Pamela Stead Jones

“Childhood is the world of miracle and wonder; as if creation rose, bathed in the light, out of the darkness, utterly new and fresh and astonishing.  The end of childhood is when things cease to astonish us.”

– Eugene Ionesco

Does it seem as though your days flow colorlessly from one into the next?  Is there nothing left that amazes, surprises, or delights you?  Maybe it is time to invite a small child to come and spend some time reminding you that life is nothing less than a series of miracles waiting to be discovered and enjoyed.

Yesterday afternoon, we had a surprise visit from our littlest granddaughters, Cheyenne and Harper.  Grandpa put up the inflatable water slide, a relic from the days of our youngest children; and the little girls donned their matching pink swimsuits and dove right into some fun designed to beat the summer heat.

“Did you SEE that?” asked Harper, as she ran from her first landing to climb the ladder for another slide.  Yes, I thought, I’ve seen that a thousand times, performed by more than a dozen kids; but it surprised me that her wide-eyed delight eliminated any need on my part to feign enthusiasm.  There is nothing quite like watching a child experience the world for the first time!  It rekindles our own sense of awe at the wonders of life and carries us along to a place where everything is new.

We watched the girls climb and slide for more than an hour, laughing at each landing and hurrying back to the ladder each time as though the newness never diminished one bit.  When the cold water set their teeth to chattering, we moved on for a while to bubble-blowing.

It takes a lot of concentration to blow bubbles, especially when you are young enough to see them as serious fun.

They danced and they twirled and they left a trail of bubbles that giggled and floated through the magical world of childhood on a hot summer day.  I watched as they worked at their serious business of keeping the yard supplied with bubbles galore; and as I did, a child within me awakened from her deep adult sleep and began to float through the air along with the bubbles to a dreamy place she remembered from a time long ago.  I looked down from my flight and saw little Harper, bubble wand in one hand and blue popsicle in the other.  ”Did you SEE that?” she cried again, as a bubble drifted away behind her.

Today, as we venture out into the familiar world where we live our lives, let’s try to see it through the eyes of our inner child.  Let’s look with delight at each thing we see and try to remember the excitement we felt when we experienced life for the very first time.  Take a slide or two.  Pick some flowers.  Grab your bubble wand — and don’t forget your popsicle!

Drum Circle

♥

Singing, our hearts arrived.

We took our seats,

Began to play

The rhythms of our souls.

♥

Opening, our hearts played on.

We wove our rhythms,

Strand by strand,

Into a cloth of common threads.

♥

Soaring, our spirits joined

Listening,

We heard our drums

Ring out the song of All-That-Is.

♥

Singing, our hearts united.

We sang the song

Of shared Creation,

And soon we played as one.

♥

©Pamela Stead Jones 2011

“Look at us, said the violets blooming at her feet, all last winter we slept in the seeming death but at the right time God awakened us, and here we are to comfort you.”

– Edward Payson Roe

One of my favorite parts of Spring is the return of the violets.  My childhood home had a long hedge of spirea bushes that divided the backyard from a sloping rock garden that covered the hill that divided the lawn from the driveway below.  The rock garden was filled with many delicate flowers — not the sort that survived well when picked and taken indoors.  I was not allowed to gather them, but only to enjoy them where they grew.  The violets were different.  They grew by the hundreds, voluntarily, beneath the cascading white waterfalls of the spirea, hidden in the shady places untouched by the sun.  We could pick all we wanted, and still they would bloom again and again.  Some of my first gifts for my mother were fistfuls of violets; and she always treated them as treasures, putting them in water in a fancy little vase that was just the right size.

The violets seem to have followed me; and now they dot my own backyard, bringing spots of color to the lawn underneath the apple tree and in the shady nooks behind the shed.  I was mowing one day and feeling sad that I would be trimming them, so I came inside and did some looking on the internet for suggestions on transplanting them to a safe location.  What popped up as a result of my search was this:

“How do I get rid of wild violets in my lawn?  I have an invasion of wild violets in my lawn.  How do I get rid of them?”

An invasion of violets?  It sounded so war-like and menacing.  How do I get rid of an invasion of violets.

I have always seen the violets as colorful little expressions of hope in an otherwise monochromatic world.  Certainly, there were flowers on the other side of the hedge, but they belonged to someone else; and I knew I could not own them.  The violets, on the other hand, were freely given to me — a gift, planted right in my own backyard.  No matter how many I picked, they would return again and again to delight me simply by continuing to bloom, regardless of their lack of cultivation.  It almost seemed that the more I picked, the more they bloomed.  Perhaps that is what defines them, for some people, as a weed.

