I realized it–again–this morning, while chatting with the Big Guy. I say “again” because, while the awareness is always there, it is often submerged in the fuss and flurry of everyday life. To paraphrase Albert Camus (since the exact wording of the quote escapes me at the moment), in the midst of darkness, I learned that there is in me an infinite summer.
Deep down, the still, small voice speaks. What does it say? All is well.
And I believe that’s true, whatever events may be unfolding up here on the surface of thought. We are faulty, limited creatures, methinks, mostly blind and mostly deaf to God’s amazing reality. Listen closely–there is a symphony in the warmest breeze and, although the storm may reverberate with brass, it’s still part of the music, isn’t it? It’s the crescendo, the big finish.
Invariably, I find that it’s the simple things that enable me to carry on when the trail gets bumpy: a prayer, nothing fancy or formal, but from the heart– a pet to snuggle with, birds singing and peonies popping and kind friends (like all of you). Writing stories and doing art–it’s all joy. To me, joy is a state of Grace–and it thrives in the very midst of sorrows, be they large or small. Joy is the tremor of pure delight that ran through my little great nephew, at his birthday party, when he realized that there were more goodies in the pinata. All those candies and tiny toys had rained down onto his grandparents’ patio, and yet there was more! The sweet shock of that discovery was visible and, as joy will, it instantly spread to all the rest of us. Joy is the knowledge that, beneath the deepest snow, seeds are stirring, and bulbs are readying themselves for a glorious and vibrant resurrection, come spring–just as hope stirs within all of us, if we’re willing to notice.
Today is my birthday, so for all my good intentions, I probably won’t get much writing done. Since it’s also my editor’s birthday (have a happy one, Paula), I might just get by with goofing off a little.
Just this once.