Gratitude

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.

Don’t Know What You’re Going to Get

Surprise.

I’m back in therapy.

This choice isn’t something to be ashamed of. It’s a beautiful use of time, unpacking the stories and truths that make me who I am. When I filled out the intake form, again, the counselor asked how much my grief was present. I wrote, “Currently, grief is managed well.”

Surprise.

That was wrong. As I sit and examine what’s coming next, my therapist gently reminds me, perhaps, grief too, has something to do with the unsettledness I feel as I wonder what the rest of the year will hold.

“Shit,” I said through tears. “Of course.”

So yes, grief and unexpected loss still sit next to me as I imagine a life of what could be’s. I was on a call today with wonderful women doing brave and courageous things. And most of them were at this point as a result of a lay-off. Luckily, that’s not my story. But layoffs have been a part of our family’s. And a friend lost a baby last week, and still another said good-bye to a brother from whom she is estranged.

We don’t know what we’re going to get handed to us.

At my best, when talking to my therapist, I’m reminded that we have a say in what we want to create. My energy resonates and vibrates when we believe beautiful things are possible. I fill with a glow emanating out through my fingertips when I can not squelch my fears, but turn to them and point, saying “Nope, you don’t get to drive. Instead you can sit right behind me.”

So, no, I don’t know what I’m going to get. But fear doesn’t get to lead.

I am working on choosing.

Choosing joy in the evenings as my daughter insists on eating all of the cherry tomatoes before we get in to the house before bath time. Choosing to invest time in continued healing, pattern eruption, Choosing great and grand appreciation for what is. We’re healthy. We have each other. Our toes can sink into cool green grass at the edge of the patio.

Choosing to savor, if just for a moment, in the changing light of the early Autumn days. We leave the fan on at night, and the cool air in the mornings kisses my little family’s cheeks as the alarm blares us to life again each morning.

It has been a season of wondering this summer, pausing to ask what comes next. We’re working on big goals, investing in dreams, and tucking ourselves into bed at a speed that seems much too fast.

September. Already. Well, almost. Don’t fast-forward too far ahead. We don’t know what we’re going to get.

Surprise.

Now. Now. Now.

I’m hoping to choose more ease, more celebration, and more amazement as the year brings us to hibernation. The nights of summer sun are setting.

Will you join me?

We don’t know what we’re going to get. Perhaps that can be a beautiful thing.

Four Plastic Eyes

In recent conversations with friends and colleagues, I sense a foreboding wave of uncertainty rippling out amongst us. I went to lunch with a friend, and over fifteen dollar sub sandwiches (hello inflation), we talked about our hopes and our fears in this season of life. “It feels like people are just holding their breath” she said.

I nodded deeply. Yes, and in this unsustainable hold where elections loom, I don’t want to restrict my movement so much that I pass out.

Sure, reminding ourselves to take a breath is self-care 101. I’m trying to start my mornings with breath, reassurance that this is the day the Lord I has made. I can rejoice and be glad in it.

Another kind friend reminded me, too, that we have a choice in what stories we want to stand next to and welcome with us as we dress. Shame, no thanks. Foreboding, take a splat next to my dirty socks in the closet. Instead, may we shroud ourselves in love. Allow the silk of compassion to brush over our heads like cashmere. Or, since it’s hot in July, maybe we can just tuck little kerchiefs of kindness into the pockets of our shorts.

My daughter has taken to wearing her Elmo slippers most evenings. A stall tactic, she places the red balls of fluff with plastic eyeballs onto her feet with care while we do the bedtime routine. She insists I leave them on as she begins to self-soothe her way into another evening of rest. When she wakes early, I pad across the hall to retrieve here, allowing her an hour of comfort in our bed before we begin another day.

This morning, after the alarm went off a few times too many, I lay with my eyes glued to the ceiling. I took a breath. And in my exhale, turned to see four big, plastic eyes staring up at me from under the sheets. Joy, tucked into a place of safety and rest. Little inhales. Little exhales. A reminder that we get to choose what we put on as we start our day. Comfort, care, connection. Less foreboding.

These are the things that are going to sustain us when, as always, the world seems to be falling just a little bit apart. I want to put on joy and leave the rest with the dirty socks. Elmo, and the patience he requires, is reminding me to do just that. A beautiful thing.

A Desire For Certain Things to Happen

Heading towards the park for my afternoon loop, I let my shoes clack against the warming pavement. As I approached the parking lot I have to cross before reaching the trail, I noticed a black SUV with all the windows down. The back of the large car was full of life being lived – piles of clothes, pots and pans, and belongings were stuffed to the top of the roof. It was clear the owner was in a rough patch, or choosing to live out of their car for whatever reason. And on top of all of the things was a throw pillow with the word “Hope” scrawled across the top. Underneath, the definition: desire for a certain thing to happen.