How often do we look beyond the hedge to the beauty that lies out of reach and forget to see the tiny spots of color that lie in the shade of the bushes?  Do we compare the two sides of the hedge and become disdainful that the gifts we are given seem to small or insignificant, or do we stoop down and pick a fistful of hope and allow the color into our lives?  Let’s pick some violets today — a fistful or two — and when we are done, let’s share them with someone who could use a little color in their life.  Perhaps they will see the beauty.  Perhaps they will call it weeds and toss it aside.  Either way, when we pick the violets, we may encourage more to grow.

And, for the record, solution #3 to controlling invasive violets was, “learn to live with them and enjoy them.”

“And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same.”

— Nelson Mandela

How quickly the days fly by.  Once again, I find myself looking at the blank slate of a brand new week.  I try to remember what last Monday brought my way; and only a few, dim snippets of memory remain of the day.  I know that I lived it, and I know that it was full of hours and minutes and moments of life; but what defines it best as a new week approaches is the sense of anticipation I carry with me today.  I suppose I could worry that my mind is beginning to slow.  I suppose I could be concerned that the events of only a week ago seem so vague and unimportant.  Instead, I take heart in the idea that I am living right now, in this moment, and not clinging to times that are past and events that are over and done.

What matters in the end are not the events of our lives, but the way we live them.  What I do remember as I look back to last week is the joy, the delight, the sadness, the seriousness — the whole range of human experience that was part of my interaction with others.  And most of all, I remember the light.  I remember the times when my own light shone brightly, illuminating my path and showing me the next step I would take in a sometimes dark world.  I remember with gratitude the times I was blessed with beacons, with glows, with flashes of light from others whose light would combine with my own and make it just a little bit brighter.

It is said that memories dim with time; but I would like to reach a point where I try to look back and remember the past, and all I can see is the Light.  If the details must fade, let them fade in comparison to the blinding, white glow of Love, Peace, and Spirit that overpowers their insignificance with beauty and truth.

As we strike out today into a new week of living, let us all remember to shine.  Nothing we say, nothing we do, nothing we produce will have such a profound impact on others as shining our light — it will give them permission to shine their own.

“If I’m going to sing like someone else, then I don’t need to sing at all.”

– Billie Holiday

For the last year, I have been photographing dandelions.  For some reason, I just love those little yellow weeds; and the beauty of their flowers at each different stage of their life cycle just captivates me.  One of these days I plan to compile an album of dandelion portraits; and when I collect them from all my saved pictures, I know there will be hundreds to choose from.

Part of what attracts me to dandelions is their wild status as weeds.  Their variety is amazing, and I just can’t get enough of looking at the many different and wonderful ways they sneak into the manicured green of people’s lawns.  When I walk with my camera, I take shots of any interesting or beautiful things along the way.  Garden flowers also call out to me, and I love their varied colors and shapes and the way people assemble them to bring color to their homes.  But one or two pictures of these straight, uniform, cultivated blossoms are enough to satisfy me.  They sing the song of their gardener — and it is beautiful, indeed.

What I love about my dandelions is their individuality.  I never know when or where I will find one.  There are no reliable dandelion beds along my walking path — they just pop up wherever they have the notion to sing out their song; and it is a different variation each time they take center stage.  I hope that I bring beauty to the world as I walk.  I hope there is something of me that captures someone’s attention in a good and uplifting way.  I hope that when I speak my truth or sing my song that I do it in the dandelion fashion — colorfully, unexpectedly, and with pure joy.  Maybe that is the reason I love them so much.  Maybe I am a dandelion myself.

I live in a very small town.  Often, if I want to attend an event, it means I must travel to a larger community than my own, navigating unfamiliar roads and the logistics of parking and finding my way.  Last night, I walked out my back door, down the alley I walk each morning, and into the beloved park that is my own familiar place to be.  It was time for the Ben Event — a gathering that grew out of one family’s tragic loss of their child, a gathering that celebrated his legacy by helping other families and other children whose special needs set them apart.  It is a celebration of differences and a time to recognize the Spirit that shows us both our uniqueness as individuals and our oneness with all of humanity.  As I prepared to leave my house, I pulled up my Facebook page and left this status message:  ”Heading out to the Ben Event for a dose of joy.”  I was not disappointed.

I told some of Ben’s story a while back, on the first anniversary of his passing.  It is hard to believe that more than two years have passed since the last time a smiling Ben ran up to greet me with one of his world-class hugs.  As we gathered last night to honor his memory and spread his legacy of love to other graduates with special needs, I looked around at all the people who gathered at the bandshell in “Ben’s park,” one of the places he loved best; and I wondered if each of them was thinking of the last time he had hugged them and greeted them with his spirit of unconditional love.  It still amazes me that one young man — someone people saw as limited — touched more lives in twenty-four years than we could hope to touch in a much longer lifespan.

