Pierced by LOVE!

About a month ago, I picked a bouquet of flowers from my garden and brought it inside. Days later, while watering the vase, I noticed this odd flower bud. One swelling bud from my Mandeville plant pierced a nearby leaf and was held captive. Kept from full bloom. My soul saw this amazing curiosity with as much wonder as my eyes.

What are the odds of me gathering blossoms from this plant? Picking this particular blossom? What made me not notice it when picking, then notice it so deeply? My soul told me: this is not a coincidence.

But, what could it mean? Why did it touch me so? Beauty and budding life held captive by parts of itself. Symbolic. I recognize the symbolism. I’ve been in this place.

I wonder: how am I moving in the world these days? Am I holding myself captive again? Am I stifling my own blooming?  If so, what has captured me? Fear?  Busyness? Ego? One of the many other ways I unconsciously sabotage myself? Is this piercing symbolic of bigger things than me? Could it be the world’s suffering?

I felt uncertain about freeing the bud. Should I allow nature to play out, unaided?  What would happen to the bud, left this way? Would the bud come into full blossom if I freed it?  

I asked my photographer daughter, Stephanie, to come document this strangely captured bud with her camera. Together we marveled while she snapped photo after photo. Hours later, I couldn’t stand by any longer to watch the stem end of the bud swelling, while the tip turned dark, slowly dying. This freedom will not change anything except a few days of extra life for this bud. And perhaps change me. So, I gently pulled it back and out of the hole it drilled for itself through the leaf.

My gift to the world is caring. Sometimes, caring is done best by leaving me out of things. Sometimes, it involves taking action. Knowing the difference takes some fine discerning. 

Often, the listening gets distorted while pulling apart the voices clamoring for attention in my head, heart, and soul. Sometimes, I fan the confusion into quite a roar, as I don’t really want to hear that still, small, most authentic voice of Love, Sacred Spirit, God. Sometimes, I want SO want to hear that I rush to make meaning, any meaning, just to get on with it.

I did this with the bud. I rushed to see it as a sign to say YES to a role, a job, a position that would have blessed me incredibly, and blessed a few others. As I fit this meaning on for size, I felt it was some of my truth, but not my deepest truth. Go deeper.

So, I found another meaning.  The bud represents how my heart feels – pierced by the news, the constant horrible news, the images and facts that break my heart every single day. The suffering, the violence, the sorrow and suffering is too much to bear.  

Yes, yes, but there’s more. Go deeper.

Beauty also breaks my heart open. I see God in beauty. Beauty is everywhere. Even in the worst I could image, the most wretched beheading, there is courage displayed, strength, calm. Beautiful hope that I too may find courage in my deepest suffering.  This face of God is beautifully vulnerable and right there also being beheaded, one with and yet more than the human suffering. Does love, does God take away some of the suffering, bringing courage and peace?  I hope so. 

Mystery is mystery though, so I am not sure of anything, how love works, how God suffers with, how God is in us yet way more than us. I just feel the effects of love and hope.   

Today, I’m practicing giving my presentation on the theme of self –compassion for a Soul Tenders retreat.  I’m trying to articulate how much courage it takes to be vulnerable.  I’m also celebrating my brother’s and my book release of The Spacious Heart: Room for Spiritual Awakening. (see more info on main blog - upper, right corner)

 I feel vulnerable. So many are already reading what I wrote from my heart. I feel slightly naked. Some days, my guts twist and bunch with the nakedness. Some days, I soar on the wings of courage.

I have no idea how this shy, invisible, terrified-of-performing-in-front-of-anyone person got here. It took much tentative sharing of my writing, many teachers and encourage-ers, much healing, much throwing myself into the wild competition of herding trails with dogs, sheep and cows outside of my control. (The dogs I handled were only partially controlled by me since their talent far exceeded my own.) 

Happy September birthday to you too, sweet Hutch boy. I miss you so! 

Miss you too, Carey.  Cattle dogs = love! 

