Curiosity is a powerful motivator. It keeps us searching, questioning, wondering, hoping. It keeps us engaged in life. Think of all the things you have left to learn, the places yet to see, the surprises yet to unfold. Sometimes our best days and moments follow our absolute worst. There is always something next.
Spring can be sneaky. Just when you feel that winter will last forever, a pop of green will peak out of the snow, or a leafless tree will bud, or a bird will sing, and you will remember the colorful, fragrant, joyful days of spring.
Inside every winter heart, a vibrant spring lies just waiting to bloom again.
What opportunities lie buried in today’s difficulties? How can we look at a problem from a different angle? When we are overwhelmed or downtrodden, it is hard to believe that things will ever be better, but we have to keep looking, keep acting, keep hoping, keep believing. What we see on the surface is such a small tip of the iceberg of all that is.
Disappointment hurts. Perhaps you tried to help somebody, and they rebuffed your attempt or you thought something was going to work out in your favor, but it didn’t. It’s easy to get defeated. But when we ground ourselves in the present moment and consider all the opportunities here, we can move past disappointment and hope for a better resolution next time. We can begin to build again.
This hurts. A physical, mind-numbing ache for what has been lost, not just the lives, though that is staggering, but also for the world we hoped for. A tragedy reminds us that the world is not peaceful yet, that there is so much work to be done, so much hurt to soothe, so many wounds to bind. Some turn to anger and lash out because this grief is heavy and painful. It is hard to bear. We are afraid. But even in the midst of our fear and our anger and all of our grief, there is beauty. The sun rises again. The birds sing. There is hope for a new, better day, yet still. Yet, still.
Redemption Song
by Kevin Young
Finally fall.
At last the mist,
heat’s haze, we woke
these past weeks with
has lifted. We find
ourselves chill, a briskness
we hug ourselves in.
Frost greying the ground.
Grief might be easy
if there wasn’t still
such beauty — would be far
simpler if the silver
maple didn’t thrust
it’s leaves into flame,
trusting that spring
will find it again.
All this might be easier if
there wasn’t a song
still lifting us above it,
if wind didn’t trouble
my mind like water.
I half expect to see you
fill the autumn air
like breath —
At night I sleep
on clenched fists.
Days I’m like the child
who on the playground
falls, crying
not so much from pain
as surprise.
I’m tired of tide
taking you away,
then back again —
what’s worse, the forgetting
or the thing
you can’t forget.
Neither yet —
last summer’s
choir of crickets
grown quiet.
Do you ever doubt that there is a bigger picture, that the ebbs and flows of your life make sense, that someone cares for you? In this lovely excerpt, Glennon Doyle finds some peace in the rise and fall of the waves and the rhythms of nature:
The surf continues to hit the sand rhythmically and dependably and I trust it will continue. The sun is setting but I know it will rise again tomorrow. There is a pattern to things. This makes me wonder if I can also trust that there is a pattern, a rhythm, a beauty, a natural rise and fall to my life as well. I wonder if the one holding together this sky might also be capable of holding together my heart. I wonder if the one making this sky so achingly beautiful might also be working to make my life beautiful, too.
The top of the sun disappears into the water, and even as I watch it go, I know that I am the one doing the leaving. It is staying in the same place, shining on and on. I will just have to be patient and rest until I can see it again. Light disappears sometimes, but it always comes back. And after I say goodbye to the sun, I applaud loudly for the one responsible for the show. I’m flooded with awe, relief, and comfort. I feel a chill because the sun is down now. Everything is as it should be. All is well.
The other people on the beach start to leave, but I am not ready. I stay still, so I learn that the sky keeps exploding once the sun is gone. Deeper reds and brilliant purples continue to wrap around me like blankets until it all fades into pitch navy. Then I turn around and catch a glimpse of the moon, a silver boomerang in the sky that seems to have appeared out of the literal blue. But I know the moon’s always there, too, waiting for its time to be seen. The day has to fall to make way for the night and the night has to surrender its place so the day can have its turn. This strikes me as a holy rhythm. I wonder if whatever created this rhythm of the tides and the sky and the sun and the moon has a holy rhythm for my life, too. I consider that perhaps I’m in the middle of a cycle. Maybe there is a time for everything. Maybe there is a timekeeper.
