.
and one small smile
on a too-cool morning
in a garden
already running wild
.
and i am happy to let it run this year,
accepting my lack of control as i’m busy learning new things
and embracing life and loving people.
but we have our moments and we both understand
that we are always here for each other,
even in the midst of so much chaos.
.
living
.
.
.
.
with birdsong and beginnings
.
i sit and listen
palms open
ready to catch
whatever falls
.
.
.
And suddenly it was May and green replaced cold grey
and the world opened up to possibility.
Doors left ajar
reveal a symphony of song
and life being lived
as celebration more than survival
and my heart grows three sizes
every morning.
.
Wishing you a week filled with life.
.
.
.
.
Lately, I feel silent. Not blocked or repressed or even melancholy, just silent.
So I sit with the quiet—watching life race by—with the patience of a flower waiting for dawn. It is the year of listening, after all, the word that found me back in January, the word that hovers over my left shoulder wherever I go. Maybe it’s age or grief or that other word, grace. Maybe it’s acceptance. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Not the bone-tired version, the depleted one.
Maybe I’m tired of trying on hats and never finding one that fits. Which makes perfect sense, because I don’t look good in hats. Some people do. My sister does. My grandmother did. I do not. But that’s okay. I kind of like the wind in my hair.
The sun is shining this morning and I know that I will find a way to get outside and feel it on my face. My freckles are tired of hiding in the background. It’s the season of renewal and I am tired of winter’s layers. March, the ever-steady soldier, marches on… eyes forward, almost there, almost there. In just a day or two, all will be surrendered to April.
The grackles and blackbirds croak and beep at a sky not ready to embrace them. No leaves yet for camouflage, no deep pools of shade. Perhaps we’re all feeling just a bit overexposed.
I think of all the mornings just like this one and wonder at the dust they’ve collected. Even so, I choose to leave them undisturbed. It’s not time for spring cleaning, yet.
I always sing when I clean and lately, I feel silent.
.
.
.
with a tiny bit of sunlight
mixed in
for good measure
.
wishing you a weekend of blue skies and smiles
.
.
.
because sometimes you have to stand up
and reach for the light
even as the day dawns darkly
and sometimes what’s right
must grow through black soil
gathering strength and dreaming
of valor
.
.
.
I spent two days this past week cutting back the outrageously overgrown yews in front of my house, a project that has needed to be done for years, a project with a small window of opportunity, one that I have missed more than once. It’s a messy job, a difficult job, a job for someone stronger and more flexible than I, but I was determined to get it done, now, in this year that is beginning to feel like a watershed one.
I am scratched and bruised and my back hurts, and my completed task revealed all the places on my house that now need repainting, but I can see the sky from my bed again. There is more light inside, and more light is always a good thing.
Inside, I have a new mess, boxes to tackle after my 89-year-old friend moved out of her home into a long-term care facility, gifts she handed down, pieces to cherish and find special homes for. I haven’t figured out yet what to do with everything, nor what to do with the cracks in my heart, but somehow chopping those bushes down was related. I needed to cut and saw and grunt and curse and accomplish something. Maybe I needed to be in control of one small thing for a few hours. Maybe I needed to let off some steam. Maybe I needed to let some things go.
I’ve come to understand that it all gets more complicated as life goes on, that peace will always be slipping through my fingers, that there will never be time for everything, that standing in my yard with the wind in my hair is the best that some weeks will offer.
I’ve come to understand that it’s not accomplishments that matter either, it’s the love behind them that counts.
I’ve come to understand that sometimes survival is a matter of cutting out the parts that block the sun, paring things down to the bone, making space for new growth.
The imperfections I’ve revealed aren’t what’s important. The blemishes matter less than the light.
Looking out, I can only see sky, and the rain washing everything clean.
Every day, I learn.
The wounds heal, the wind blows, we all grow.
Today, that’s what I know.
.
.
.
There are weeks that take you backward.
When moving through doors feels so final.
When opening feels like closing.
Endings and endings and endings.
Yes, there will be new beginnings,
but first, you must walk the gauntlet.
Forward is there, across the threshold.
But all this distance lies in between.
The shape of light and shadow defines everything.
The fragile scent of future fills the air.
.
Life goes on.
.
.
.
.
