Cracking Open

In the previous post I made reference to "years and years of hardshell hurt cracking open." The past few weeks have been gloriously, painfully, messily, joyfully more of that same newbirthing.

These precious tulips, right outside my front door, open up to the sun, just like I've been doing.

Here's what's left of my heirloom peony bush in its original space. Because of needed repairs to my house, it has to be relocated to another part of the yard. Last fall I excavated as much as I could, but this clump remained, its heartroot exposed all winter.

And yet despite all my rough shoveling and an inhospitable winter, nothing stops its persistent growth.

In just a few weeks, these homely stubby shoots will bear the weight of the most glorious blossoms, a fushcia and marigold explosion of joy.








These sturdy flowers will have to survive more transition, though. Their home for nearly 20 years needs to be relocated. So in this spring warmth, I will go out and dig as deeply as I can, yet as gently as I am able, and move them to another garden.

I have no doubt that they, too, will find a way to survive . . . to blossom . . . to thrive.

Room to Grow

Over the past several years,  this tree has grown from a spindly random sprout into a giant, towering over my home. Countless hours have been spent in its shade, semi-secluded from neighbors, thinking, writing, reading, laughing, praying, crying, eating, wondering.

A few springs ago, I woke to a freak May snowstorm that had dumped a foot of heavy wet snow over everything newly green. My dear tree, my shelter from life's storms, had split down the middle.

A tree-fixer person gave me a plan to save it, which a friend executed. This tree has done much for me over the past several years as I've been learning to live alone. I will do much for it in return, to help it survive its own battles with whatever would threaten its existence.  

.

This afternoon, I got out my saw and removed chunks of the 18-year-old bench that had been installed a decade before this tree even dreamed of sprouting. Two other times I'd taken a sliver out of the bench, but recent growth had the tree beginning to dislodge the planks. As my saw bit through the final inch of lumber,

I swear I heard the tree sigh in relief.

My tree taught me that sometimes things need to be cut away, in order to give room to grow.

What in your life is squeezing too tightly?

Fresh Start

Hello, dear ones.


This spring for me has been juicyfull with growth and new beginnings. I do so hope you have been having the same. Don't get me wrong: a lot of that growing has felt like the hacking of a hoe as it breaks up winterhard ground. Given a choice, I would have wanted to decline, except for the knowledge, hard won, that prepared ground receives seed far more easily.


During the past couple of weeks, I've been away at a Bible study conference in California. Deep diving into the Book of Books, at Asilomar ("refuge by the sea") on the Big Sur coast . . . for me, it doesn't get much better than that.



I've been home a handful of days now, spirit-saturated with an overflowing of gifts from the Divine: peace, direction, possibility, wonder, gratitude, hope, and so much more that dances just beyond the reach of words.


I'll let these images of the vision board I made yesterday speak to what I'm feeling. If the text is too small to read, try clicking on the image--that should enlarge it. [Nope, I just tried clicking and nothing happened. I'll add the text.] [Ah . . a lesson in dropping perfectionism--the first image was supposed to be last, but it got jigglebumped into the first spot, and I can't move it. Okay. I surrender. Happily.]

that big pink "empty" spot insisted on remaining "empty"

(the whole picture)

Something beautiful is happening.

Rediscover

. . . you owe it to yourself to experience

a true breakthrough

effortless and fluid

as if lit from within

emerge

lean into the mirror and say . . . wow

Dear fellow journeyers: may you feel God's tender touch today. Share with me, if you like.

I'm Back

Tonight's eastern sky, just before sunset.

I have no idea why so many weeks have elapsed between my last post and now. Or why, tonight, at 10 minutes after 10pm, I am suddenly here, writing. But here I am. I'm tired and ready for bed, and yet parts of my heart feel as sweetly fresh as this soon-to-be-blossoming lily, dressed in morning dew.

I feel as though I have been "in transition" forever and a day. Sometimes I honestly wonder if I will ever make it beyond transition. Will I ever grow to the point where old hurts are mainly healed? Will I ever manage to do much more than survive emotional crap?

Then I remember my new gratitude journal which gets written in multiple times a day. I remember the sharp sweetness of praying for friends in need these past weeks. I remember holy times of stillness recently when I have listened long enough, and deep enough, to feel God's presence so strongly I can almost touch it.

This, then, is enough. More than enough.

P.S. I've said it before, but will repeat it: it means a great deal to me when people leave comments. You don't need to say much. Just a "Hi there" means a lot. :)

Eyes to see

This gangly geranium is SO me! All the life and color and joy in me, pressed against the window of winter and wondering if I just imagined last week's warmth.











My little garden buddy says, "No, you didn't imagine sitting on the deck last week, taking a sun bath. But neither are you imagining this fresh layer of snow. Be patient, my friend . . . this snow will melt and water all that is busy underground, gathering strength."












If I close my eyes, look with my heart, I can see this brave tuft of grass spreading all over the front yard, waving in sunshine.












