Missing

I sat on the edge of the cliff, propped up against my favorite tree, writing. A storm was coming. The ominous clouds moved across the sky, casting shadows on the valley below. One field fell into darkness, then the next. I watched them disappear. I scribbled away at the pages, determined to fill them before they were drowned. I raced against the elements.

There had been posters along the way, bold face type pleading for attention, big round eyes and an inviting smile. I stared at her picture. I stared at the word “missing.” It is a sad word, a lonely word, a word that pleads with a tender kind of hope. Find her. Help her. Please.

Her body was found at the bottom of the waterfall. The posters stayed up for days. They haunted us.

I didn’t know her. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her at the guesthouse next door, dancing with the others on the porch while they banged their drums and sang their songs to the mountains. But she could have been there. She could have been.

Or she could have already left for her walk into the woods alone. She could have already been on the path to the waterfall when the clouds, swollen with rain, began to slowly emerge above the peaks. She could have already been standing at the falls, listening to the rushes of the cascading water quicken. Faster and faster, it fell.

No one knew exactly how she fell with them. Perhaps she slipped, perhaps she jumped, perhaps the wind nudged her to the edge. No one knew if she was gone before she hit the water, or if it was instant, or if she lay there crying out for hours before the darkness came. Whatever happened, she left this world alone.

I thought of her as I sat alone, perched on the edge of the cliff, another storm making its way into the world. Six large birds flew above me, hovering on the fast approaching winds, escaping those places where the rain had already begun.

I wondered if they had looked for her, if they had seen her final moments on this earth, if maybe she hadn’t been alone after all. Maybe this flight was a tribute to her, or maybe, she was this flight. She was the birds and their wings and the air beneath them. She was the impending rain and the shadowed fields and the earth that shook with thunder below my naked feet. She was the pages of my journal and the words I would fill them with. She was gone, but also still here. She was missed, but also no longer missing.

I do not know what death is. I have no idea what will happen after I’m gone, but I’d like to think, I’d like to believe, that the birds will know the second my heart stops beating. I’d like to believe that they will take me in their gentle wings and, if even for an instant, allow me to hover above the world and know what it feels like to soar. I’d like to believe that I’d see below, poised on a cliff, scribbling away to evade the imminent rain, a young writer who has only just begun the long story of her life.

“Yes,” I will think to myself. “I was only beginning, too.”

Dancing with the Daffodils

They’re early, of course, because of the unseasonably warm weather. Still, it feels right that it’s the first day of March and the daffodils have begun to bloom. They are some of my favorites.

Each spring I am delighted by the sight of their happy, yellow faces. I am in love with those little cups and saucers, filled with pools of nectar, waiting openly for the bees.

As a child I confused their name with acrobats (no doubt it was the three syllables, the “o” in the middle), and felt constant frustration with my mother for not seeing what I was pointing out. “Look! Acrobats!” I would cry. No one could see what I saw.

This morning I see their ruffled edges tossing and turning in the breeze. I see the way they have opened their bowls of sweetness, early perhaps, but not a moment too soon. I see the way every year they arrive, accomplished, blossoming into light.

And when you see anything, it leads you to see more and more. Like the way each spring the earth rediscovers laughter, and fills my garden with its colorful giggling. Like the way the daffodils rise, without ambition or fear or doubt. Like the way they simply continue to grow, from the deepest parts of their being, because it is their purpose to do so. I see they are alive, but also, I see their life, sprung from seeds of happiness, shimmering softly, like gold.

It is not officially spring, but I could believe it is. I could believe this new month is also a new season, and a new beginning. I could believe the morning light slipping in front of the stars represents more than the rotation of the earth. I could look into these happy, yellow faces and believe in something like a soul. I could. Most mornings, I do.

If I had another life, I would want to spend it like the daffodils. I would want my face to open each morning in a wild, eager way. I would want to be a cup filled with sweetness. I would want to wait patiently for others to drink me in. I would want to offer what I could – patience, happiness, light. I would want to be an example of joy.

I would want some child to confuse me with acrobats. I would be that exciting, that deserving of attention and praise. I would be bright like the sun. I would shimmer like gold. I would look like laughter. I wouldn’t worry or fear or hurry too soon into the changing seasons. I would just continue to grow from the seeds of my happiness because it is my purpose to do so. I would just blossom into light.

Most mornings, I do.

Because I don’t have another life. I have this one. And it is foolish to spend it wondering how long it will last, and then what, or what other lives may have been. It is foolish to look at these happy, yellow faces and see anything but a reflection of myself. I will rise and bloom again and again, until eventually, finally, I become the earth. Until then, why not shine?

It is a new month. It feels like a new season. I look at the daffodils and want to believe that their arrival means more than the unexpected warmth. I want to believe that they have opened their faces to a new beginning for us all.

And this morning, I do.