The Magic of Saying Yes
We almost didn’t go.
I was heading out the door to meet a friend when I got her text.
“It’s supposed to rain all afternoon. Do you want to postpone until we get better weather?”
My body had buzzed with low-grade anxiety all day, like electricity in the air portending a storm, as I plowed through an endless to-do list. Was this my out? An excuse to stay home? For an introvert who loves receiving invitations, but is rarely disappointed when plans are cancelled, it could spell relief.
I picked up the phone and could hear the hesitation in my friend’s voice as we made a last-minute “go or no go” decision. With busy lives and full calendars, it could be weeks before we’d have the opportunity to meet again. I didn't want to risk it.
“How about I come to your place and then we decide? We can always sit by your fire with a cup of tea.”
When I got to her apartment, the weather looked ominous – steely gray clouds hovering just above the skyline looking ready to spill their contents at any moment. This time it was me who hesitated. “Tea?” I suggested.
“Come on, let’s go,” she responded.
We walked up the stony path to The Japanese Garden and entered another world. Standing before a mighty cherry tree, we gazed at its sturdy brown trunk and branches, holding masses of delicate, pink blossoms like dancers, twirling ballerinas in the air across a stage of soft green moss. It was impossible to simply walk past. Nature forced the garden’s visitors to stop. And witness. This singular performance. Because the rains were coming. These blossoms, so confidently held aloft by their partners, would soon fall, becoming a carpet of pink snow on the ground below.
My friend and I continued to wander through the garden, our conversation and pace slow enough to look around at a garden renewing itself and, in turn, filling us as well. A small shrub captured our attention. Tiny vanilla-colored, bell-shaped flowers – “fairy flowers,” – I said, hung like lanterns from the branches. Too early yet for leaves, the branches were bare except for tiny tufts of moss that looked like they’d been precisely and artfully placed.
“By human hand or nature?” I wondered.
Time, which had stopped still during our visit, intruded. We both had places to be. But as we descended the steps, Mother Nature had one last surprise for this afternoon that kept unfolding in unexpected ways. In the distance, Mt. Hood took center stage. Her white gown dazzled in the glow of late afternoon light, set off by clouds that modestly covered the surrounding hills and allowed the diva to shine.
I silently clapped applauding a day that had given me nature, beauty, connection, and unexpected joy. This day had given me everything – except rain.