Maybe, indeed.
What does it mean to pray anyway?
Is it a prayer when we breathe in the scent of the baby in our arms as we close our eyes against the press of tears and think, “Thank you, thank you, thank you”?
Is it a prayer when we groan with the weight of hopes and dreams unrealized and unclear and seemingly out of reach?
Is it a prayer when we crumble to the ground, broken, and whisper, “Help. Please help me.”
Is it a prayer when we stand in awe of creation as Mary Oliver does of this grasshopper:
The Summer Day
by Mary Oliver
Who made the world?
Who made the swan, and the black bear?
Who made the grasshopper?
This grasshopper, I mean-
the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down-
who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
I don’t know exactly what a prayer is.
I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
which is what I have been doing all day.
Tell me, what else should I have done?
Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?
Tell me, what is it you plan to do
with your one wild and precious life?
Yes, all of it. It is a prayer every time you are grateful. It is a prayer when you reach out in hope. It is a prayer when you glimpse something more, deeper, wider than the here and now. Paying attention to whomever or whatever is right in front of you and to the longings of your own heart puts you in the middle of the miraculous unfolding all around us.
Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?
You may be in a storm right now–untethered, free-falling, desperate. But the storm does not control you any more than you control the storm. You are apart from the storm.
Have you ever taken a flight on a stormy day? You board the plane, and it is overcast, stormy, perhaps raining furiously. But after take off, you climb until you are above the clouds. It’s shocking to discover that there, above the clouds, the sky is blue and clear.
Remember the storm will fade. You are not the storm. Your essence is still there above the clouds, blue in the shining sun. Hold on. The sun will come out again. (But, just so we follow this analogy to its logical end, you are not the sun either. You may have a beautiful day, but that, too, does not define you.)
You are the sky, the constant, behind the weather, influenced by the storms and sunshine in your life but not controlled by them.
Hurricane Harvey has been devastating, and the images showing those hardest hit have been heart-wrenching and dark. But sometimes, in those images, we glimpse the light. Consider this video of a man stopping to play his piano even as the water has nearly reached his piano bench. He brings a bit of beauty, peace, and light to a ravaged reality.
This video calls to mind the orchestra members on the Titanic who, forced with the certainty of imminent death, chose to play until the end so the music would bring comfort and peace to those also remaining on the ship as well as those struggling to reach the life boats:
Many brave things were done that night, but none were more brave than those done by men playing minute after minute as the ship settled quietly lower and lower in the sea. The music they played served alike as their own immortal requiem and their right to be recalled on the scrolls of undying fame.
Or perhaps it recalls the story of Vedran Smailovic who played his cello, in full dress attire, even as Sarajevo was being bombed around him:
As the 155-millimeter howitzer shells whistled down on this crumbling city today, exploding thunderously into buildings all around, a disheveled, stubble-bearded man in formal evening attire unfolded a plastic chair in the middle of Vase Miskina Street. He lifted his cello from its case and began playing Albinoni’s Adagio.
Smailovic did not consider himself a hero: “I am nothing special, I am a musician, I am part of the town. Like everyone else, I do what I can.”
But a hero he was. Adding light and beauty into a dark and dire situation is heroic. It’s counter-culture. It’s inspiring. And it makes the world a brighter place.
How can you create light in your circumstances today?
What can take us out of our gloom and melancholy? Sometimes the veil is pulled back and we can glimpse a larger picture, a connection between all things, an appreciation for the here and now, and we are grateful.
Brother David Steindl-Rast explains how these jolts into a different reality can change a day, and, perhaps, even a world:
My vision of the world? My hope for the future? This topic sounds a bit big. Allow me to start small—say, with crows. They are my special friends. Just as I am writing these lines, one of them, the shy one among my three regular guests, is gobbling up the Kitty Fritters I put out for them. This brings to mind a short poem by Robert Frost that might provide a stepping-stone for our deliberations about world-vision and hope for the future—if any.
