The Ridiculously Simple Secret to a Beautiful Life

It’s the little mysteries that make me scratch my chin, as if chin scratching could potentially stimulate wisdom. I cannot understand small complexities. Such as, why is the fridge constantly bare if I’m always grocery shopping? Why is my wallet always empty if I spend so much time working? Who are these wry leprechauns leaving tiny messes all over my home? And why are they framing my poor sons, my well-mannered, wholly innocent sons who swear with both hands to heaven that they have done all their chores.

Aside from the above irritations, I can depend on a few things in life: messiness, monotony and occasional misery. But here’s what I’ve learned: A good life is not necessarily an easy, conflict-free existence. Avoiding suffering is not the goal; finding meaning and cultivating gratitude is.

That said, here’s a little poem/essay/rant that I scraped from the attic of my experiences and neatly arranged on the page. This, I imagine, is the secret to a beautiful life...

What the Birds Know

Damp leaves cling to the pavement in jagged peels of gold.

My feet sink as I walk on the soggy bits of them.

There is a fog in the air and it paints the landscape with a milky kind of mystery.

It’s cold, and the wind rakes a cruel claw across my face and through my hair.

The dog snorts at the end of her leash, her face probing the ground with a curious, wet nose.

The birds chatter and flap in feathered heaps on the branches above us.

From their tone I can tell they do not plead for sunshine as I do. They are want-less.

I doubt they even notice the grey haze that drapes the day like a dingy scarf. These birds are all business.

They do not stop, as I do, to feel the atmosphere or contemplate the meaning of life.

How foolish would that be?

The wise birds know that a beautiful life must be coaxed, not with questions or demands, but with a spirited melody.

Sweet and gracious, the sage birds chitter and flutter without ceasing.

Gratitude is their flute, the instrument of their song.

This is what the birds know.

Rica Lewis is a professional writer/editor who is happiest when at her keyboard or on her yoga mat. She's generally positive, wholly imperfect, and a firm believer in profanity to purge the soul. The above content, or a version of it may have appeared on her website. Follow her blogging adventures at Yoga Mat Monkey.com.