Spring

In With the Wind

To return to the keyboard after months away feels delicious. Clacking is comfort.

While the world seems to spin in turmoil, I’m reminded again of the practice of looking for and engaging with the ordinary.

Spring allergies have found me, hitching Kleenex to my pockets and in my purse. I’m sneezing and blowing and swiping all throughout the day.

On one quick afternoon walk, pushing to find fifteen minutes of solitude, I fought the warm winds bringing in a storm over the mountains. These same winds, though, brought me a gift.

As I turned a corner bracing for another firm blow, I noticed all of the scents of the blooming flowers pushing to greet me. Lilacs, irises, poppies, and hydrangeas are popping up through the ground to wave hello. In with the winds come the familiar scents of spring.

Sure, the smells of flowers are easy to dismiss.

But in these blustery days, I was tickled to remember, these blooms appear without much coaxing. They sit, waiting to be admired, or ignored, as we go about our days.

Why do we plant them?

Aesthetics, sure. And perhaps, the truth goes deeper. May we hope for return. Hope for fragrance. Hope for beauty to emerge, over and over again.

Here we are again. What will you allow to grace you this week?

Unfurl

The sky is gray and the trees are budding green. The tiny leaves pop against the dark sky, bravely unfurling as they return to the familiar way of becoming again. Nature seems to say, I’m ready for what’s coming next. And perhaps I am too.

I’ve been reminded about the myth of arrival this week and new guides are instead offering the truth that with every new answer, comes new questions to live into. As I continue to grow, this answering of questions offers an invitation. How can I unfurl, just like the trees, against dark skies, with an inner knowing? I’ve done this before – the world has changed in the off season, and still there’s a power within me, trusting DNA and a swirl of interests, passions, and opportunities for what this season is calling for next. Sure, it’s trite to say the journey is the destination, and in all of these mixed metaphors lies the possibility that perhaps I don’t have to work so hard.

Perhaps my body and my heart already know what to do. It’s my mind that gets in the way.

The man next to me at the coffee shop is chuckling as he listens to a podcast, ear buds tucked in tight. I look around and watch us all immersed in our screens and our keyboards, eyes down so we don’t have to look at one another, I think about the way we come together, just to be alone. We consume, we scroll, we create, we connect. We sip and we stumble and we stutter, finding ways to either get louder or drown out the noise. What if we didn’t have to work so hard?

And this week, I want to instead rest in a different way of being. The leaves know what to do. They just unfurl, emerging into a world that has already changed. Unfurling alongside others. A beautiful thing.

Another One

As spring storms came and went this last week, so too did my waves of grief. Under branches laden with wet snow, I was transported back to the drive I took eight years ago, pulling into the driveway where my father no longer would be. Walking in the solid front door, that year, I hugged my brother and we sat and stared, not sure what to do before the family descended. I made inappropriate jokes. I choked, I’m sure, on my words, and my spit. When a few relatives showed up, we ordered Chili’s and tried to chew.

And this year, making the same drive, a toddler babbled in my backseat, unfamiliar with our family patterns or notions of a death anniversary. While the wounds are no longer seeping, their marks still remain. We ate cheeseburgers at the same table we sat at eight years ago, although its parallel orientation in the room now is just enough disruption to remind us that, yes, we all have changed.

I’m pleased to be on the downward slide towards April. While my body is remembering, exhaling, and less tense, I find gentle reminders that this week, every year, will be tough. It’s cocky to think otherwise. For when you lose a metaphorical limb, a figure head, a family anchor, the phantom limb still quakes.

I found my father in the discounts I received at the gas station and in the eyes of the hawk that sits above us, perched on the light post we pass every morning on our way to drop off. In the way my brother says hello when he comes up the stairs. In the sweatshirts we took out of bottom drawers, musty in their comforting embrace.

I wanted to write something more pleasant, lighter, more free. I no longer feel like grief is a ball and chain, though I can feel the scars from the cuffs on my ankles. So, yes, it was a hard week. Naming that in exhale is importantly beautiful.