Curious, I thought to myself, as I wandered from asphalt to gravel, letting my arms soak in a tiny bit of early summer sun.

As I walked, I noticed the green grass, and the thistles, poking their arms through the green with bursts of purple blossom. I’ve always loved thistles – they shouldn’t be beautiful. Their exterior exudes protection and leave-me-alone energy. Yet, for just a few weeks, they invite you in with color and beauty, perhaps suggesting, it’s not all that bad, if you’re observant enough to notice.

A family member is getting surgery this week and I’m nervous. Any time someone I love is at risk, I can feel my heart quake. And I’ve learned the poky energy doesn’t always keep me safe – it just keeps others out. As I watch horrific headlines pour in, and see neighbors needing help, I’m reminded that we need to say aloud – I am scared. We are scared. Help me remember that even thistles bloom. And that hope exists atop the remnants, where the broken belongings are still stacked. We are sacred.

Gratitude oozes from the same place where our bodies need repair – hips or hearts or hands. May we open them and be curious, inviting hope to grace our open fingers. Beautiful things.

Hands Deep in a Bowl of Dough

In the early years of my grief experience, I recall standing at the granite counter top with my hands deep in a bowl of dough. I was drinking red wine and rain was falling, I had jazz playing on my phone. It had been about six months since my dad passed, and I remember thinking to myself, whispering even, “I think I’m feeling happy again.”

It’s courageous to whisper these words.

Brene Brown reminds us of the risk of foreboding, how we have been trained by movies and culture, and sometimes life itself, to prepare for the next car crash, the next death, the next shoe to drop.

I also recall hearing that we, as humans, are bound to experience a major loss every seven years.

In a recent conversation with my mom, she nodded to that statement, and ticked off major life events that caused disruption in her life, every seven years or so. Was the truth there because she was noticing, or because we are bound to try to repeat our experiences in a flow that’s calculable?

I lost my grandmother six years and nine months after my dad passed. And we had a baby, disrupting my sense of calm and confidence I had worked so hard to cultivate since, just a few months before that. This year has been a blur.

And yet, once again, six months after the disruption, I found myself standing at a counter top in a new kitchen with my hands in a bowl of dough. I was dicing up butter and mixing flour and salt to make a pie crust. As I kneaded the mixture, I had jazz playing on my phone. Rain wasn’t hitting the skylights, but instead, a child cooed with her father on the floor. My child. My husband. The man who helped me to bring life into the world.

I dared again to whisper, “I think I’m feeling happy again.”

There are moments that shake us, shape us, and leave us wondering who we will be next. Like snakes, we step out of shed skin that’s no longer needed and move into bigger versions of ourselves. Do snakes feel pain in the shedding? I believe humans do.

In the transformation, the movement of days into nights, and turning of months into years, we have a brave choice to believe we can be happy again. The process takes a long time, and yet, the formula seems so simple.

Surround myself with people I love, with simple ingredients, with time to stand at the counter. I can focus on the next big disruption, or I can focus on the pie crust and what it will mean for a simple dinner at home.

I’m whispering “I think I’m happy again” and that is a beautiful thing.

Wake and Witness

I woke up early this morning to do some extra work before logging on to Zoom. Padding downstairs in the dark, I chose to leave the lights off and pull up the blinds, hoping to watch as darkness turned to light. As I sat with a laptop perched on my thighs, I finished my work and turned toward my regular click-through rotation. Email. New York Times. Facebook.

When I got to Facebook’s homepage, I paused, noticing the light against the wall turning pink. Rather than reflexively log in, I shut my computer and looked out the window instead. Streaks of pink and orange brushed against blue. Winter light reflected off snow yet to melt.

In this stage of the Pandemic it’s really easy to feel exhausted. With constant risk assessment, and chronic fear of the air we breathe, I find myself again hunkering down at home. Computer mornings turn into computer days turn into computer evenings. I miss restaurants, coffee dates, and not wondering how much possible exposure I might have at the grocery store versus the post office, or the library.

Here I sit again, laptop perched on my lap, lights waiting to be turned on. I haven’t been writing much, not because there aren’t beautiful things to see, but rather because I fear I’ve said it all before. Two years of appreciating beauty from my house feels a little repetitive.

Regardless, this morning I woke early, padded downstairs, and chose to watch the sunrise instead. I fear this is going to be another long winter with COVID darkness and continued uncertainty. And still, the sun greets us each day with a paintbrush of color. I have to ask myself, “Are you ready to wake and witness?”

Today, I said yes. And that’s a beautiful thing.

