Bloom Anyways

 

My backyard native plants were beautiful the day I arrived home from Spain. Over six feet tall, their purple blooms had just opened, and the bees, butterflies, and even hummingbirds had begun to sip the goodness within. Beautiful.

Then, the next day, we got some heavy rain. I walked outside the following morning to see the largest of the plants fallen over onto the driveway; its roots were too shallow to hold in the newly softened ground. 

I sighed sadly, and started to pull up the remains of the plant. Then I noticed the blooms on the plant, instead of wilting, had already begun to turn their faces to the sun. I stopped short. Who was I to deny the flowers their chance to adapt? So, instead of pulling the plant, I kicked some dirt over the exposed roots, trimmed the edges so it wouldn't get driven over, and left it to live if it could.

It could.

I've been home for a month, and the plant has thrived. Lazing about as it stretches across the concrete hasn't seemed to bother it in the least. (Thankfully, the extreme heat of the summer had passed by the time it fell over.) Not only did the blooms it had already formed continue to open, it continued to grow.  Over the past month, it created even more flowers, as if it were still standing tall.

There's a lesson or two here for me, I know there is.

Something about beauty not having to be perfect to be beautiful. Something about the possibility of still being able to find a place in the world, to fulfill the purpose for which you grew, even when you've been knocked permanently off balance. Something about giving things a second chance when they're down because they've been hit by the storm. 

Something.

I'm glad I didn't pull it up when it fell. *happy sigh*

Flatware

Back in the olden days, when I was a kid, we had lots of people in the house and not lots of money. Not surprisingly, we also had a motley set of mismatched silverware. For reasons now unclear to me, this bothered me, and I longed for our silverware to match.

Also in those days, one could collect Betty Crocker coupons, embossed on assorted General Mills boxtops, and redeem them for a variety of household goods. I was an inveterate cereal box reader, and noticed one day that if one gathered enough coupons, they could be exchanged for silverware! So, I started intercepting the boxes on the way to the trash (Mom helped - she was not opposed to this project) and cutting out the coupons.

My task was helped along by the fact that all eight of us kids had cereal for breakfast every day, but it still took a good long while to amass the required points. I was singled-minded in my focus, however, and stuck with the task until I'd accumulated enough points to buy service for twelve. (I don't recall ever bothering to order the service pieces - they meant nothing to the ten year-old kid I was then.)

I still remember the day my loot arrived; opening all the boxes of brand spankin' new and shiny place settings. The smooth heft of the decent quality pieces, the orderly look of the table once the place settings were laid - these did my heart good.

Fast forward a decade or two. I'd, of course, left the original flatware behind when I left home. The stuff the kids and I used matched, but the forks were not high quality and bent easily. My old longing for quality tableware was intact, and so when I found some 'extra money' on the same day I happened to be in an outlet mall that had an Oneida store, I gave into my craving for order, and purchased service for 12, plus the serving pieces I now had gained an appreciation for.

After getting my loot home, I was no less enamored with the pieces than I had been as a child, and I've jealously guarded my matching flatware for a couple of decades now. Sadly, despite my best efforts, over time, a few of the pieces have been lost. Not discarded maliciously, but lost all the same.

I've tried not to care, but in my heart, I do.

Last month, I decided my heart would be happier if I made an attempt to find replacement pieces; it wouldn't hurt anything to look. My hairdresser scouts out antiques on the side, so I enlisted his help, sent him a photo of the missing items, and asked him if he knew of a way to replace them. He did know, but the cost for just those three items, plus shipping, was going to be almost half the cost of an entire new set of flatware. ($50 for ONE spoon???)

Sadly, I tried to set the notion aside. I reviewed the options. I could pay the king's ransom the internet was asking for the pieces. I could buy a whole new set and give my partial one away. I could see if I could sell my eleven remaining spoons for $40 each (a bargain!) and finance new silverware that way. Or, I could live with what I have. 

Reluctantly, I decided to just live with what I have; to pretend I have service for ten, plus extra pieces. The world will not end, most probably, just because I don't have Oneida service for twelve. Since getting the sad news from Dennis, I've been working to just let it go. Or, if not, to just buy new stuff. Either way, quit obsessing over it!

But then, but then. 

Last week, when I went in for my haircut, Dennis motioned to the sideboard. "I have a present for you," he said. My heart leapt. Surely not, but, maybe??? I opened the bag to find my three missing pieces of flatware. He had done what I couldn't convince myself to "waste the money" and do. He'd listened to the longing of my little OCD-leaning heart and re-completed my set.

I don't have words for how loved this makes me feel. I feel seen. And I feel it over and over again - every time I open my silverware drawer, and happily count to twelve. 

Good Is.

Why the Children?

I've been trying not to follow the news too closely this week, but the headlines and photos keep catching my eye. 

After so many years of relative quiet, peace in the Middle East has been shattered once again. War is awful in all the ways in all the times, near as I can tell, but surely, when one purposely targets the children, a new level of hell is created.

I can't unsee the images of the Israeli children taken as hostages. The image of a frightened baby, just into toddlerhood, being brandished like some sort of obscene trophy, by a man who seems to think such behavior is justified. Why????