And, two friends had babies, and the afternoon light pours in, gracing the plant I almost killed out of neglect with a second chance at surviving. My fingers continue to clack across the keyboard, and thoughts fill my head and my heart. We look towards Easter. Another time of resurrection. We made it through another one. And that is a beautiful thing.

Peek-A-Boo

We play a game with my daughter where we place a cloth over her eyes for just a moment. She quickly removes the fabric with a giggle, as we say in squeaky voices, “Peek-a-boo.” The exercise is repeated until she bores of us, usually only a few minutes pass until she’s on to the next thing.

Spring in Colorado feels like a game of peek-a-boo. One moment you’ve got hats and gloves on, carrying bulky coats and boots into the house and in a flash, we remove the layers of fabric to sit in sunshine for just a few hours. Yesterday was sixty degrees. Today, thirty five and snowing.

As the sun peeks its face out, I giggle inside, knowing warmer days are coming. And when the gray returns, because we aren’t done yet, I find the blankets again.

In a brief moment when the sun was shining yesterday, I went for a walk to the park near my office. Walking quickly with my co-workers, I noticed the sound of laughter in the distance. The playground was swarming with kids. Coats piled up on the edge of sand, and parents watched from the sidelines. To see this playground full of children, buzzing with the sounds of bottoms sliding and legs kicking littles to new heights, warmed my heart.

In my emerging, I hadn’t noticed the return of the children to the playground.

We kept walking and two older women were hugging in the parking lot. “Don’t forget to get your beans at Lucky’s” one shouted to the other as she got into her car. We’re back to connecting on asphalt and reminding each other of the somewhat mundane tasks that make up our lives.

This has been a long, cold winter. Snow fell this morning, but Spring is playing peek-a-boo with me. Baby is too. These are beautiful things.

Divine We

After a recent Facebook binge, ie. doomscrolling session, my thumbs came to a rest. Traci Blackmon, a minister at the United Church of Christ, had posted this:

“Friends. As we ponder the validity of the CDC’s most recent announcement while the US remains at a 35% immunization rate and new cases and deaths, although significantly decreased, continue. As we reflect upon the surge of mutations that has now brought India to a full stop. Might I suggest the voice of individualism will tell us to count it a victory if I am ok, while the voice of the Divine would ask: What about others? History has proven we don’t ever go far when we go alone. WE are not yet well. “💞

Deep breath words. Ones that make me nod and want to weep, to swallow down a gulp in just a brief, overpowering moment.

Perhaps what Blackmon so eloquently captures in a paragraph is what I’ve spent fifteen months grappling with. The “me” mentality overpowers the “we” so often in our culture. I swim in ‘yeah buts’ and sentiments laced with, ‘well, that doesn’t affect me.’ The air is so thick, so humid, with these ideas that to those who won’t listen, my choice to stay home is conservative at best and just plain scared at worst.

I have been scared. You haven’t?

As mask mandates end and we go back to offices, I find myself clicking over to dashboards and charts in liberal media just as I have every single day since lock down number one. Yes, numbers are falling. Yes, vaccinations are happening. And yes, still cases climb, and people are dying and sigh, I could go on and on.

“What will it take for you to feel safe, Katie?” they ask me. I don’t have an answer yet.

Maybe the Divine is whispering to me, in my wonderings of what remains to be seen? How come our desire for connection and travel and a full plate of brunch still leaves those preparing your food vulnerable behind stoves full of simmering sauces?

I’m so good at asking, What about them? What do they need? What will I sacrifice in the name of safety or in the pursuit of kindness?

In a quick moment of rest, I heard another whisper.

Don’t forget, Ms. Katie, that ‘we’ includes you.

And I asked myself, What do I need?

I needed my mom to drive me from nursery to nursery in pursuit of plant starts and floral blooms. I needed a tiny cup of foaming milk, swirling espresso, and precisely six grams of vanilla syrup. I needed to sit in the dirt, to plunge shovels into loam, and to mix rich compost in with airy soil to create a place for something to grow. I needed a tiny cupcake to remember him by.