Much throwing myself into teaching positions from children to adults and seeing if I fell apart. (Sometimes yes but hopefully no one knew) And much wrestling with love. (Lenior, do you remember how much I feared Julian of Norwich's 'wound of love' teaching? I've come a long way, baby!) 

My deepest truth is: I am the bud.  

I am both beauty and hurt. I am courage and vulnerability. I am wildly excited for this book release and I’m scared stiff by what comes next. I wrote in secret, knowing the terror of being seen was yet to come. I celebrate release publicly while longing to go back into secrecy. I offer self-compassion to others while realizing I often have unreal expectations of myself. I let go of needing to be perfect while wishing you were, so I wouldn't have to suffer with your failings, because I care so dang much. When you hurt, I hurt. I'm learning to just let us hurt together. I am contradiction and paradox.  I am love, and ugh, sometimes I am hate. (Just writing that breaks my heart) I teach best what I am learning myself. I am teacher and student, writer and reader, sage and fool, saint and sinner.  

free at last!!!!!!!!!!

 I am both set free and held captive by love. I am beautifully human. I am imperfect and I am enough.  And so are you. Isn’t it grand?

On this, my birthday, I celebrate birth. The earth’s. Mine. Yours. The Universe.  May we all have space in our hearts to hold it all!

once free, it came into FULL BLOOM  :)

And once free, may we all come into full bloom!  Continually. Never done becoming, and perfect just as is.

giving kudos to the mother plant

Cheers!!  

Running Dogs - Poetry in Motion

The trio waits, trembling. As we fumble with lines and clips, their muscled rear ends crouch low, toes dig into the ground readying for push off, their heads point straight ahead into the softly lit expanse of grass land before them. And then, free! They blast into the meadow. The fire in their bellies is fuel enough to launch them around the field countless times.
 

Turnip, our dog- Jack Russel x Basset 

Burren, our dog- Catahoula Leopard Dog x Border Collie

A friend's dog that I'm boarding - a mix of ? x ? 

Sadie, dark and glossy with legs flung wide and a spine that almost floats across the land, runs down the west side of the fence line, turns and runs south, in the lead, always in the lead. Burren’s lean form in dappled gray pumps and stretches directly behind her. Burren moves with elegant power, made for running and also for stopping and turning on a dime. For two seconds she is neck and neck with the black wind runner, before falling behind. Turnip, short and squatty, but powerfully muscled, shaves yards off each turn to meet the other two on the straight aways. 

Two circles completed, the dogs fling themselves onto the ground, bellies on the cool earth, mouths gaping wide, tongues dragging across front legs. Their bodies glisten with morning dew, each muscle well defined, each pant sending little puffs of heat into the chilly air.  Chests heaving, hearts pounding, they gather up steam to feed the fire in their bellies.

A car horn sounds in the distance sending the three hurtling into another furious race. Sadie flies ahead, Burren cuts diagonally and Turnip races to a spot in the center of the pasture and waits. He watches for signs of Burren tiring and then starts running to meet the two. Burren slows and Turnip launches himself into a great and powerful sprint, close to Sadie, his short rear legs grab and bust the turf sending grass flying out behind him. He runs with an amazingly smooth, powerful rhythm of gathering his stubby legs under him and then flinging them out before and behind. His legs and paws are angled and stumpy, yet they move him powerfully forward. What he lacks in grace he makes up in pure will and heart for the run. Turnip pours out everything he’s got, but Sadie is still a nose ahead. Even running tag-relay, Turnip and Burren can’t catch Sadie. Sadie is sleek grace, pure poetry in motion. 


In a flat out run, Sadie’s paws reach way past the end of her nose and past her tail’s end. She is made for marathons. Burren’s reach covers less distance but she is still fast. And, dear Turnip’s little stumpy legs barely stretch past his nostrils and half past mid-tail as he catapults his body forward. He is made for powerful short sprints, for digging furiously; his will to engage the other two is the fire that ignites the competition. 

Awe is not only experienced on a mountain top, or when coming upon a gorgeous field of flowers, or in the gaze of a newborn babe. Awe is also watching dogs run free.