In the aftermath of the loss of their son, Kent and Ardy Yorgey had an idea.  They would establish a scholarship fund at Emmaus High School — Ben’s alma mater — to benefit a special-needs graduate who embodied the spirit of their son.  They would recognize another graduate who, like Ben, would leave behind the fertile social arena of school and move on to an adult world where jobs would be difficult or impossible to find and where isolation would become a way of life.  They would call attention to the tremendous need of families with special adults and try to make a small difference in the life of one other child like their son.

Small dreams sometimes grow beyond what we can imagine.  This year, the Ben Yorgey Foundation awarded $11,000 in scholarships to thirteen graduates from high schools all over the Lehigh Valley.  The recipients arrived in a stretch Hummer and were greeted by the crowd as the V.I.P.’s they were.  Some  bounced out of their limo with greater-than-average exuberance.  Some were overwhelmed by the noise and confusion.  Some were assisted down the step by helpers who waited with their walkers so they could join their friends at the front of the stage.  Some blended in to the waiting crowd so well that until their names were announced, we were not sure whether they were being recognized or simply along for the ride.  Award certificates were presented, speeches were made, and the winners moved to their front-row seats to await the entertainment.

The Large Flowerheads took the stage; and from the first drumbeat to the very last note, those front-row seats stood empty as the dancing began.  Old and young, each unique in their own special ways, honorees, band fans, families, and friends joined together in moving to the music that set their feet to dancing.  My mind returned to another night in this same park, under the same sycamore tree, when more than a thousand hug recipients gathered for Ben’s memorial service.  ”Ben would have loved this,” I remember thinking on that occasion; and the same thought came to mind as I watched his friends dance and whirl and laugh and clap.

Years will pass; and before long the students who are honored will be people who never met Ben.  As others continue to grow and to age, Ben will remain forever 24; but his legacy of love — his example of the unbridled and unconditional love placed in him by his Creator — will continue to touch others and encourage them to see new people, not as strangers, but as friends just waiting to be loved.  ”Hey!  I know you!” Ben would shout as he approached.  Perhaps he had a special gift for seeing the Spirit of God in every person he met.  Perhaps it was that familiar spirit that he recognized in others.  I certainly could feel it last night as I sat surrounded by all the strangers who were my friends, all because we knew one special young man.

Help keep Ben’s legacy alive for future graduates.  Go to the link above, and click on the Donate button.  Many small acts of generosity combine to create large miracles!

“It is only for the sake of those without hope that hope is given to us.”

– Walter Benjamin

Are you hopeful at the start of another day?  Do you venture into the unpredictable world with excitement at knowing that something special is waiting for you to discover it before the day is over?  If this is the way you view your world, be thankful — you have been given the gift of hope.

Hope is based on a general sense of well-being that grows from a constant appreciation for the smallest things that bring us joy.  As with all good gifts, we must learn how to use hope in order for it to grow.  Once we have opened our eyes to a ll the wonderful things that remind us of how beautiful life can be, we have no choice but to live with anticipation — with hope — every day of our lives.  Only yesterday, I saw a tiny goldfinch taking a bath in my neighbor’s birdbath — and I was thankful that water is abundant enough for a little yellow fellow to splash and preen.  I found a ripe tomato, one of the first of the season, growing in my garden; and I was thankful that we have an abundance of food that nourishes us and keeps us alive.  I found a tiny plant growing at the edge of the vegetable patch.  It probably is a weed, but it was filled with the most beautiful, dainty white flowers I could hope to enjoy; and I was thankful that beauty lines the path wherever I seem to walk.

If you also are blessed with hope, remember to share it.  Those of us with the hope virus should be purposeful about spreading it and infecting others.  Call another person to watch the bird, share the tomato, or marvel at the delicate beauty of a flower.  Let your joy spill out in response to the tiny things that bless your day.  Remember that it is for the sake of those without hope that hope is given to us.

“If you look closely at a tree you’ll notice its knots and dead branches, just like our bodies.  What we learn is that beauty and imperfection go together wonderfully.”

– Matthew Fox

I have two feet.  They serve me well.  Each morning when I wake up and throw my feet over the edge of the bed, I plant them on the floor and feel confident that they will get me where I need to go.  One of my feet was turned inward when I was born.  Some time spent in casts when I was an infant straightened it out and allowed it to fit inside of shoes — something for which I am grateful, even today.  Its straightness saw me through loafers and Mary Janes and even a few pairs of high heels in my younger years.  It carried me through cartwheels and handsprings and one of the fastest quarter-mile runs in gym class.  It pointed daintily during my years as a synchronized swimmer.  I think I probably grew up with a greater-than-average appreciation for my feet than most kids I knew.