I need you to remember, we may be able to remove our masks now, but thousands are still scared and hurting and unsafe. We’re all going to carry on with remnants of this time like sand we took home from a trip to the ocean. We’ll find the grains in pockets of jeans, and at the bottoms of backpacks and work bags we left in the closet.

Where we walk next will be led by the foot steps we took last year, pacing in circles wearing carpet thin.

I felt a sense of relief with a second jab to the arm and this weekend for three days in a row, I hugged someone not my husband. Arms. Warm bodies. Your heartbeat in a chest next to mine. Beautiful, soul filling things.

Tremors

The tremor started as I walked up to the counter. I looked up, facing the plexi-glass separating me and the barista. Taped to the barrier were two 8.5 x 11 pieces of paper, with a message to the neighborhood. I read that this Starbucks location is closing on April 4th.

“This is tragic” I blurted to no one.

Catching myself in my ridiculous statement, I blushed under my mask.

Trying to recover, I mumbled to the young woman waiting to take my order. “I’ll survive. But, this is a bummer.”

The closing of a corporate coffee shop is not tragic. A sign on glass is small compared to very real, looming challenges unfolding around the world. This loss of place is not life threatening. We know this.

My strong reaction masked memories and feelings of comfort that bubble up when I walk into rooms with slate floors and walls covered in green and white. The smell of beans, the packages of grounds, sparkling mugs with mermaids and white; all reminders of times before.

I noticed a wave of grief move within me. Not immense sadness. Instead, indicators of change taunting me with the truth of how quickly spaces of life transform into vacancies. Empty buildings. Stacked chairs. Locked doors.

I grabbed our drinks and joined Dylan outside. We began the walk home together.

I’d brought coffee to Dad’s office for years. He’d give me a twenty when I worked there in the summer, and I’d come back with iced lattes for me, and always Pikes Place for him. When we closed his office, removing furniture and files and countless awards, we left a tall cup of black liquid in the corner to cool, closing the doors behind us.

These places become a part of us. When they close, they press into motion seismic waves of memories of what was and murmurs of what will no longer be.

I’ve kept quiet this month, waiting for four years to turn to five in the course of a day. Sometimes, the approaching of the anniversary hurts more than the day itself. Beauty is harder to witness as the clouds come in, knowingly bringing weight and mist to the air. Last weekend the mist turned to blizzard, and two feet of snow fell in my front yard. Rain turns leftover piles to slush, and tonight we’ll have ice clinking to recently broken branches.

These cycles of days turning to years, wet turning into snow, piles turning into melt reveal these patterns have purpose.

When I care for myself, I can see the storm coming, and time has taught me to prepare accordingly.

At the start of the month, I chose a word for myself. Support.

Support. Being open to it. Asking for it. Being surprised by it.

Support looks like many beautiful things.

Friends sent me packages and caring texts. Others delivered donuts to my door. A card from a colleague echoed my questions in ways I didn’t know were living within me, until they showed up in my mail box. Her hand written words mirrored my experience in life-giving ways. The anniversary of the day He died came and went and tears fell. Before I went to bed, big sobs eked out as I held my knees, leaning against walls, wedging my body into the corner to feel support on all sides.

I was surprised by the intensity, and the release. The anticipation of pain left my body in waves.

Coffee shops are closing. Snow is falling. Days turned to years. And the quakes, while present, are smaller. What a beautiful thing.

In All the Rooms of My House

I grabbed the blue handle and tucked the blades into the red, re-usable grocery bag.

“I’m going to go try” I told Dylan as I put on my sandals.

“Ok, good luck” he shouted up from the basement.

I’d spent the last hour psyching myself up for the task. I was going to do something I’d been thinking about for the five years we’ve lived here.

At the corner of a busy intersection where you can turn into our neighborhood sit three large lilac bushes. Each year they bloom and the blossoms sit and open their fragrance to the cars driving by. Without attention, the plants flicker and fade.

Technically, the bushes sit on public property tucked behind cement sidewalk and rest along a worn wooden fence to the west.

Fewer cars are driving by these days and I wanted to give the blossoms a home. My home.

Technically, it’s stealing right? Cutting blooms off of a plant not my own?