Tis’ the Season

We’ve entered the season of giving with a joyful heart. My inbox is full of reminders of places to give money, gifts to buy, and packages to send. Generosity of spirit and snacks is in the air. I’ve made lists of my own. December is never short on opportunities to spread joy in boxes and bags and envelopes.

I’m great at giving. Sitting in therapy this week, however, I was reminded how hard it is for me to receive.

To be on the one asking for help and having people follow through without a sense of obligation or needing to do anything in return is vulnerable and risky.

One of the shrapnels of grief still stuck in my chest is sharp reminder that grief is ever present. Asking for help often made some people uncomfortable. There was an air of ‘you’re still here, huh?’ when being vulnerable, and while not everyone responded in this way, social stigma and my own shame around my emotions cause me to turn inwards. Unhealthy self-sufficiency only leaves more room for the wounds to seep.

My therapist asked, “How would you like to try to receive differently this season?”

I froze before answering. After a moment or two, I whispered, “I have to believe I’m worthy of being on the receiving end of generosity.”

In big block letters I wrote in my journal, Tis’ the season to PRACTICE RECEIVING.

When I woke this morning, I sent texts to several friends asking for recommendations on products I’m considering. One sent me a laundry list of things to consider, another said flat out, ‘Would you like to have ours?’ I was floored.

In minutes, I was reminded of the many ways people DO like to give, but they can’t know you’re in need unless you ask. Grief, tangled with shame, taught me not to ask.

I’m unwrapping old stories, and laying shredded ribbons of protection at my feet. In this new season, I’m going to need help. I’m going to need to receive. And practicing is a beautiful thing.

When Weeping on Zoom …

I spent the weekend on Zoom for graduation from the Applied Compassion Training that I’ve been a part of since January. In closing ceremonies, we said good byes and cheered in recognition for work we have accomplished. For me, this involved the delivery of a Capstone Project designed to bring compassion to those with grief stories. I’ve found a way to formalize writing workshops to serve those who are hurting and I love the spaces I’ve been able to create for those to be seen.

Each of us graduates were given two minutes to share a few words about our experiences. I said this, “Graduation is always a good time to reflect on what brought us to this place. I want to go way back to the times my dad taught me to see other people. He modeled many ways we can choose to carry our pain. And he taught me that sensitivity and feeling in a callous world are strengths. Turning towards our pain is necessary to live a brave life. This program reminded me that turning towards suffering is always a courageous act. I’m thankful for the people who bravely say yes, rather than turn away. I move forward today, unsure of what’s next, but certain I will continue to say yes. Thank you for reminding me that the world IS good, even today.”

As I sat in my study this afternoon, surrounded by over 120 people dedicated to the pursuit of compassion across industries and around the world, I found myself swallowed by a grief wave. My people showed up on Zoom for the celebration, and as I clicked through the gallery of faces, I couldn’t help but notice who wasn’t there. You’d think I’d be used to his absence by now. But sometimes, the profound punches to the gut come from empty seats and vacant spaces on screen.

Tears filled my eyes and I turned off my camera and wept.

If he were still here, I wouldn’t have done any of this. And yet, I’ve filled the void with my words, with my aches, and I’ve extended the creation of space to explore our experiences using words.

The world is a mess when we focus on the crises. They exist every minute of every day. The fixing demands attention, hope, and possibility. And at the same time, brave, kind, caring humans are choosing to show up and say yes to doing something about our collective suffering.

What is good in your world right now? On my list are a surgeon’s steady hands, deliveries of flowers and meals for those in recovery, those who choose to wear masks to protect others, a refrigerator full of food, and the overflowing ways that my dad continues to influence my choice to look for good. Sensitivity is strength. Searching for good makes life more bearable. Compassion – the choice to act in the face of suffering – for ourselves and others, is a beautiful thing.

You’re Still Here

I looked up from my computer as I perched against my tall office chair. As the sun dipped into the trees, I smiled as the delivery man approached.

He opened the door, and interrupted a conversation with co-workers with a cheer.

“You’re all still here!” he said. “Happy post-COVID, or wherever we are.”

We laughed together and I said, “I’m so glad you’re still our guy.”

It was a brief interaction – three minutes or less. With the opening of an office door, and a delivery of a package, I was overwhelmed by the sense of community that has been missing in remote offices and isolating fear-spirals.

Yes, we were all wearing masks and trying to stand further apart than we would have before, but with a simple delivery, I was reminded of just how much we need each other.

The arrival of a delayed package, the missing remote for the speakers, the hum of a coffee machine left on overnight, spider webs collecting in places gone untouched for months. Ordinary, beautiful things, often seen as annoyances, that blur into the background of a normal life.

But things haven’t been normal.

Today, I saw my friend Jesse, our UPS man. You’re all still here.

What 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?