beauty

Coming Soon

An exciting update from my corner of the woods.

The book I’ve been dreaming of has a tentative publication date! 10 years of blogging has been curated down into a beautiful collection on grief, comfort and hope. Release set for mid-October!

I’m working with great artists, editors, and project managers to help bring my grief story and encouragement to the world.

I’ll announce the title soon.

If you’re interested in learning more, helping launch and/or promote the book, or cheering from the sidelines, please let me know.

Honking at Me?

Applying sunscreen to a two-year old is now a two person job. This morning, I held the wriggling creature, as her dad tried to make her laugh. One hand on her waist, the other trying to hold hair back from her neck, I counted to five as we swiped the deodorant-like stick across her face. In our juggling she paused, “Earrings Mama!”

“Where?” I asked.
“Right there, on the counter.”
“If we get this sunscreen on your face, you can pick a pair.”

She agreed and the wiggling subsided. As she calmed, her focus turned toward selecting the perfect pair of stick-ons, she started humming to herself.

“Which ones do you want Mama?” she asked.
“You pick first.” I said, sucking my teeth as I looked at the clock.

“No, you.”

She insisted. And I succumbed, being given a pair of pink daisies with blue petals.

I remember once seeing a meme that said if a toddler gives you something, you must accept it. They have so little tangible things and most are connected right to their hearts.

Few people saw me out in the world today. I’m not sure if the clerk at the post office noticed my ears. But I knew that little gift was there.

On my walk back to my office, my head full of thoughts of what-ifs and anger about the current state of certain things, I noticed I was getting honked at.

“What the hell?” I thought, looking down the street.

But no, the looming big trash truck wasn’t honking at me.

They were tooting the horn for the gaggle of school children flocking to the fence at recess.

As the blue truck moved towards me at the crosswalk, I watched grown men in green vests delight small children in their green Catholic school clothes.

Tears came to my eyes.

Yes, the world is hurting, but the trash men are honking. The children are laughing. And giving gifts.

We must slow down to notice them. What’s getting in the way of your ability to receive?

I’m still wearing the earrings tonight. Those suckers are surprisingly sticky. If they make it through the night, I’ll be sure to remind my daughter just how grateful for them I am.

In the Picture Window

My grandmother always started the prayer before dinner with this:
“In the rush of a busy day, oh Lord, we pause to give you thanks…”

Ironically, I don’t remember the rest of the prayer. I’m sure the blessing involved gratitude for food and abundance. The specifics were important at the time, but they’ve faded, as too have our prayers at the dinner table.

Instead, I often find myself rushing, from here to there, from dream to dream. And I think of Grandma and how she could get us all to pause, just for a moment, before we ate.

As I was rushing from the office to do daycare pickup, I found myself stalled in a long line of traffic. Red break lights shone for miles ahead of me, as the construction for the new grocery store in town brought the three-lane road down to one.

While I waited, I turned my head to the left, noticing a small alterations studio alongside road. In the large picture window, lit up by bright fluorescent lights, a young bride was standing in her gown.

I couldn’t see her face, only the veil cascading down her back. I watched her lift on to her toes as the seamstress and friends held mounds of fabric. I watched her bounce in the light.

There’s a lot happening right now, much of it shocking and sad. I find myself rushing, away from headlines, and towards the different outcomes I hope we can create. But sometimes, the break lights are there for a reason.

In that picture window, someone was excited about the future she was hoping to create. She was surrounded by white, literally glowing. And she was moving towards a new chapter, hopefully eager and with joy.

We don’t have to be brides to understand the anticipation of change. And sometimes, we need help remembering what it feels like to be on our toes, bouncing towards what could be.

I want more of that energy in this season.

Less rushing, more light. More white.

Beautiful things.

Berry Kiss

In the movie The Holiday, we find four characters lying in a children’s play tent, with dazzling twinkling lights above them. The adorable daughter Olivia turns to Cameron Diaz’s character Amanda asks, “I like your lipstick, what color is it?”

Amanda replies, ‘I think it’s … Berry Kiss?’

“Berry Kiss” she responds in a whisper, pondering slowly about its potential.

When I tucked three small childrens chapsticks into my daughter’s Advent calendar, I recalled the scene. Her flavors are the dollar store variety, and have sprinkles on the labels. The scents nod to cake batter and cherry jubilee. I worry, slightly, about the cheap ingredients, but when my kid unpacked her very own chapstick, she was delighted, insisting on opening the small containers right away. She carries them in her pockets, ready to apply or taste at her own convenience.

When we climb the stairs up to our play room, and I wedge my body into her little playhouse, I try to lay horizontally, looking up at the twinkly stars above our heads.

“Berry kiss.” I murmur.

“What mama?”

“Oh nothing.”

She won’t know that reference.

I feel a bit crumpled yet, watching her unfurl into the Christmas season feels a bit magical.

Last night, I poured a finger’s worth of eggnog into her Winnie the Pooh cup without a lid. 