Hence the apprehension and covert attempt at covering my scissors in a silly grocery bag. I don’t like breaking rules, getting yelled at, or being conspicuous.

I slammed the door behind me and breathed in purpose. I walked the winding streets and approached the intersection. The only car near me was driven by a teenage boy clearly not paying attention to the woman dressed in unassuming athletic shorts and Saturday gray t-shirt.

I once again grabbed the blue handles, opened the blade, and snipped, snipped, snipped. I wasn’t greedy and took only three bundles of blooms, tucking them into the bottom of my bag.

I sighed and walked back home. No one said a thing.

Opening the cupboard, I found jam jars, and mason jars, and a wine glass and filled the vessels with cool water. I pulled off the green leaves and snipped branches again to make mini bouquets of flowers knowing their essence will only last so long.

I placed the jars in all the rooms of my house.

And the fragrance of lilac slept next to my pillow, reminding me of the good and simple beauty on my nightstand while I breathed in dreams.

The little blooms are fading today, trying to hold on to their strength when they were removed from their source to live out their own purpose.

The sight of light purple, the smell of spring, small rebellions and gratitude for public plants doing their thing. All beautiful things.

rodion-kutsaev-M0NcxA2ktLM-unsplash

 

Day 51 – 52 Good Things

So close to 52. I didn’t think we’d get here and I’m rather surprised the amount of energy it takes to make a mental list of good things still surrounding us. But I continue searching and invite you to join me as we stay home and stay safe.

I’m called again, in whispers, to remember the choices we make when things seem the bleakest are opportunities for our wondering souls. What we focus on, while not ignoring painful realities, makes or breaks our spirits.

In conversations with friends and co-workers and texts and Instagram conversations, I’m reminded to look for the good.

181. Seeds for plant starts

182. Fingernails covered in dirt

183. An evening breeze through an open window

184. Aleve for back pain

185. Grocery delivery

185. Peanut M&Ms

186. Cacio e Pepe

187. Signs of support (contributed by Christine C)

-7618050827395310633

188. WhatsApp

189. Letters to children read via Instagram

What good and beautiful things are you seeing in your life these days? Please send them to me at 52beautifulthings at gmail dot com

 

Day 3 – 52 Good Things

How did today go for you?

Here are a few more good things. I can’t wait to see what good you’ve got happening in your homes, on your screens, and in your connections. Even STILL.

As a reminder, send me a note with the good in your world at 52beautifulthings at gmail dot com or a DM on Instagram. Keep em’ comin.

Sending love and light

(12-17 submitted by Cathy H.)

12. Seeing my coworkers via Google Hangout.

13.  People in Spain playing a big game of bingo together on their balconies.

14.  Flowers popping up in the garden.

15.  Regardless of what is going on – the sun still shines.

16.  Check in on someone you don’t connect with daily.

17.  Take a walk and wave or say hi to those you pass by.

18. Beauty from back yard quarantine, aka “Weeds” (submitted by Emily A.)

backyard weeds

19. Sierra Frost is hosting free, online support circles. I participated in her grief circle today and got some lovely, helpful perspective.

She invites you to:  use circling principles to create collective communication and maintain a healthy shared space.

Community Connections
A time to come together and battle isolation with meaningful connection, witnessing, and being seen. Sierra will help facilitate with any anxiety, depression, relationship challenges happening for you at this time.

Every Tuesday 11am MST/9am AK/ 10am PST/ 1pm EST

https://zoom.us/j/816798805

Grief Circle
Come get support for all kinds of grief: loss of loved ones, loss of work, sudden change of lifestyle, social loss, loss of normalcy…and so much more.

Grief is a communal process. Sierra will help facilitate where to go from wherever you are now.

Every Wednesday 3pm MST/1pm AK/2pm PST/5pm EST

https://zoom.us/j/726426006

Business & Leadership Sharing

Come with your questions about your business, podcasting, writing a book, selling, adapting policy and procedure and more. Come with your questions and ideas for effective and mature leadership in these times. Sierra will facilitate for you to leave knowing your next step.

