Is it any wonder Wordsworth wrote about the daffodils?
I’m sitting quietly in my chair this morning, with just a coffee and the birds singing louder to drown out the motorway traffic.
And my inner eye turns to memory. But because I have almost zero visual memory or imagination, it’s a felt sense more than a vision.
The memory is this: of a day with a friend, over 30 years ago, strolling around the village I grew up in, for hours. Laughing, talking about everything and nothing, dropping in to see people, distracting them from homework, and annoying their mums.
Now, as it happens, I met this guy when he started dating a friend of mine. He was a terrible boyfriend to her in just about every way, but a brilliant, amazing, clever, argumentative, embarrassing, fun friend. He went on to be a terrible boyfriend to a few other people, then fell in love fast, married at 21, and we lost touch.
The joy of such little visualisation comes in the feeling, unmediated by images. The feeling of being hugged by the memory. And my attention is freed to wander, to call closer other pockets of reflection of that same felt sense of friendship without condition.
The tears come.
What is it that’s important to me? And what’s it got to do with daffodils?
When I take off the blinkers that say all I want is more coffee, and to not live within sound of a motorway. When I get off my high (oh-so-high) horse of “FFS”, “come on folks, we can do better than this”, and of trying to find a truth in this relative world. What do I find?
Grace is what is important. I used to say happiness, but that can be seen as exclusive. Grace is happiness, but grace is also peace, contentment, joy, elation, excitement, the fire of clean anger, and sweet sadness.
Grace is the knowing of ourselves as love, freedom and abundance. To live with grace is to live this knowing, lightly.
Grace holds every life valuable, holds no sin unforgivable, holds the knowing of our own being as our only gift to the world. That’s a full stop. Period to my North American friends. The knowing of our being is the beginning and end of it. Whether you are an activist, a coach, a massage therapist, a parent, a banker, a doctor, a dog walker, or someone sitting quietly in her window, looking at the trees.
Grace is the staying true to love, freedom and abundance, as we live this life that appears. Whatever you do.
Grace is the recollection of a host of golden daffodils, stretching forever. Grace is the felt sense of a perfect hug.
What I want for you is grace. What I want for me is grace.
So, if you happen to read Wordsworth today, feel your way into it. Feel your way into the grace of dancing with the daffodils.