She brought the winds for the last leaves to sail, and saw the last of the harvest come in from the fields. She presided at our feasts and blanketed the land with the season’s first snows.
She eased our way from autumn’s glories to the sparkle of winters to come, singing the song of the Yes all the while.
And when she was satisfied that her work was done, November rode out with the setting sun, the gold of her love trailing behind her.
Even the cold, with its brisk, bitter winds, cannot stop the joy. Instead, it sharpens it and makes it clear and bright as it sails across the inky lake, across the ice film, past the weathered reeds, onto the snow.
It nips at us in prickling little bites and wakes the skin on our eyelids and faces.
In the middle of the lake, swans still swim. The competition for the fish is slim now and the fish themselves are chilled and wonderful sliding down the swans’ throats.
The wind sings, and the dark waters wash up to the shore, all full of gladness and cold.
Tucked in out-of-the-way places, little gems gleam. Look with childlike eyes and you’ll find them hidden every time.
All it takes is an expectation of the wondrous and a wish to be delighted and surprised.
Check around the corner, underneath a leaf. Look in the places where birds might rest or snowflakes fall. Search the centers and edges of things. Open your eyes to it all. Somewhere tiny gifts are hidden. Just for the finding. Every single time.
The harvest was gathered now, and November’s stay was nearly done. As she sat in the woods under the starlight, she heard the sweet sighs and songs of gratitude rising from the people of the earth.
The purity of their whispers touched her heart, and she wanted to reflect the beauty of their thanksgiving back to the them somehow. She quieted her mind and waited for inspiration, and finally it came.
She summoned whole choirs of snow fairies and set them to work gathering every impulse of gratitude that rose from a human heart. And when they had collected them all, she bade them wrap each one in crystal and scatter them on across the earth.
The next day, the dawn opened to a transformed world, where peace and beauty rose in a cloud of prayer and all living things were filled with joy.
The azalea loved the gifts that winter brings – the rest, the quiet, the long nights’ dreams. She spent the hours remembering how beautiful it was to hold pink flowers in the spring, and to plan for next year’s display. She thought about the tiny spiders that made their summer home in her leaves and about all the bees that had come to drink her blossoms’ nectar.
But most of all, she loved the days when the crystal snow fell and lay in her cupped leaves like a gift of crushed diamonds, glistening in the morning light. She held it with utmost reverence and joy, knowing it would go as quickly as it had come, rolling down her leaves in pools of singing water.
Regardless of what others are singing, keep to your own song.
Dance to the measure set by your heart and you will never go wrong.
Some are meant to bloom early, and some are meant to bloom late.
Follow your inner guidance and things will turn out great.
Everyone has her own melody, her own, unique true tune.
You have yours, and I have mine, as so do the sun and the moon.
Find your singing inner light and let it shine afar.
You are made of starlight; you are meant to be a star.
Here we stand on this round thin sliver between the earth and sky. Mystery dances around us on every side and is our mother and destination.
Some beauty within us, drunk on sunlight and stars, pushes us upward. We reach into the air and it fills and surrounds us, whirling us in its wondrous flow.
Everything is in motion, a song without words, a river of racing color and light, a circle, without beginning or end.
The snow maker comes riding the tall winds, pushing the mountainous clouds as if they were nothing at all.
Yet look how they drawf the landscape below. The oaks and pines are like tokens on a board game beneath them.
By morning, this scene will be transformed and shimmering with flakes beyond our counting, each a gem in its own right.
I watch in awe. What hubris is ours, to imagine we comprehend anything at all.
There’s a grace to this spaciousness, room here for troubles and concerns to drift away. Like the autumn leaves and summer dreams that sleep now beneath this lake, its waters cooling and calming them, dissolving them into the sands of time, problems can float free.
In the broadness of this place, you are met with the mercy of trees and with their testimony to the virtue of endurance. They whisper the compassion of the Yes, who knows and understands and forgives all errors and misgivings.
And wherever there is wood and water, air and earth, the Yes whispers. And its message is same. Be at peace. You are forgiven, and loved.
Even when you’re in the depths of the forest, if you patiently wait, the light will come. The rays of the sun will find you, and fill you, and shine on your soul.
And when they do, when you stand transformed and beaming, the only wish you heart will have is to sing, and to send forth your song to the far ends of the earth.
“Be at peace,” your voice will ring out. “Fear not, my friends, for you are dearly loved.”