It's good I'm a painter of words and not a photographer because I seem to ruin every camera, I own. 

R-E-S-P-E-C-T Not Just a 60's Song

" I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being."

Jackie Robinson

Since I love the earth, and want to respect to all peoples, and growing things and creatures....

                     .......and especially since I interact with dogs daily, I'd like to change that quote to 'respect me as a living being.'  Isn't respect a lovely emotion? Not overly dramatic. Not stagnant and stoic......

                                            ....RESPECT is simple.   
                                                            And powerful. 


Life constantly flows with opportunities to show and offer respect:  for our precious land, the good earth that nurtures us, for our friends and loved ones, even to those who are odd, different, or to whom we dislike. It's hard to know how to respect those who are violent, harder still to imagine our fury at them comes, in part, from our refusal to acknowledge our own potential for violence.  

It takes courage, maturity and self-compassion to be aware of all parts of ourselves, to exist in the tension of hurt and pain in ourselves and others, while choosing to live out love and respect.  

I tell stories about my life. And, right now, my grandson and his relationship with our dog, Turnip, are major characters in my life.  Jude and Turnip play together, bop each other, steal toys, share food and want the same space on the sofa. However, this is not a story about Turnip and Jude.  This is a story about respect.

Burren, our other dog, is more aloof and prefers watching more than demanding. She is a dog of integrity, but she is still a dog. Even kind dogs will put teeth into their 'no' if they have no other choice. Burren has her own relationship with Jude, less flashy but just as real. While Jude and Turnip go on adventures and get in trouble together, Burren's interactions are more mothering.  I shared a photo of Burren obliging Jude's pleas to swing with him, or "fwing"' as he says, but the following story has no photographs.

I captured this with the lens of my heart:  

Jude is playing in our sandbox. The sand is so wet he can't get his scraper truck to make roads, or his molds to release their shapes. Frustrated, he stands and shakes his hands, but wet clumps cling to his fingers. He holds his hands up, fingers splayed, looking around for a solution. He spies Burren sleeping in the dog-shaped ditch she dug near the sand box.

The little boy goes over and sits on the edge of her ditch, hands still up. Dog acknowledges his presence by wagging the very tip of her tail. She shifts her body over slightly. He sinks down into her ditch, knees drawn to chest,  hands held in front. Boy and dog gaze at each other. Then Jude gently puts his splayed fingers onto Burren's back. She leans into his touch. He begins petting, threading his fingers through her coat.  Then, lifting his hands to his face to peer at his fingers, he smiles and repeats the threading and petting.

Jude's fingers move up Burren's neck. A strong pat on the head showers sand in her face. I move, ready to intervene, stopping when Burren stands up and moves away. Jude follows the dog. Curling her body around his waist, Burren once again allows him to pet her back and wipe more sand into her coat. Whenever his hands move toward her face, she takes two steps forward.

For the next few minutes, dog and boy move in a sandy dance, Burren gently teaches the little one how to be polite about wiping his hands on her. Hands clean enough, Jude moves away. She shakes violently; boy turns away, squinting against flying sand. Burren goes back to her ditch and Jude runs off to play on the toddler slide.

Somehow witnessing this exchange gave my heart hope. Seeing respect offered between different species and watching it play out right in front of me, in the midst of all the heart breaking and violent news of today, helps me not give up, helps me want to continue being a loving, respectful presence in the world. 

Perhaps Jude is onto something:  approach gently, wait for an invitation before striding confidently into the other's space, and back off when there is a hint of 'no.'  Perhaps Burren is onto something:  Watch, wait, accept another's presence, decide whether it's best to speak up or move away, be ready to model what you want the other to be or do. 

Perhaps we can all learn from the actions of small boy and a dog. 

Gentle, Gentle, Only Coaxing, no Forcing

While sitting on my meditation bench, under the pine tree in the early morning..... 

                    .......I notice the Mandevilla's 

single trio of buds is pinking up, but still tightly closed. Though July is humid and hot, almost tropical, the Mandevilla

is reluctant to respond to the lush juices cursing through its veins.