I still have two feet.  I have used them well.  Now that I have passed sixty, it appears that my feet are beginning to complain about all the places I’ve made them walk.  They have carried me through five pregnancies, hiked over rocks, chased my children from birth to adulthood, and now walk briskly to keep up with my little grandchildren.  They have withstood long days of carrying my body upright through a busy life.  My feet speak to me these days; and what they are telling me is that it is time for me to return the favor and take care of them.

I don’t wear sandals any more.  It’s not that I would mind baring my feet to the world; it’s more that they — especially my special foot — need the support of orthotics that can only be contained inside oxfords or sneakers.  Just like the gnarled old trees that I love to stare at when I take my walks, my special foot has begun to twist and turn and contract.  It makes me wonder if there is something in its life cycle that desires a return to its original shape.  I sit in the evenings with toe-separators spreading and stretching and pulling it straight.  I work at keeping it shoe-worthy; and I wonder whether I asked too much of it through the years.

I think of the appeal of driftwood and the twists and turns of the tired old branches of ancient trees; and I look at my twisted old foot.  There is something beautiful in discovering that not all things useful need to be pleasing to the eye.  There is beauty in perfection and there is equal, but contrasting, beauty in the imperfections of our world.  The next time you see an old, gnarled tree with bare and twisted branches, consider the beauty in the storms that tree has weathered.  Look at the graceful way it has twisted and turned as it has withstood the winds and weathering of a life well-lived.

I have two feet.  They serve me well.  When I prop them up at the end of a busy day, it is the imperfect one that shows me all the places I have been and calls up the memories of all the things I have done with such facility throughout my life — carried by my imperfection to places that I can hardly believe I’ve visited.

We walk through life as perfectly as we are able.  Isn’t it ironic that it is our imperfection that calls forth the uniqueness that each of us knows as our own?

“Life is the sacred mystery singing to itself, dancing to its drum, telling tales, improvising, playing”
– Manitongquat

The music of the universe plays all around us.  Do you dare to dance?  When the sun rises in the morning, do you hear the melody of daylight playing in your mind?  When the rain falls on the roof and pelts the windows, do you hear the whole percussion section, beating out a rhythm to set your feet in motion?  When the moon rises silently in the deep night sky, do you hear the poignant strains of one tiny, silver flute that echoes through the surrounding darkness and reminds you that you are not alone?

When the sacred mystery sings the song of life, each of us has a part to play.  Perhaps you are a colorful flower, opening with the trumpet’s fanfare.  Perhaps you are the flowing brook, playing its chiming melody on the rocks in its path.  Perhaps you are the expansive blue sky, singing out its crescendo of horns and calling the clouds to fly in the wind as the reeds send them hurrying on their way.  The cymbals crash as lightning flashes; the muted kettle drum plays the soft sound of a snowy morning.

Whatever your part might be, don’t forget to dance.  Shake your rattle; beat your drum; sing your song.  The symphony of life is waiting for you to play your part.  The song will not be complete until you add your piece.

“You must live in the present, launch yourself on every wave, find your eternity in each moment.”

– Henry David Thoreau

Anyone who has been to the ocean and ventured beyond the shoreline to the quiet water beyond will tell you that the easiest way to get back to shore is to catch a wave and let it give you a ride to the land.  There is little success in opposing the ocean’s flow.  Resistance only seems to increase the intensity of each wave; and after a while, we find that we are losing our balance and tumbling into the water.

It is good to have direction in life and to persevere in completing the goals we have set; but sometimes we lose sight of the fact that there might be new methods or new directions that would carry us along on a different path toward our goals than the one we had planned.  When we become ingrained in doing things by only one method, we risk turning our path into a rut that becomes so deep that there is no escape from habits that both limit us and sap us of the joy of living.

Think of that swimmer, floating in the ocean beyond the spot where the waves break on the shore.  She has a choice when the time comes to return to land.  She can walk back and forth, parallel to the shoreline, waiting for a break in the tide to allow her to angle her way home, avoiding the surf; or she can watch for a new wave to form and move to the spot where she can hop aboard and enjoy the ride.  Either way, she will reach her goal; but one trip will leave her taxed and tired and the other will fill her with energy and excitement.

Just like the ocean, life sends us new waves all the time — waves that can be obstacles or catalysts, depending on the way we choose to greet them.  As I become older and more habitual in my ways, I find that it is good for me to ride the waves that wash away the edges of my rut.  It is far easier to keep walking on land that has been made smooth by the many different waves we ride than to be contained by a rut that grows ever deeper each time we refuse to look beyond its walls.

I must go now to my day.  I am sure there is a wave out there just waiting to carry me to something exciting.  I think it just may be life.