That Inner Flame

 Backyard zinnias, cosmos, lantana at Hoganvillaea Farm

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A THREAD OF LIGHT IV. August 25, 2013

We agree to work on incarnation while we live.

Make more and more of what we see come true.

Carry in our packs real food; free our shoes

of stones.  A climb like this will not appeal

to everyone, and most don’t yet conceive their chance.

But one who labors so–steady, constant–brings back

many stones–lost and never faceted by those 

who didn’t think they cared.  One who cares to be

in tune with rising sap, humming along the bark

toward leaf and light, can hold one hill in place,

and shelter in her branches many a joyful creature,

many a looping and ecstatic vine.  We have the sun

and we have life.  To be content in these, and in

that thread of truth residual in our core, our heart;

that sense, like a pulse beating, of what is good

and true and lovely; that surely is enough.

–Susannah, Teach Me to Love/Grace, Sing to Me.  1985, p. 81.

To envision what can be–is that not the

true gift?  Giving up, giving in, giving out–

all those ways tempt us, undo our belief

in our own power to change our lives, even

to change the world around us.  If we imagine

that each of us has, deeply planted, a small

but persistent flame in our depths that we

mustn’t on any account cease to guard, then

we know exactly what our life is about.  We

are guardians of that flame so easily 

extinguished by despair.  Others can assume

the role of flame extinguishers and do their

best to dismay and dishearten us, or events

can seem to conspire against what we work

for, what we feel compelled to do and to say,

but only we can douse our own flame.  Only 

we can deliver the death blow to our hopes.

Only we can hold off our own despair.  How?

Some days it feels like we are holding on

by our fingernails, but we do our best.

If we can’t stride, we stumble, but we

keep moving in the direction we know we 

must go.  Then to our surprise, we notice

the landscape has changed.  The grey

skies have yielded to perfect blue.

The fruit hangs ripe on the trees.

The red zinnias seem to burn with light.

The return of sun has the whole creation

humming.  Butterflies dip into the

yellow cosmos blooms.  A hummingbird

suspends herself over the lantana.  A

cardinal scolds from the fig tees.  The

hens circulate at my feet, watching for

figs I drop accidentally or on purpose.

I see the weeds I must dig out, the pear

limbs that need pruning.  Thinking ahead

to the work that waits for me, I feel no 

despair.  I remember how much I wanted

to live here on my own land, growing my

food, feeding myself and my friends.

I learned how.  This is the life I wanted,

and I made it possible, with help, but

that, too, required me to keep my

inward sun aflame.  In one way, it’s all

that matters.  Exactly how we manage it

is up to us, but that inner flame 

will help us if we let it.