On the opposite side of our patio garden is an amaryllis, gorgeous and brazen, shouting scarlet in four directions, dripping sexy pollen down swollen petals.  

In seven months, this is the fourth time of wanton blooming for this fecund bulb.

My soul senses wisdom hidden in the contrast of reluctance and wild abandon. Is there a reason why I've deeply noticed these plants?  Sleepy insight curls in my depths, as the ash from fires of early morning farm refuse burning whorls and rides air currents above me before falling gently to the ground like summer snow on green grass.  Interior movements rise and fall in my depths, as wisdom smudges the edges between wakeful routine of day, and reluctance to leave the soft cocoon of dawn. 

While I fertilize the Mandevilla, coax it to do what surely comes naturally, photograph the budding process, and wait in eager anticipation, I never touch the swelling buds. Gentle, gentle, only coaxing, no forcing.  Likewise, I've learned not to pick at the buds of insight. In due time, if ever, I will know what I am to know.  

find the buds! 

I am not irritated at the Mandevilla while adoring the Amaryllis. I water both, feed both, and talk to both.  I see myself in them as I know reluctance and wild abandon.  Well maybe a tad more reluctance.  Ah yes, there’s that niggling insight again…..

Short Takes: Turnip Head and DouggaDouggas

Two hazards on the dog walk this morning: baby chipmunks and poison ivy.  Turnip walked the whole path in creepy crawly stalk mode, his focus intent enough to ignore the long stem of grass cradled between his eyes in the deep furrow of his forehead.  Hilarious, a low slung hound dog creep walking with a grass seed-head dangling above his eyes, prickling his lashes!  I don’t think he even blinked. Eyes on the prize every moment - a good way to live.    

I often dream of unclipping and unleashing, letting the dogs be dogs. Reality trumps dreaming though. Only in my dreams are my dogs voice controlled and road smart. 

                                                       

Enjoying a raw bean. Burren is waiting for a handout 

The small boy came home yesterday after spending some time with his other grandparents and their farm. He has a tan and an increased vocabulary. He shocked me by pronouncing Turnip’s name almost perfectly!  I'll miss the Turdyip and Terp stage. How does a kid change so much in 10 days? Another reminder to notice, even savor, what is happening right now; blink and it will change. 

Jude and Turnip went with me to pick “back roozbeeries.”  Interesting combination of blueberry and raspberry!  He proudly held the berry box in one hand and with the other carefully pulled a black raspberry off the prickly stems. “Be careful Ternip, day will pick at you,” he cautioned his sidekick. Then he decided to hold the box with two hands and let me pick. As I placed each berry in the box, he picked it out and either ate it or fed it to Turnip. After I finished picking he held up his empty box. “Me em Ternip ate dem all!”  With such a jubilant face how could I scold?  Earlier, he shared raw sugar peas with Turnip. The dog is so glad to have his boy, his human Pez dispenser, back home.   

This morning, Jude watched the men bale straw, and unload the wagons. He rode in one empty wagon with Daddy as Papaw drove the tractor. He kept yelling, “Hey, Papaw, hey.”  Or maybe he meant “Hay, Papaw, hay!”  Just when he learns to associate real hay bales with drawings of hay in his farm picture books, we bale straw. That’s okay, most illustrator’s get them mixed up too.

While Jude was away, we folded up his Pack and Play bed and put a Cars themed toddler bed in its place. We changed his whole room around, added other furniture too. I was curious how he'd respond. First time in the new room, he did not squeal in delight or jump on the bed. He just stood in the middle of the room, scanned everything, then turned to me with eyes round and sad, “Where did my douggadouggas go?” His pacifiers were always tucked in the net bag hanging on the Pack and Play. Only after I showed him the little basket on the bed holding his treasures did he even notice the bed. He promptly took one dougga out, popped it in his mouth, and curled up on the bed. I had to promise he could nap here after lunch to convince him to leave the bed.   

