end of summer

No Sunscreen

Upon reflecting on the end of the summer, I realized over the last four months I never once got out a tube of sunscreen. My arms remain pasty white, not covered from protective goo, but rather drool and spit up and diaper rash cream.  

Sure, I stepped outside, squinting into the sun with glasses on and dark circles under my eyes, but we didn’t spend time outside. Not really. This was a summer spent navigating the challenging demands of welcoming a new human to our family. We passed a baby between our hands, threw burp clothes across the room, and taped boxes with clear tape at our feet. We saw morning light, not dusk. We emerged slowly, wondering if the threat of Covid lingered, and asked how protective we should be for each other while tending to the care and keeping of our own small family unit. 

We hired movers, packed the kleenex, and remembered growing pains are, at times, just that. Painful. 

But like the sunburns I did not receive this year, the pain points of adding to a family left a tingly glow, freckles of her presence sticking with us as we move into the new chapter of being a family of three. We’ve peeled off sheets of skin of who we were, leaving new, fresh, vulnerable layers underneath. 

Adjusting to parenting hasn’t been easy, and the transformation has been beautiful. 

Recently, upon meeting someone new, I was asked what this blog was about. I shared my philosophy of searching for the good and about my dance with grief. I shared about the pandemic, and living as an anxious person, and trying to find gratitude in times of desperation. The new connection asked, “And what’s beautiful about this season?”

I had to pause, but it didn’t take long to name a few things. 

There’s beauty in the shape of my daughter’s mouth, and the way her hair curls on the sides when she gets sweaty from sleeping in our arms. There’s beauty in the routine forming, her exploration, and in my husband and I trying to move our feet to our faces like she does while keeping our backs on the floor. 

There’s beauty in smiles and coos, and messy buns, and at times, even the 6:30 am wakeup calls. How many years until she begins to sleep in again?

Back at work this afternoon, I took a walk around the park for a quick break. As the sun beat down on my pale arms, I was reminded how much things can change with warmth and a bit of vitamin D. I heard the church bells ring in the distance. I’ve been walking that path for five years now, and yet, the afternoon bells had a different tinkle to them in this season.¬†

While the paths we walk may remain the same, we as humans aren’t meant to remain stagnant. I’m changing and growing and walking forward, still. 

No sunscreen this summer, what a beautiful thing.

Eight Potatoes

Heading out to harvest is a romantic notion. Successful gardner’s pictures of full of baskets with bountiful produce, overflowing bunches of kale, and counters with little space entice and tempt me into trying year after year.

For me, gardening is an ever hopeful experience. We rotate our crops, water, and wait for months to yield something delicious. Last year, there was a bounty of cucumbers. We were swimming in pickles and sauces with dill and giving away extras to the neighbors.

This year, grasshopers munched on my beans, kale turned bitter, and while the basil was plentiful, our tomatoes gifted us with one globe a day, maybe three on a good day. Instead, I turned to the overflow of my in-laws gardens for enough fruit for bruschetta or pasta sauce. Sharing abundance is a beautiful thing.

It’s easy to stand on my stoop, overlooking our small patch of vegetables, and think we failed. When I do price comparisons, the four zucchini we grew probably rang in at over twenty dollars each. But if I focus on output, I miss the magic that grew in our small rectangle of dirt. We grew two handfuls of fairytale eggplant and roasted them up with olive oil. I experienced the joy of popping cherry tomatoes right off the vine and into our mouths. Ate some salads of lettuce before the bugs got to it. Kale chips were toasted once or twice in the air fryer. Two red bell peppers made a nice dinner with hummus and cheese.

On Sunday, I stood in the dirt and moved away the piles we had pulled together in an attempt to protect and nurture potatoes. Using shovels and trowels, I worked to these red potatoes, some as big as tennis balls. I felt like a little kid playing archeologist, wiping dirt on my pants and smooshing grime under my fingernails in pursuit of a starchy treat.

If we were dependent on my garden for sustenance through the winter, we’d be doomed.

Instead, I taught Dylan how to make mirepoix (with store bought carrots and onions) and tossed in our potatoes for stew.

If I was focusing on all we didn’t grow, I’d miss out on the joy of what was in my metaphorical, medium-size basket designed to harvest.

Life still feels like a bit of a waiting game. You know the numbers, the disconnect and the divide we are living through. And still, my garden produced just enough to instill a sense of delight. When supplemented with the gifts and bounty of other’s work, our joy expanded.

This is a lonely, confusing time to be a human. We’re working on screens, and wondering if it is safe to send our kids to school, or go to a baseball game, or even shake a strangers hands. It’s easy to look out and think, wow, what a failure. And when we do, we miss what’s happening under the dirt. No matter our yield, our attempt to grow is a beautiful thing.

In the Rush

Sitting down to my grandmother’s kitchen table for dinner always started the same way. We’d hold hands, bow our heads, and someone would start to pray.

“In the rush of a busy day, oh Lord, we pause to give you thanks. For food, for family ….”

There’s a third for something that’s escaping me now. I haven’t sat at her kitchen table for awhile.

This time warp of Covid and constant vigilance has me dancing between a frantic feeling of trying to pack summer and outdoor safety into a container before the weather again gets cold.

It’s time, again, to pause.

I bow my head. I say a prayer of thanks for these beautiful things.

Slices of melted mozarella cheese squished between fresh pesto and late summer peaches.

A friend who picks up the phone after I text, “Can I call you tonight?”

Tomatoes so juicy their insides drip down your chin, begging to be sopped up with fresh bread.

A persistent daisy poking its way through the soil, against the odds, timelines of shoulds forgotten.

Pink nail polish on tanned toes.

I’ve only got five items today – pushing for more feels like squeezing a tube of toothpaste that’s been clogged for awhile. I’m out of practice. What’s happening in the world right now is overwhelming, perplexing and sad.

If you squeeze your container a little harder in an attempt to extrude the good, what beautiful blobs would emerge?