JOY ALONG THE WAY: SIGNPOSTS ALONG THE TRAIL OF JOY

Let me walk softly on this earth, leaving no scars, erecting no false signposts, yet leaving a trail of little notices by way of remembered words that urge travelers to stop here and see this. Listen and hear that. Touch, taste and smell these things.

Let me stop by a live stream and see the waters flow around, over and above objects to make its inevitable way to the sea and think how much like life that is. One keeps rolling along, around strictures of hard places -- loss of home, court cases, distancing of friends; around sharp unexpected curves -- sickness, accidents, disappointments; having to go along with nature's changes of course, sometimes running backwards for a while before one finds the true course again; bearing burdens of unwanted baggage -- unfriendly people, the awful knowledge of what people do to others, yet always, like the flowing waters, make your way to your sea.

Let me take the time to see and admire a flock of blood red cardinals alight, if only momentarily, in a winter white sycamore, watch morning mists arise from a meadow to reveal a whole field of daisies, see white cloud sheep lying on a blue blanket far above the cacophony of the world, a child hurrying home to show the valentine he has made for mama.

I want to hear the music of the spheres, knowing I can't yet, but sensing, along with old Pythagoras that it is there. He suggested that the sound waves between the planets and stars surely produce music. According to legend, when the great star Vega first shone upon the Harp of Orpheus in the constellation now known as Lyra, the result was that Orpheus' music was so enchanting that the trees bent to listen, savage beasts were soothed and even rivers ceased their flow lest they miss a single note.

I want to hear the song of every bird that comes within my hearing range, the distant rumble of thunder, then rain on the roof. I want to hear the hum of a furnace or crackling of logs in a fireplace, purr of a kitten, lonesomeness of the tree frog, some powerful music, and some light -- Moonlight Sonata and Moon River. Surely the mixture of sounds must meet and meld somewhere in space and meet the sound of the planets and stars if it is only the sound of their movement in the universe.

I want to touch a baby's hands, feel its little fingers curl around one of mine, feel the first tiny pressure of a returned hug. Let me touch the silkiness of milkweed floss on my cheek, lay my cheek against the hardness of a granite bluff, stroke the velvet around a horse's mouth, sink my hands into the deep wool of a sheep's back. The fingers of wind in my hair and the rays of the sun on my shoulders make me feel more deeply that I'm a child of the universe. The red and purple satin of tomato and eggplant will give me eminent domain ownership when I stroke their sides, making me rich as the old sea merchants of precious silks.

Let me smell the newly turned earth in spring, the fragrance of a June morning, yeast bread baking, the load of hay fresh from the summer meadow, the peppermint that grows by the spring water.

David Grayson maintains that the sense of smell and taste have been shabbily treated in the rivalry of the senses, but one of my little word notices is, if you don't have to make a choice, enjoy them all to the deepest level, although walking softly so as to leave no scars for fellow travelers to skirt.

I have often thought of making a chronic of the things I love to smell and taste, so I can read it over from time to time and not forget. Just this early summer I came across a ripe Mayapple and ate it on the spot, having absolutely forgotten how good the taste. But, oh, the list would be so looooooong.

REJOICE!

~Jean Bell Mosley is an author and longtime columnist for the Southeast Missourian.