This small boy can adjust to berries of blue, red or black, to bales of hay or straw, to staying with grandparents on either farm, to various beds, but he is not yet ready to face life without his precious dougga!  

No worries, at least not with this Nana. Few kids enter kindergarten with a dougga! For all those adults who judge a small boy too harshly, I say give up your morning coffee, or one of your other comforting addictions and then we'll talk. :) 

When Jude comes of age, Turnip will help him throw away his douggadouggas. Turnip will have had lots of practice by then, as daily he has to throw away rabbits and chipmunks.  

Enjoy the following sweet, compassionate photo story: 

I was photographing the buds on my fushia and heard Jude talking; I kept clicking. Notice the ice pop in left hand.Notice the angel figurine in the background. 

He's talking to the angel, patting her. 

He walks away, then turns back and....

...offers her a lick of his ice pop!  (too bad the fushia is in the way!!)

LESSONS FROM THE LITTLES

Lately, I’ve been wondering why I love children so much. Is it their innocence, their pure wisdom, their spontaneity, their ability to experience something over and over again like it was the very first time?

That last one might be the cincher. (I looked up the word cincher, just to make sure it is indeed a word. It isn’t. Unless you are talking about women’s girdles and waist nippers. That might be another reason why I like children - no need to know about such icky stuff!)  Let me restate….children’s ability to experience familiar things new each day might be a top reason for my fascination with them. Maybe why I like dogs so much too- pull out the same old leash and they think they’re going to Australia!

Our grandson Jude, comes out to the empty pasture with us when we take the dogs out for exercise. He has a plastic bat and ball there. The bat was broken ages ago from a zealous game with Pap and Uncle J. We don’t replace the bat because we get such a kick out of watching Jude pick up the bat, focus intently on the busted part and exclaim, “Oh no!”  His expression is always surprised and genuinely distressed. And then he reassures himself with the pronouncement “Pap did it!”  A pause to honor both broken bat and Pap, he then either drops the bat or plays with it as is. Like all mishaps are survivable if a loved one is remembered.  Wow, that could be a spiritual practice.

Wouldn’t it be lovely though, waking up every morning actually feeling like it’s a brand new miracle, this reuniting with Mommy and Daddy and Life, (and leash if you’re a dog). Waking up to genuine freshness and not just the ingrained, knowledge and positive coaching tip ‘this is the first day of the rest of your life.”  To eat a pancake for breakfast. And. Marvel. With. Every. Single. Bite.  Some seasons this does become an intentional spiritual practice for me- stop and literally smell the pancakes rather than wolf them down so I can eat my fair share or move on to more important events.

My favorite show as a youngster was Art Linkletter’s “Kids Say the Darndest Things.”  In the same spirit, I give you some funny stories from my own grandkids.

GIANTS and TIGERS and DRAGONS, oh my!  

Jude, Papaw, Nana and the dogs were playing in the hay pasture. Burren and Turnip were not playing, they work hard hunting mice and rabbits in the tall grasses. Papaw mowed paths in the tall grass for Jude to run and so we could occasionally see the dogs when they come out of the grass. So, the pasture is a 3-fold arrangement: We can grow hay, the grandkid can play and the dogs can hunt.

Jude's favorite pasture game is hiding in the grass while a giant, a tiger, a dinosaur and a dragon stalk him. Nana plays the giant most often, creeping up on the giggling or screeching half-frightened boy, while chanting: 

"Feeeee Fiiiiii  Fooooo FUM, I smell the hair of a little boy chum!!"

Finding the boy involves exaggerated tickling or picking up the squirming body and slinging it around, depending on Nana energy levels.

Then it's Jude's turn. He is always a dragon or a dinosaur, the scariest monsters in his toddler repertoire. I overheard this as he stalked Papaw:

"FE FI FO FUM I  mell  the PAIR  of a  PawPaw  PUM!"

The phrase has become his go to words. If he doesn’t know what to say and when he forgets ‘ready-set-go’ he just says fe fi fo fum. I love this!  When life is difficult, when I’m at a loss for words, when I’m gearing up for something I could just chant: fe fi fo fum, lookout world, here I come.