The way a crow
Shook down on me
The dust of snow
From a hemlock tree
Has given my heart
A change of mood
And saved some part
Of a day I had rued.Surely you will remember a similar experience of your own: some quirky little incident made you smile, changed your mood, and suddenly the world looked brighter. If this ever happened to you, the key for understanding a causal chain of great consequence is in your hand: any change in attitude changes the way one sees the world, and this in turn changes the way one acts. When Robert Frost claims that the crow’s little trick “saved” part of a day he had rued, or of which he repented, he means this in the full sense of a redeeming change of heart. When he got home, I’m sure he greeted Mrs. Frost in a better mood than he would have been able to do without the crow’s nudge. And there is no telling what this did to her—and to the way she treated the dog afterwards, or talked more kindly to her neighbor.
He continues to suggest five small, easily adopted ways to bring this gratitude into your life and, consequently, into the world:
1. Say one word today that will give a fearful person courage.
All gratitude expresses trust. Suspicion will not even recognize a gift as gift: who can prove that it isn’t a lure, a bribe, a trap? Gratefulness has the courage to trust and so overcomes fear. The very air has been electrified by fearfulness these days, a fearfulness fostered and manipulated by politicians and the media. There lies our greatest danger: fear perpetuates violence. Mobilize the courage of your heart. Say one word today that will give a fearful person courage.
2. Make a firm resolution never to repeat stories and rumors that spread fear.
Because gratitude expresses courage, it spreads calm. Calm of this kind is quite compatible with deep emotions. In fact, mass hysteria fostered by the media betrays a morbid curiosity rather than deep feeling—superficial agitation rather than a deep current of compassion. The truly compassionate ones are calm and strong. Make a firm resolution never to repeat stories and rumors that spread fear. From the stillness of your heart’s core reach out. Be calm and spread calm.
3. Make contact with people whom you normally ignore
When you are grateful, your heart is open—open towards others, open for surprise. When disasters hit we often see remarkable examples of this openness: strangers helping strangers sometimes in heroic ways. Others turn away, isolate themselves, dare even less than at other times to look at each other. Violence begins with isolation. Break this pattern. Make contact with people whom you normally ignore—eye-contact at least—with the cashier at the supermarket, someone on the elevator, a beggar. Look a stranger in the eyes today and realize that there are no strangers.
4. Give someone an unexpected smile today
You can feel either grateful or alienated, but never both at the same time. Gratefulness drives out alienation; there is not room for both in the same heart. When you are grateful you know that you belong to a network of give-and-take and you say “yes” to that belonging. This “yes” is the essence of love. You need no words to express it; a smile will do to put your “yes” into action. Don’t let it matter to you whether or not the other one smiles back. Give someone an unexpected smile today and so contribute your share to peace on earth.
5. Listen to the news today and put at least one item to the test of Common Sense.
What your gratefulness does for yourself is as important as what it does for others. Gratefulness boosts your sense of belonging; your sense of belonging in turn boosts your Common Sense—not the conventional mind set which we often confuse with it. The common sense that springs from gratefulness is incompatible with a set mind. It is just another name for thinking wedded to cosmic intelligence. Your “yes” to belonging attunes you to the common concerns shared by all human beings—all beings for that matter. In a world we hold in common, nothing else makes sense but Common Sense. We have only one enemy: Our common enemy is violence. Common Sense tells us: we can stop violence only by stopping to act violently; war is no way to peace. Listen to the news today and put at least one item to the test of Common Sense.
The five steps I am suggesting here are small, but they work. It helps that they are small: anyone can take them. Imagine a country whose citizens—maybe even its leaders—are brave, calm, and open towards each other; a country whose people realize that all human beings belong together as one family and must act accordingly; a country guided by Common Sense. To the extent to which we show ourselves not hateful but grateful this becomes reality.
Who would have thought that a prankish crow shaking down snow from a hemlock tree could inspire this vision of a sane world? Well, if we leave it to the crows, there is still hope.
Small steps; big pay-off. And, to remember, keep your eyes open for the birds. They are there, singing songs of hope.
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