I can't unsee the photo of the children of the Gaza Strip, caught up in a conflict they can't possibly understand. A middle-sized boy, perhaps seven or eight years old, standing in the courtyard of a 'safe' school, his younger sister held tightly in his arms, fearfully scanning the sky after the sound of warplanes was heard. Not purposely targeted, I hope, but from the look on his face, he knows he could easily be the collateral damage on tonight's news. 

And elsewhere in the world: A picture of a woman trying to negotiate a razor fence on the southern U.S. border, toddler clenched firmly in one arm, the baby's body just inches from the deadly edges of the wire. Sunday's lead story in the local paper, mercifully without photos, about a two year-old found dead just a couple of miles from my house, from fentanyl poisoning.

I look, and I cry tears of helpless rage and frustration. I want to gather each and every one of those innocents into my arms and hold them tight and tell them it was all just a bad dream. I know life is hard and cruel and not fair, but given all the wrong ways we treat each other, some of the wrongest ones are when we treat these precious lives as if they were used Kleenex. How can we not remember that when we destroy our children, we destroy our future?

Stop. Breathe.

I am angry because I am powerless. If I knew which direction to toss, I'd throw some money at the problems, hoping against hope my drop of help would join other drops to make a difference, but the roots of the actions which placed these children in such danger are so widespread and disparate that my drop would turn to mist and evaporate before it ever got into a bucket. 

So, I pray. Mostly because it's all I can think to do. I pray to the God I can't quite believe in. I can't find words to formulate the prayer, so I have to trust the Spirit to translate the cries of my heart.

Will you help the children? Please???

Reestablishing Rhythm

This is the start of my third week home, and I have a nagging urge to start figuring out what I need to pack. No, I don't have any trips planned, but I've been traveling on and off all summer long. That sense of comfortable daily rhythm I'd grown to like last winter and into the spring is nowhere to be found, and I fear I've gotten hooked on the adrenaline boost that comes with travel. 

There's a part of me that really likes avoiding the tedious and boring parts of life. When I'm on the road there's no time for excessive navel gazing or worrying about pesky questions like "am I spending my time or wasting it?" I don't need to worry about the home maintenance tasks that aren't urgent, but do need to be done to keep the house in shape. When I'm home, I give the chores a lick and a promise. On the road, I just worry about getting to where I'm going in one piece, and enjoying the moment I came for once I get there. Turns out, traveling is a great avoidance tactic. 

I've really noticed the travel letdown this past week. I got back into my exercise routine, and spent some time washing the windows, so I'll be able to see outside this winter. (Must let ALL the light in...) I caught up on my laundry, bought some groceries, mowed the lawn. I cleaned up the dead plants from the yard, and started putting another coat of oil on the back fence. Blah, blah, blah.

As I've worked, I've tried to keep the lessons from Spain from getting lost in the shuffle. The part of me that says I can't own my strengths? It also has some strong opinions about resting on one's laurels. "I know you walked to the end of the world, but that was last week. What are you doing today?"

Hmph.

I DO want to reestablish some rhythm to my days, but I DON'T want that rhythm to be a drumbeat of dull chores. I want the rhythm of my days, each of my days, to contain an element of fun, of joy, of rest.

So, I started to stop. I stopped to enjoy the flitting, fleeting presence of a Monarch butterfly feasting on my flowers. I stopped to read a book, a beach-read type of book. I reached out to my friends, adding lunch and dinner dates to my calendar. 

Work, yes, but also:  Stop.  Breathe.  Relax.

Yes.

Reentry

Has it really been just ten days since I got home? It seems like it's been months since I arrived, footsore and on cloud nine, at the end of the world.

I've still been waking during the night, surprised to open my eyes and find myself back in my familiar bed. (I'm always happy to be home, once I figure out that's where I am.) My subconscious is busy integrating the lessons I learned on the trail - I can tell by the surreal quality of the dream fragments I can remember. 

I knew, when I got home, I needed to spend a few days off my feet, to let them heal up, but also had a pile of deferred chores to be done and I am not the world's best at taking it easy when there is work calling my name. Fortunately for me, whether she knew it or not, Rose, who had been watching my house, had the key.

"I started this puzzle," she said. "The pieces are all turned over, and I've sorted out the edges. If you don't want to finish it, just scoop them back into the box," she said.

Ha! Fat chance of THAT happening. Puzzles, especially when I don't have to share the joy of putting them together, are one of my addictions. So, I spent the first few days after I was home assembling the picture, and doing just what the doctor ordered, letting my feet rest up.

I'm happy to report they've healed beautifully. Even the worst of the blisters are almost gone, the no-longer-needed outer layer peeling off to show tender, but healthy, new skin beneath. *whew*

I'm discovering one doesn't come back from an adventure like the Camino and just pick up life's pieces from where they were left scattered about the house and go on as if nothing happened. Like an old dress pulled from the back of the closet, my old life no longer quite fits; I've changed shape! It's been the oddest sensation - almost as if I were settling into someone else's life. I've been looking at my daily activities in a new light. These things I like, keep doing them. Now, why was I doing that??? Perhaps I no longer need to spend my time that way. 

I am SO grateful for all I learned last month even though it's clearly going to take some time to sort it all out. It's a good job to have.