                     

ADRENALINE RUSH

When Jude tires of monster hiding games, he calls the dogs. Their crashing out of the tall grass is as much an adrenaline rush as a monster finding him.

"TUR   ERRRRP!"  (Turnip)

"BURRRR DEN!"  (Burren)

Jude stands calling, fist clutching treats held high above his head. He waits, calls, whole body trembling in scary anticipation. Suddenly, Turnip explodes out of the grass, skids into a sit in front of Jude's tiny body. It's almost a strike, Turnip is bowling ball to Jude’s pin-anticipating-knockdown. The treat is given amid squeals and laughter. Then Burren's head is seen above the grasses as she hops her way toward Jude for more squealing and treat giving.

                                                                   

LAUGHING COWS

All my grandchildren ask for laughing cheese. They eat plain, unsweetened, crunchy sour dough rye crackers with Laughing Cow cheese spread. They always see the tiny picture of the laughing cow and allow themselves to be delighted! They eat my rye crackers like some people eat potato chips, just because long ago I said they wouldn’t like them. Often when they are cranky, they ask for laughing cheese. My spiritual director once told me life always offers something to help us get through the difficulties. Thank God for laughing cows.

                                                                               

GROSS

During sleepovers, Ave and Rae always beg to watch me use my water pik. I am shy with my oral hygiene, so I try to weasel out of doing it in front of them. Once, overly tired, I made up some lame excuse, “I don’t have to do this every night.” (Apparently, Nana’s not above fibbing). That particular night, Avery had been grossed out by Railynn’s brushing and spitting out bits of rye cracker – can’t imagine how she’d handle watching pieces of a steak dinner swirl down the drain. But, the begging and pestering drowned my better judgment and I water picked my teeth for them. Avery’s little face wrinkled with horrified fascination. Then, with utmost care and concern she leaned in to whisper.

“Oh Nana, I really think you should do this more often.”

                                               

BEAT BOREDOM

Jude entertains himself (and us!) by singing in the car:

Trickel Trickel liddle dar,

How I whender wat you are.

Up above the Di Mond in da Guy,

Trickel Trickel liddle dar

How I whender wat you are.

                                                                                               

SOFT AS ANGELS

Avery steps in my shoes with her bare feet.

“Ahhh. Nana, you’re shoes are soft as angel clouds.” Then stepping out, my cushioned insert sticks to her foot. “What the heck is this?” A quick survey of my closet shows inserts in every shoe and slipper. I explain my sore feet.

“I wish I had incushions in all my shoes!”

She expressed the same amazed delight and desire upon spying the bath brush for my back hanging from the shower head. Buying birthday gifts for her this year might be easy and cheap. J   

                            

NOT MOVING

The girls are using wagons and strollers and arms full to cart all the doll stuff into our front room.

“What are you doing? Moving?” 

“No Nana,” says the 4yr old. “We’re going on a kay shun.”

“A kay shun?”

“Yes, a kay shun, where we go every year in the summer.”     

NAKED CHAIR

I made the mistake of changing the 6yr old into her bathing suit outside. I told her it was okay to change behind the privacy screen I made out of two deck chairs. Later, I caught the 4 yr old stripped naked on the deck. She saw my expression.

“It’s okay, Nana. I’m behind the naked chair.”

She was not behind the privacy screen chairs. She stood beside one of the deck chairs facing the busy road in full view of everyone driving by.                                                  

WORKING FRUSTRATION

We are all standing by the pasture watching Papaw bale hay. It’s is fascinating for the grandchildren. They love everything about Papaw- the way he disappears after meals, the big machines he keeps for toys, and now, the bales popping out from behind some noisy contraption. They wave and holler, dance and jiggle with excitement. When it’s over, Papaw jumps off the tractor, rushes to say hello to the kids, then hurries off to the next job. Avery comes to me, face dejected and shoulders slumped.

“Papaw works and works all day, then comes in a short time and goes out again to work all the time! I HATE it!”