She gulped it down, licking the spatters off of her shirt, and ran her tongue across her lips, tasting her nog mustache.

“More mama?” 

“Nope. That’s enough for tonight. It’s just a treat.”
“Awww.”

In the disappointment came the opportunity for distraction, but for just a few brief seconds, she stood in front of the decorated pine in our living room, soaking in bits of Christmas.

Imagine taking your first sips of egg nog. How divine.

After she wiped her face, she, of course, needed her chapstick.

It’s not Berry Kiss. But it’s magical just the same.

Nog mustaches. A child’s delight. Holiday movies. Beautiful things. 

Confirming the Milk Order

History was made this week. In the same ten minutes I absorbed the results, I asked my husband to confirm the milk order.

John Lennon said it wisely, “Life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans.”

Or when you’re tackling to-do lists while watching the possibilities for humans literally shift in one direction or another.

Regardless of what you were hoping for this week, I hope you have found chances to be kind to one another. I hope beauty surrounded you. I hope comfort abounds.

It’s hard to write in times like these. Cautious fingertips pause paralyzed, intending not to offend. I hope we can agree to open our hearts to the good things in front of us.

In a coaching session with a friend today, I recalled a mantra I learned from my compassion colleagues. Strong back. Soft front.

May we stand true in our strength, letting our values guide our interactions and our hopes. And may we be open to the very magic that happens when we truly see one another. Fears, scars, hopes, wonderings. May we crack open, just a little bit, in the direction we want to move, with softness.

Because the milk orders beckon. And, so too, does the future we are writing for our children.

“Happiness can be found even in the darkest of times, if one only remembers to turn on the light“. – Albus Dumbledore

A Different Take on Ruffled Feathers

Tucked away in the back right corner of our refrigerator lives a bag of old bread butts. While slightly disturbing that the crusts seem to never mold, we save the remnants for the duckies.

Yesterday, I pulled the collection out of the fridge, and baby proudly held the mass of old carbs in her lap as we drove to the park.

“Will there be duckies Mama? Will there be duckies?”
“I hope so. We’ll just have to see.”

When we arrived with another little family, we perched ourselves against the stone wall, creating a bit of a barrier between ourselves and the slightly aggressive birds. Surely we aren’t the only ones throwing our crusts to this group of geese and ducks.

As I took care to pass out the pieces, babies and toddlers threw chunks of bread to the waiting creatures. Giggles and joy cascaded into the water as feathers ruffled and beaks chomped on the soggy morsels.

I watched as little kids were immersed in the joy of what their gifts provided – a bit of control in inviting an animal into their space.

Sure, we gave old bread. But the geese and the ducks gave me so much more. Under blue skies and canopies of golden leaves, I sank into the joy of what it means to offer whatever fills our pockets. When we are able to give, other creatures will happily receive.

It was a simple ten minutes. After a few pieces, baby promptly told me she was done. It was time to go to the playground. And I asked her to wait, just a few minutes more, as I allowed myself to sit in gratitude for the gifts of a fall morning, friends by my side, and enough bread to live in the fridge until we were ready to share.

Simple abundance and quacking ducks. Beautiful things.

At My Best

I’m on sabbatical and today, the house is quiet. I’ve been given four weeks to spend how I’d like.

At the beginning, a friend asked me what my plans were for my time off. I ticked off a few things, noting the webinars and facilitation experiences I had in the queue. She responded saying, “Wow. You’re pretty busy for a sabbatical.” I quipped back, “Apparently, I’m not great at resting.”

Time away from work has been teaching me much, and in the breath, I’ve realized a few things.

The first two weeks were plenty full. A trip to the mountains, time with friends I don’t often get to see, and I snuck in an hour wandering around my favorite kitchen store, glancing at glossy pages of cookbooks waiting to sneak their way onto my shelves.

It’s a little unsettling, mixing up the routine, and I’m learning that I move pretty fast when I’m operating at my best. But what does that phrase we throw around in organizations actually mean?

At my best.

Am I in the flow? Or over-caffeinated? Or happy to be sinking hands into bowls of homemade dough? Am I maximizing my hours or turning pages while sipping on something calming? And how often do I say yes when I mean no, or let the dishes win instead of the novel beckoning to me? When do I let productivity win?

A friend recently told me her acupuncturist told her she needed to focus on restoration. That weekends were meant for things that refilled and rebalanced her chi. Now, together we smirk about the choice to fill up our cups, knowing that as women, we over pour with ease. May we choose restoration.

I’m still reflecting on what ‘at my best’ means in this season of life. I long to create. I long to rest. I long to be in nature. I bask in the silence. I want to be in community. I panic when only a few show up. My fingers still desire to tell stories. I long to create something that belongs to me. My heart pangs when my daughter watches me leave in tears.

To be human is to hold multitudes.

