, she had dreamed of sweet nectar.
She imagined herself fluttering easily through the clear morning air beneath a dream-blue sky looking for the perfect flower.
She pictured whole fields of them, fluffy and light, beckoning her, their scent drifting up to her on a gentle breeze.
If, she thought, the winds were strong, she could dance with them, circling, until she could make her way below. If it rained, she would take shelter and rest until the sun returned.
She didn’t think of these things as obstacles. To her, they were merely another possible facet of her goal.
And in her mind, the goal reigned supreme and was already accomplished, the taste of the nectar mingling with gratitude on her tongue.
So when she woke and stretched her wings in the morning sun, she was filled with anticipation. And less than an hour later, she was sipping pink nectar in a field of fluffy flowers, her heart overflowing with thanksgiving and joy.
Behold the sun, so wildly flowering. Feel how you meet its bright with a light of your own as its image penetrates your eyes, your mind, your soul, becoming a part of you. And not only its image enters, but its message and its bold song.
Ah, how subtly the Yes empowers us, casting its love notes everywhere. Drink them in. They were written for you.
Then go forth in the world, renewed and strengthened. Let loose of your laughter. Be the sun, wildly flowering in joy.
Let yourself go slowly when the river flows lazy and low. See what was hidden from you when the waters were rushing past full and free. Read the exposed ground as if it were an oracle, whispering secrets.
Stand in the mystery of the shade and shadows; see what they reveal. Find the ancient patterns beneath the still surface.
This moment is a sacred gift. Pause in it; allow it to speak its messages to your soul.
It’s the sound of it more than anything. Even when the creek is low and its flow is reduced to little more than a trickle, you can the falling waters far, far away.
It’s like the laughter of the Yes. Sometimes it roars, sometimes it’s a mere whisper. But always, it sings, as it carries its waters home.
The Yes is like that, singing, carrying us to the place where we belong.
Even when we ourselves have no sense of direction or any notion where home might be, it carries us, singing its endless song.