I can see water in this pond shooting skyward, sparkling in the light.















I can see this blade of green at the base of a shockingly red tulip, opening up to show its yellow and black center.










Ah . . . see how the heat generated by this insistent growth is already melting the snow. This tiny field of daffodils can already see itself laughing in the wind.











And here come our newcomers . . . transplanted hybrid iris from a friend's yard last year. I once cut a bouquet of them while they lived in her yard that was so magnificently tall and gorgeous that it kept tipping the vase over. How will they do in MY yard? Will they be shy their first year? or will I see what I remember them to be: waist high, with stalks like broomsticks, and blooms of lavender/blue beauty bigger than my hand?






My eyes are open again, and yes, I see yesterday's snow and today's heavy obscuring fog. But I can also see, from deep within, the beauty about to blossom. I just have to know where to look.

Yes, YES, Y. E. S. !!

Like so many, I've trudged through a long winter this year. Snow and ice have brought their own unique beauty, but my heart has longed for nourishing warmth, for the freedom to be outdoors without the confinement of coats, mufflers, boots, and gloves. Like this scraggly persistent geranium, I too lean toward the light and press my face against the glass.


I can get so mired in my own difficulties. To offset that, I pray daily, often hourly, for God to keep my heart and soul tender towards others and their journeys. I ask God to help me fulfill what Jesus presented as the two great commandments: to love God with all our heart and soul and mind, and to love our neighbor as ourselves.

The people in Haiti. In Japan. A friend whose husband and life-long dance partner just passed away. A mother who cares for grandchildren because their daddy--her son--is in prison. I ask God to help me pray for all these people. And I ask Him to help me have the courage to do whatever it takes to see healing in my own life, to keep hope alive when progress seems measured in 100 steps forward and 99 steps back. Help me, God, to cherish that one step forward.

God answered those prayers this morning by nudging me out the front door, to inspect my gardens. Here, after just a little elbow grease (well, maybe more than just a little), fresh flowing water will sparkle and bubble.












Here the sun has kept watch all through the winter and tells me to turn him around, so that he can bring a fresh smile.




















Here, just out of sight underground, extravagantly fuchsia peonies are gathering themselves, ready to spring skyward and burst into glorious bloom.











Here, daffodils and tulips, lilies and irises, all quiver with new life and listen for their time to emerge.

And here, oh wonder of wonders, at the far end of the garden, in the spot nearest the sun, poised to get the most warmth and light of all, tiny blades of hope show their face and make me almost cry with joy.

Spring doesn't "begin" just when the growth shows. It lives inside us during any long winter of the soul, out of sight perhaps, but ever growing, through cycles of blossom and rest, renewal and flowering. We must never give up hope. Never give up believing. The day will arrive when the growth finally shows above ground and we can glory in the visible beauty. But until that day comes, the whole world needs us to keep believing. Believe in what we can't yet see, but what our heart tells us is still alive, still growing, deep inside us.

Loving what is

I just rolled out of bed on this spring morning, May 7th, and here's the scene that greets me out my beloved picture window.

Now, here's another picture. I'm in the middle of a second, utterly fantastic, e-course (go click the button to the right to see what The Creative Playground is all about). I was asked to look out the window of my mind and dream and show at least a little of what I see.

Hmmmmmm . . . now, do any of you see a difference between what is framed in these two windows?????

Is it any WONDER that I dream of the second, while living with the reality of the first??

Now, all those obvious contrasts aside, when I rolled out of bed this morning, even before I saw the winter wonderland that a spring day in South Dakota has "gifted" me with, I got hit with a choice: complain or cheer. Love what is, or fuss about what is not.

Other fellow journeyers through this life have graced us with wonderful quotes (and I'm NOT gonna do research to get them word-perfect, or this post will never see the light of day.)

"When life hands you lemons, make lemonade." A-nony-moose?

"In the midst of winter, I found within me an invincible summer." Camus

"Life isn't about waiting for the storms to pass. It's about learning to dance in the rain." A-nony-moose.

Plenty of other people have been faced with current circumstances that they would gladly trade for something else. We all stand at crossroads, multiple times a day. The direction we take greatly influences HOW we feel and therefore ACT, as we continue down that chosen path.

Would I prefer a warm sunny day today? Yes.

Would I prefer not to continue to be plagued with residual difficulties from a divorce I never wanted? Yes.

Would I prefer that the current man in my life were the man of my dreams? Yes.

Would I prefer . . . (gonna stop here, 'cause the list SEEMS endless!!)

Instead, I choose:

--to laugh at the silliness of snow in May; at snow covering a yard half-mowed; at a dirty-laundry basket filled with just-worn capris and tank tops, while I search for clothes warm enough to wear today.

--to say a sincere "thank you" for the prompting I received from the divorce lawyers, which "forces" me to review my finances and see if I can live on less.

--to stop ruminating over why he hasn't called and just pick up the phone and tell him I need to hear from him.

