I’m here because I find myself wanting to seek beauty and wanting to intentionally engage the holiness and miracles that surround us. It’s an important exercise amidst the clutter and unmet expectations and temper tantrums and, yes, chaos. Slowing down. Listening, looking at what we’ve been given, living thankfully.
Lately, hopelessness has been the reality of terror and unexplainable things, and the disconnections that these create in my brain. It is frustrating to enjoy words but not be able–or perhaps truly not want–to put words to some of my experiences. So right now a lot of this exercise feels a bit more like survival, just getting more practiced about quelling the frenzy and anxiety. It also looks like finding the quiet and getting comfortable in it again. Getting to a place where certain things don’t leave me raw and unraveling and incoherently overwhelmed.
Maybe this is all part of the process though, and somewhere along the way of sorting through it all and facing the big questions that leave me aching, joy and wonder also happen. As a friend said, “Lately I’ve been feeling all the feelings.”
I know the metaphor gets old, but you plant some seeds and you wait.
One vengefully cold and wet day a few weeks ago my girl and I dreamed of a small garden on our three feet by three feet square of cement porch.
So we had a messy planting party on the kitchen floor. Seeds are so small. Have you ever noticed? Down in the soil, we started them nestled in cozy divets of a used egg carton and covered them with a little blanket of dirt. She wanted to give them pacifiers as well, but we didn’t have enough. Gave them sips of tap water. We set them in the window sill and my thought was that I’d buy “some real plants” at the store when this didn’t work out.
A week later, first thing in the morning, sun not yet risen, she runs to the kitchen: It’s AMAZING she yells to us in the bedroom (the baby has been awake since 5 a.m. and the bedside lamp is on, I’m bleary eyed): What’s amazing?
She showed me the tiny plants pushing their way out of the dirt. And the funny thing was, I was shocked. Perhaps it’s where I am in life right now, but something as simple as seeds doing what they’re designed to do–sprouting when they’ve been gently planted and watered—had seemed unlikely to me.
Green, new life. Exceptionally tender, but there.
On our walks, the daffodils bow their beautiful heads reverently toward the brown velvet dirt. And I suppose that even amidst the confusion and joy and sorrow and “so-muchness”, I am learning that this is often the correct response.