Hard to believe?

There are some things in life that make you feel your heart or your senses “scarce can take them in.”

When you feel unconditional love from someone and wonder at the blessing.

When you feel that way toward someone and your heart, literally, like the grinch, grows in size.

Way back, years and years ago in high school, Ralph Waldo Emerson struck a chord with me.

While getting my English degree, I studied him and some of his contemporaries (Thoreau & Hawthorne) in even more depth, and feel now (though I didn’t think such things then) that perhaps I knew him. Perhaps I was one of the Alcott family, whose father was a good friend of these men and women.


Emerson espoused and wrote in the Transcendentalist movement popular in the mid 1800s in New England.  Transcendentalist’s basic tenets are that God is inherent in all of us and in nature and that individual intuition is the highest source of knowledge. Emerson was always encouraging others to believe in their own genius and to trust their ideas and instinct.


There was a buzz of energy during that time period. Across the Atlantic, the likes of Renoir and Monet were painting in a new unheard of vein – Impressionism.

Monet wrote “I perhaps owe becoming a painter to flowers.”


There seem to be dark and light, receding and expanding periods in history. What becomes a zeitgeist? Do we come, as spiritual beings, in bunches with an energy, collectively reaching toward light?

“I declare this world is so beautiful

I can hardly believe it exists…”

-Ralph Waldo Emerson

After a visit last week to rows of ruffled, intricate, joyful irises, I found myself once again, as I have so very many times, nodding in agreement with Ralph.


Really. Do you not, if you stop and consider each fold and ripple, all the variations in shades that deliciously blend and complement one another, each sequence of opening so perfect, find it hard to believe that such beauty exists?

Can you scarce take in the miracle of it?

Do you find yourself marveling at the gracious bestowal on us as human beings in June?

I do.

And it’s silently laid at our feet.

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