Perhaps, to rest, does too.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

A Blessing for Beauty – John O’Donohue

This week, I’ll invite you to let the words of another bless you. A poem from John O’Donohue.

May the beauty of your life become more visible to you, that you may glimpse your wild divinity.

May the wonders of the earth call you forth from all your small, secret prisons and set your feet free in the pastures of possibilities.

May the light of dawn anoint your eyes that you may behold what a miracle a day is.

May the liturgy of twilight shelter all your fears and darkness within the circle of ease.

May the angel of memory surprise you in bleak times with new gifts from the harvest of your vanished days.

May you allow no dark hand to quench the candle of hope in your heart.

May you discover a new generosity towards yourself, and encourage yourself to engage your life as a great adventure.

May the outside voices of fear and despair find no echo in you.

May you always trust the urgency and wisdom of your own spirit.

May the shelter and nourishment of all the good you have done, the love you have shown, the suffering you have carried, awaken around you to bless your life a thousand times.

And when love finds the path to your door may you open like the earth to the dawn, and trust your every hidden color towards its nourishment of light.

May you find enough stillness and silence to savor the kiss of God on your soul and delight in the eternity that shaped you, that holds you and calls you.

And may you know that despite confusion, anxiety and emptiness, your name is written in Heaven.

And may you come to see your life as a quiet sacrament of service, which awakens around you a rhythm where doubt gives way to the grace of wonder, where what is awkward and strained can find elegance, and where crippled hope can find wings, and torment enter at last unto the grace of serenity.

May Divine Beauty bless you.

John O’Donohue, from Beauty – The Invisible Embrace

Coffee Ground Sweet

I’m not a morning person. I prefer staying up late and sleeping late. But as my child grows with each early wake, I’m finding myself in a necessary shift. A relative bought me a coffee cup when she was born that says, “In memory of sleeping in.” I sip my caffeine from it most mornings.

Today, I woke before the rest of my family did. Laying in the silence for just a moment longer, fans whirred, trying to gulp in the cold morning air into our bedroom. I shuffled down the stairs, putting on water to boil for coffee. I collected yesterday’s grounds into an old mason jar, and stepped out onto the porch to pour the extras onto our grass.

Looking towards the mountains, I swirled the remnants, and sprinkled them across our dying lawn. They’ve been giving citations to homeowners for dead grass, and as I poured, I found myself wondering if we’d be next.

Most mornings, I’m too busy to muse about these things. I’ve got a calculated routine that if we knock off just five minutes, everyone ends up late. But this morning, I was able to swirl grounds and stop to stand on a stoop, while sprinkling sustenance back into our little lawn. Neighbors were walking their dogs. Joggers waved hello as I sat for just a moment. Our little community was buzzing outside. I’m usually frantically trying to get everyone moving, just to get out of the house.

They say living in the suburbs can be mundane. There are thousands of memes about millennials aging, as they appreciate cucumbers growing at eight am instead of staying out all hours of the night. This morning, I want to bask in the glory of summer light, the swirl of grounds, the space and extra moments to pour hot coffee into my remembrance mug.

Life changes. Stillness too. And in these spaces of ordinary, I see a new sweetness.

And that’s a beautiful thing.

Twirling

We made it through another one. Father’s Day mixed with emotions – gratitude, remembering, looking forward, hating for just a moment, Hallmark. As we sat around a shared table for dinner, I thought to myself, my husband is the only adult at this table who hasn’t lost a father. Odd to be in similar company of people my parent’s age. Odder still that where I put the apostrophe matters.

And as with most holidays, I twirled between wanting to be present and wanting to turn towards the ache of missing someone so profound without forgetting those still here with me. How do I celebrate life and mourn the dead?

I tried.

“Now I enter the “safe zone”, I spat, ruminating to myself sarcastically. While no month is “safe” from grief, there’s an ease that comes with the end of June as I look out towards the rest of summer. From now until October, the gremlin seems to behave herself.

Most evenings these days we turn on music after dinner, and if I’m lucky, my toddler will let me pick her up to give her a squeeze. We spin and hold hands, dancing in the kitchen. “More Mama, more” she’ll often request. And in the twirling, memories are made.

There’s a new sweetness to this summer. Her sticky neck and red cheeks from the days heating up. She insists on putting on sandals by herself, requiring deep levels of patience and persistence from both of us. She finds exuberant joy in learning how to control a hose. Popsicles are messy work. You forget how much you take for granted already knowing when you’ve got a little creature soaking in so very much.

And in this early-summer space I want to remember the evening spins, as I watch the roller coaster slow. The trolley care has been put into neutral, shifting down the grief hill we’ve been climbing for quite some time.

I want to be twirling in colors and sniffing the deep scent of tomato leaves off my hands, as I watch a little human grow. Maybe I can be more kind to myself, allowing what comes next to appear.

More Mama, More. Hold on tight.

We go pretty fast. But it’s in the early evening light, as the sun sets and my patience gets tested, where beauty is found. Twirl with me.