It never occurred to the clover to think of themselves as ordinary. That they never rose taller than the blades of grass in which they grew didn’t bother them at all. It didn’t trouble one of them that she was one of ten thousand similar blossoms, unnoticed by any but a few passersby, and most of them animals or children.
No, the clover knew the secret of contentment. And in the mornings, when the sun shone and the dew dazzled around them, their contentment gave way to joy. And their joy gave way to song. And they reveled in the wonder of their being, here, on earth, beneath the billowing trees and wide blue skies.
It was one of those summer days that the geese tucked into their memory stores to recount to one another on long, winter nights. They would tell about how they sat on the lawn and ate their fill of the bugs that crawled between the blades of grass. They would remind each other how wonderful the grass smelled, newly mown as it was, and brimming with white clover.
Normally, the humans filled the park. But they disappeared in the rain as if it would melt them and rain had fallen all morning long and threatened to return. So the geese had the place to themselves. And they sat on the earth amidst the waves of grass and preened themselves, and slept and dreamed, wrapped in the green luscious smell of it all, breathing it into their hearts, bathing in joy.
Beneath the summer stars, the lovers walk, hand in hand. Their dreams float on music that their hearts alone can hear, its melody sweeter than the perfumed air, lighter than the breeze.
They are full of the promises that kisses seal. Their glances carry ancient stories. With a touch, they bind themselves together for an eternity that fills the whole of now and flows through all the tomorrows, fueled by the blessing of this deep summer night, where nightingales sing and the world is filled with Yes.
At the edge of the woods, the joy flowers bloom. Keep walking.
At the far edge of night, the light dawns. Hold on to your hope.
You never what waits around the bend. Expect miracles, expect solutions. Go, as a friend of mine says, for the tiny, magnificent triumphs that come when you keep on keeping on.
Finally, the long-awaited Summer Queen appears, mounting the blue globe thistle as if she were ruler of the world. Her stained-glass wings are as fragile as flame, as bold as our prayers for her forgiveness and well-being.
Look, oh glorious queen! We have gathered your favorite flowers and built you a garden while singing songs of love. Come and drink your fill. Write our address in the hearts of your children, for we have written your beauty in ours.
And as long as there are summers, may you return. And may we unfailingly welcome you with our love, and our flowers, and our joy.
Green mists and a milky sky covered the day. Birdsong slid to earth on slivers of rain. You wanted to be a small winged one that could hover beneath clover leaves, beneath the petals of flowers.
You wanted to whisper your thoughts, if you dared to think them at all. It seemed too soft a day to do anything bolder. Breathing was enough, and watching the water pearls glide down the needles of the pine.
Even when the rain stopped and the sky opened to high silver clouds and the mists became a shimmering veil, a yes of silence seemed the only worthy thanks.
Wild things and children know the truth that life is made for play.
Everything else exists to clear play’s way, to open time for it, to do away with all that prevents it or buries it in disguise.
We play our parts. We play to be free of care. We play to explore and to revel in the sheer wonderment of the now of it all, in the rising of the sun, and the rolling of the sea, in the beating of hearts and the oceanic feelings hearts contain.
The purpose of life, the wise ones say, is the celebration of it. Play well. Play with all your might. Play until your laughter fills the skies.
These are the days of ease, when the air is warm and offers a hospitable breeze, when the light comes early in the day and lingers long.
Now is the time for strolling over the hills in contemplation, if only in your mind, for tallying the abundance your life holds, for opening yourself to possibilities.
Here, in summer’s fullness, nothing bars your imagination from soaring or your heart from singing its true song.
Take off your shoes and feel the earth beneath your feet. It is summer, and this is holy ground.
Some things only summer can do: The fresh blossoming of Queen Anne’s Lace, grasses gone to seed, certain clovers. The banks of the ponds are lush with living artistry. Tables overflow with the garden’s gems.
Let your eyes gather in the colors. Inhale the scents. Feel the moisture of the air on warmed skin.
Only once in a year do these miracles appear, and never more fully than today. Take them in. Tuck them into your memory. Write them on your heart. Breathe thanks.
The garden’s whole purpose, she told me, was to nurture the butterflies. So many were losing their food supplies and dying out. So here was bee balm, Echinacea, milk weed and other butterfly delights, just to let them know that they mattered, they some of us cared.
No matter what the problem, someone, somewhere, cares and lifts a hand, plants a seed, takes a step, calls for help, looks for a solution.
Nothing is ever lost. No one is ever forsaken. Beyond appearances a web of love supports us all.