The Brook Would Lose Its Song If You Removed The Rocks- Brook Would Lose Its Song If You Removed The Rocks-
American Proverb
Embrace Difficulties
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Tag Archives: joy
We Are Stardust
“At one time you were a mountain, you were a cloud. This is not poetry, this is science.” -Thich Nhat Hanh
Headwinds
I didn’t expect a difficult ride.
The trees weren’t blowing, I didn’t think there was a breeze. It was a sunny, happy morning.
So I headed north on the trail. The pedaling was hard. I dropped a gear. Still a struggle.
I mumbled, complaining about it the entire ride. Until the turn.
Heading south, I felt no wind at my back, but the ride was easy.
I saw the pair of cardinals, fluttering in their faithfulness.
The rabbits with their fuzzy faces full of grass, munching.
So many birds were singing.
Had I missed all this just moments before when I was riding north, complaining about unexpected struggles with my cycling?
Had I missed many other beautiful things in my life when I was in the middle of things not “going as planned?”
Probably.
Sky
I stood at the edge
of that high, high cliff
and saw the expanse of All.
I wanted to lean forward
and just fly – float- forever
so I could see everything that is offered.
Go into the Expanse that is not limited Self.
For a moment I imagined myself there.
Then I stepped back
to the grounding of the rocks and trees,
taking some of that Sky with me.
Nibble, Nibble, Chomp
Rain
She arrived with a flash.
I waited.
Waited.
Thunder rolled overhead.
I waited.
Waited.
Salvation poured over me.
.
Sit
I just wanted to sit on the steps.
No reason really.
Just sit.
Watch people. Do nothing.
I watched people walk by, sit on steps, talk, catch Uber rides, hail taxis, eat while walking.
There was a white dog trotting down sidewalk. Her fur was very clean. Very white. She had a proud, friendly prance. She was smiling.
Dogs smile you know.
It was sunny. Not hot. Not cold.
I don’t remember how long I sat.
Miracle.
Shoot The Morning Finger
What would cause you, young, late-20-something year old male, to “shoot me the finger” so aggressively early yesterday morning?
It was a sunny and not yet oppressively hot day. I was standing with my bike in the bike path, patiently waiting for all the cars to pass the cross road. I was stationed well back from the road so it was clear I wasn’t a threat to cars. I wasn’t going to somehow lurch out into the road causing you to brake or dodge me and my little bike.
I don’t even look like a cyclist. I don’t have the spandex. None of my clothes match. My helmet isn’t event same color as my fifteen year old bike. I don’t look like an athlete. How could I be a challenge of any sort?
There you drove though. You and your passenger seat buddy. He was looking straight forward and it was his huge grin that even made me look at your car. It was then that I saw you leaning over from the driver’s seat to shoot me the finger through the open window.
If you wanted to offend me you didn’t. Your action was irrelevant to me. I just wondered what is in you that would cause you to do such a thing.
The others cars cleared the road and I continued on the bike path. The little brown rabbit off on the side chewing his morning grass made me smile.
Freedom
“I live in the open mindedness of not knowing enough about anything.” — Mary Oliver
Ok Then, Just Write
I remember being scared to say out loud, “I want to be a writer.”
That’s not entirely true. I declared to my mother when I was 11 that I wanted to be a journalist for National Geographic Magazine. Her immediate response was,”Well then you’ll always be lonely.” I guess back then the thinking was still that restrictive for girls; maybe it still is. That deflating comment came from a very progressive mother, and it stung for decades.
It took me until age 40, yes 40, before I could declare to my husband and two closest, lifelong best friends that “I want to be a writer.” Seventeen years later, I’m still primarily writing in my journal. I tweet for my public professional persona. I submitted one short story once to one publication. They printed it, paid me, and the editor wrote me a note thanking me for sharing such a touching story.
I blog, sometimes.
More and more though I hear the deep voice of myself wonder”Why?” Why do I fight what my soul wants?
At this stage in life it doesn’t even matter if people like my writing. It’s more about my need to do what I was put here to do.
Write. Just write.
BethenyReid 