Right here, right now, is the only real moment. I can ruin it with the disappointment that bleeds from the brokenness of unmet expectations. Or, I can choose delight and laughter. I can choose tenderness and love, independent of current circumstances. I'll state the ridiculously obvious: I cannot change the snow. I cannot change what other people do towards me. But oh, here's the flip side--the equally ridiculously obvious flip side: I CAN change me. I CAN decide, right here, right now, that NOTHING can dispossess me of my God-given joy and kindness, nor my divinely natural inclination to bring those feelings to any set of human circumstances.

How about you? What crossroads are you standing in right this moment? I am NOT dismissing the severity of certain human events, nor unmindful of how some happenings can wear on our souls. What I'm saying is that we--you, and I--have a choice in how we respond. And our first response, if it sucks us down a traditional path of "Alas, woe is me!", does NOT have to be the response we stick with. We can choose to embrace whatever lies before us, and face it with the joy and love that is native to us, native because our Creator put it in us at the beginning.

Here's a picture, snapped a couple weeks ago:

Same scene, taken a few seconds ago--and PLEASE appreciate my dedication in sharing this with you, 'cause it meant sneaking out the front door in my bathrobe and flipflops, and sheltering my camera from the still-falling snow :)

Do I prefer the day in which the first shot was taken? An hour ago, my answer would have been a resounding YES! But the second shot is a moment of TODAY--a snippet of what lies before me in my here and now. And I choose to LOVE it. I choose to take the example of those brilliant hardy tulips and say, "Yep, I, too, am blossoming in the midst of inclement weather, and nothing can stop me either, from growing and blooming, just like I was created to do."

Now, all that brings to mind another quote, or a version thereof:

"Tu-lip, or not tu-lip--that is the question . . ."

Sorry, Shakespeare!!! And love to all of you!! I'm off now--got a lot of tu-lipping to do today!!

Happy Birfday

Happy birfday to meeeee . . .

Happy birfday to meeeeeeeeeee . . .

Happy BIRFday, dear Maureeeeeeeeen. . .

Happy birfday to ME!!

Sweet thanks to Amanda and Jason for my flowers!!

Happy Day

I'm thankful for today. For fresh starts. Grateful that I'm feeling peace and relief from sadness. Grateful even more that this came last night and this morning, even before the early morning fog rolled away and the sun came out, finally.

My sweet flowers say a lot of what I'm feeling. Miss Peony continues to stun with her enduring beauty, surviving hail and cold and rain. To me, her slightly ragged face only adds to her loveliness.

These dainty violas sprouted out in the lawn, were mowed a couple times, and still didn't give up. I honored their courage by transplanting them into a protected garden area. And they took root beautifully.

This batch of violas managed to stay put in the garden where they were first planted. Their claim to fame is that they lasted underground all winter and sprouted very early, under a cover of last year's old growth. Harsh weather deterred them not one bit. They were my first bit of flowering beauty this year.

I love the sweet face on this pansy. She tells me that she doesn't care some might call her a "one-in-a-bazillion," generic offering bought at Walmart. SHE knows she is a one-of-a-kind beauty.

And last of all, my California poppy. Isn't she just pure sunshine??? And every year, she comes back. No matter what. More beautiful than ever.

Amen.

After the Rain

All night the sky wept. When I woke to today's gray wet morning, Love surprised me by also waking me to a heart brimming with quiet hope.

She who loves sunshine more than words can say, rose from a sweet night's sleep, tore the lid from last night's pizza box and painted a list of possibilities for today.

Third on the royal purple list was "weed." I needed to make room for the flowers I'd bought yesterday.

I went outside, ostensibly to just turn on my fountains, but I didn't come back inside for two hours. Without any conscious intent, I bent over one of my gardens and pulled a handful of grass.

Delighted at how easily it gave up its hold, I pulled another clump. Then another.

The night's rain had not only watered last year's seeds and bulbs. It had also made it nearly a joy to pull the weeds that were choking out the perennials and those determined enough to reseed themselves.

As I worked my way through first one garden, then another, I thought of all the tears I'd shed these past few days, mourning the loss of a friendship that had, in many ways, sustained me in the nearly two years since an unwanted divorce had become final.

These recent tears at times felt like molten pain, searing my insides. But they also served to cleanse and clarify.

Late last night I was finally able to acknowledge that yes, many sharp and sweet joys came out of that friendship. But this good was, sadly, more than counterbalanced by acts of hurt and betrayal.

I am ready now to accept that I deserve better.

My weeding showed me that the rain loosened the soil, making the removal of what did not belong nearly effortless. In the same way, tears had soothed and softened my bruised heart, allowing the removal of old growth, roots and all.

Once the weeds were removed, several clumps of flowers were able to show their sweet faces.

Space was made for new flowers to be planted.

And so also do I feel tiny buds of love and tender hope stir in the soil of my soul . . . watered, yes, by tears, but also warmed into blossom by Love's constant embrace.

And I too am ready for new love to take root and bloom.