Every Thursday 1pm MST/11am AK/12pm PST/3pm EST

 https://zoom.us/j/145671405

 

Seriously, I knew this was going to happen.

I added a 4-pack of marigolds to my growing selection of plants in the cart on Saturday. The orange blooms are supposed to help with pests and pollinators and look pretty in my square of dirt. We came home and dug holes for tomato starts and zucchini and cucumbers co-workers previously grew with care. Out poked the green shoots and leaves that will transform energy into happiness later this year.

It was risky, putting those plants in the ground. I knew the forecast was calling for rain and rain in May often turns to snow in May and still I was stubborn. Full of hope for my little seeds had sprouted and I wanted to get them warm and cozy in their dirty bed.

We put in the flowers too.

marigold

And just like the weather said, it started raining. I chickened out and brought my peppers and tomato stalks inside. Now my bathroom floor is full of pots waiting once again in the dark. We slept and it poured.

And tonight, just as they said, the rain is turning to snow. Damn. We got out the trash bags and pots and buckets, covering my little guys to attempt to keep out the cold. I could see my marigolds trembling, their little petals looking up saying “Seriously, I knew this was going to happen.” And I whispered “Good night, you’ll do great. Try to stay warm.” 

And I came inside.

Also happening in my life is the slow demise of my iPhone Six. Here comes a first world rant as I know my privileged problems are small in the grand scheme of things.

For months my phone hasn’t updated. No storage. Countless problems with the operating system. First went the feature of mobile deposits. Then no room for Spotify. Which is more important – King Soopers coupons or Starbucks. Trivial questions and simple choices, yes, and still very obnoxious. I paid for more storage – still no luck. Deleted photos. Archived emails. Desperately asked the kind folks at Verizon for help.

“It’s never going to update,” said the nice sales lady “There’s just no more space on your phone.”

I looked up at her, shaking like those marigolds, thinking “Seriously, I knew this was going to happen.”

The phone is only five years old! Technology be damned, if Apple wanted to be so innovative and the world is going to crap, shouldn’t we be able to sustainably use our very expensive devices until the end of time?

Nope. Not that innovative.

So after the research and the Youtube reviews, I found myself once again standing at the Verizon counter with a pretty package and an expensive new computing device to use for my texts and my photos, and the occasional phone call. The world’s information is at my fingertips and I needed to make sure I could have a head phone jack instead. Spoiled, yes.  I stood drawn in, addicted, and raddled looking for solutions to my technological deprivation. I made a choice and signed a contract.

As the same sales woman placed the new box in my hand, my heart started to drop.

“I knew this was going to happen,” I whispered to myself as I walked out of the store. My grief gremlin climbed out of my pocket and hopped into my hand. “Oh hello,” I murmured as her feathers started poking my hand.

This new phone will never receive a text from my dad. There will be no new photos of him and his phone number won’t live in my contacts.  I already lost his texts. But this device he will never even impact. No yahoo jokes. No butt dials. No bad connection calls.

A phone became a trigger and Apple’s planned obsolescence moved me further away from him.

There are lots of endings this week. Game of Thrones came to a close – I didn’t watch it but he did. So will Modern Family and The Big Bang Theory. Cultural movements that made up much of the last ten year’s pop culture just stopped. I didn’t expect them to last forever – I just didn’t expect it to hurt as much as it did when they were done.

Our good friends who we met just months after losing Dad are moving hours away. We said good-bye to them too.

Seriously, I knew this was going to happen.

Life moves on and things change. These changes are joyous and hard and even the best news and exciting devices can suck the breath right out of your lungs.

Like those little plants in my garden, being transplanted into new chapters of life can feel shocking and cold. It’s risky putting new roots in new places.

And yet, we have blankets, and buckets, and cups of tea to protect us. And I hope when the snow melts, beautiful orange petals and green leaves will keep turning their faces to the sun.

Shows end, we upgrade, they move, and we still we tuck ourselves in, saying with kindness to reflections in the mirror, “Good night, you’ll do great. Try to stay warm. The snow may melt tomorrow.”

That hope is a beautiful thing.