Precisely expressed, dear one. Precisely expressed.

                                      

IMPRESSIVE INVENTION

The grandchildren watch as I unlock the play yard fence gate from the opposite side. I put my hand through the hole in the green rubber coated wire/split rail fence that Papaw cut for me. Sticking my hand through the hole, hooking my fingers through the metal loop I open the spring loaded latch. For some reason this concept fascinates the kids. Avery wonders why there is a lock only on one side of the fence, who cut out the hole and why the latch is so heavy. Later, as Jude and Railynn played in the fenced yard while eating watermelon and Avery ate with the adults on the patio, there were many requests to open the gate so the younger two could hand us their melon rinds.

“Look, kids, this is a hand-door,” an exasperated Avery exclaimed, pointing to the hole in the wire. “Use the hand door!!” From then on, rinds, napkins and toys that fit were handed between deck and play yard through the hand door. What fun!

I’m going to enjoy this stage immensely, the stage in which “nana and papaw are geniuses.”  All too soon the grandchildren will be rolling their eyes while teaching us how to use some newfangled smart technology or correct our dumb mistakes.

And, when they leave, instead of being exasperated with myself, I hope to just chant with a squeal and a laugh:  Fe Fi Fo Fum, all mishaps are survivable if a loved one is remembered!

Joyfully,

Sharon 

The Stirring is Enough

It’s one of those achingly beautiful days. 

I can’t settle to work indoors, though the house could use some attention. I can’t keep weeding the garden either; my back and turning pink skin need a break. I’d lie on a blanket outside and stare at the clouds but if I lay in the dog yard, the dogs will jump on me and if I lay outside the yard they’ll yip to join me. I’d rather not interrupt their quiet as they are gloriously stretched out in the yard soaking up the rays.

So here I sit, laptop open, taking my break, pondering thoughts the movie from last night opened in me. I went to see The Fault in Our Stars with my daughters. In my youth, I've asked pointless questions such as what is the reason for it all, what is the grand scheme of everything in life, why the heck am I here? Occasionally my mind still churns with those unanswerables, or circles around other ones, like why did I survive cancer when others did not?

Since gaining some age and perspective, I’m better at letting go of the questions and just experiencing ‘the feels’ as John Green, author of the book Fault in Our Stars, likes to say. Sometimes, I am stirred in my depths, by stories, by life happenings and will never understand what has been rearranged, healed, or remembered. That's okay, the stirring is enough.

Back to the movie....I smiled when Augustus mentioned wanting to make a difference in the world. I have felt that too. I cried when Hazel, his girlfriend, expressed sorrow that he didn't see his love for her as making a difference and that changing her life wasn't heroic enough. I cried because I've felt pressure to make a difference too.

The concept of being or doing enough is difficult for most of us. For instance I can easily fall into a restless longing to see more ….and what I long for always seems over THERE somewhere ….in the Grand Canyon, or the Alps, or a new garden or walking path. Yet, my own garden constantly throws surprises and gorgeous color my way.  

This morning I waited impatiently when stopped at a traffic light, staring at my fingers drumming on the steering wheel and feeling ridiculously irritated at all the cars on the road. Then I glanced out the window and saw vibrant pink petunias rising from the cracks in the sidewalk in front of an old stone restaurant. My eyes unexpectedly filled with tears. I knew those triumphant blooms were going to be weeded or sprayed with herbicide. I knew their efforts would be short lived, since they were growing wild below newly planted container gardens.

My tears were not in condemnation of container gardens or weeding.....

....the tears were my soul’s acknowledgement that yes, the story of Hazel and Augustus touched me. Life is so often cut short by uncontrollable happenings, predators, illness, violence, accidents. Yet, petunias will always grow toward the sun, unconcerned about struggle or the length of their lives; they simply do what is theirs to do: bloom a lot or a little, quietly or brilliantly. And that is enough.

Life is short. Love wins. No matter how long we live or love, no matter what we do or accomplish, know or don't know, we are always enough. 

Joyfully,

Sharon