Bookends: A jar of daffodils and the pursuit of happiness.

February 2, 2021 Shepherd State Park, Mississippi

Across the bayou now, egrets rise from the water sparkling through the green screen of palmettos, and tangled brush. The late sun gives a golden cast to the leathery leaves which carpet the ground, rustling, a chilling breeze quickens the water; it ripples saying, it’s almost time to go in, start my simple supper. A few more moments, thoughts, before the light fades.

Having just finished reading, The Power Worshippers, by Katherine Stewart, published in 2020, and now The True Believer, by Eric Hoffer, published in 1951, and relevant still, I think, what makes us band together: to create friendship, community? to enact change? to try for something good? Or, are we prodded by frustration and anger into thinking, “We don’t have enough. Everyone’s out to get us and we’re going to get them back, you’ll see!” Or, “I know I’m right and you need to do it my way or I’ll stomp on you, you are too different. We want us all to be the same!” And so we join together, for good, for ill. Wait a minute. We need to listen to our own inner dialogue, what is it saying to us? What are the words that run around and around in our heads? Are those your words, your thoughts, or someone else’s?

The small picture is so much easier than the big sweep of nation building. As if trying to rake up the myriad oak, hickory, magnolia and sweetgum leaves, the millions of long leaf pine needles, we could separate them, make them stay in their own corner of the forest. Each has its unique shape and purpose, but they exist together, the whole ecosystem of the bayou is one tapestry, a microcosmic metaphor of our big, complex struggle to learn to live together in the pursuit of happiness.

Why do we so often turn everything upside down and watch chaos ensue? Again and again, we repeat the patterns of history, thinking, this time, this time, things will be better, just listen to me and do it my way. We throw around words like freedom and liberty. But am I free if I insist on telling you how to live your life? Wouldn’t it be better if I focused on my own, the energy of finding something creative to do, some satisfying worthwhile project that gives me pleasure? If you can’t think of anything, take up birdwatching. It’s surprisingly pleasurable and doesn’t cost much, you can do it almost anywhere.

But what wounds are these that want to hurt others, speak ill of them, where do they come from? When did they start? Is it OK just to apologize? How do we manage our behaviors so that curtesy flows through our veins, kindness flows from our hearts and into our words? How do we build bridges so that we can walk back and forth to the other side, step into another’s moccasins, and with kindness and respect, listen? Listen, we must listen until we hear the pain of the heart’s core and with acts of kindness begin to heal. I see no other way.

It begins with how we treat our youngest children, infants and toddlers. Did you know that by the second year of life children have learned two of life’s most important lessons? What are these lessons, you might ask? Trust and Empathy. By the age of two. Trust and Empathy. Ponder the meaning of this.

And remember, to a two year old, birds aren’t “birdies.” A young child can certainly tell the difference between a crow and a pigeon, a robin and a goldfinch. They are all in the same neighborhood, peacefully coexisting in their own pursuit of happiness. Just like these breezy leaves that are dancing around my chair.

It’s time to go in now. I’ll heat up some vegetable soup and slice some good crusty bread. Are you hungry? Would you like to join me? Friends come in all shapes and sizes, colors and points of view. How fortunate we are, how fortunate we are tonight. Tell me your story; you listen to me, it’s time I listen to you, dear friends, my dear and wonderful friends.

I scribbled some notes late last evening

Reading them now is as much of a hodge-podge

As this last year, as though between bookends:

From February to February,

We’ve been flat out, shelved, getting dustier,

Confined, what to do today?

We empty the back of the freezer;

Old soups, with a sprinkling of parsley

Not so bad after all.

Who hasn’t watched too much news?

Felt they were sliding under a polar vortex

Of untruths and mis-direction?

But look, there between the bookends

Of our isolation

A jar of yellow daffodils in bloom.

Yesterday, after the vote of acquittal,

A wide band of pale sun emerged as hope itself

From the gray of disappointment

We march on, two walking sticks, stay steady

There, with grippers on our winter boots,

Inoculated yet muffled still behind our masks

Spring will come again,

It always does.

With thanks to violin teacher, Vicki Archer, more music – less talk of the news.