Feeling Hopeful

It's 2:00 a.m.

Yep, I shoulda been in bed hours ago.

Instead, I'm here, paying tribute to beauty . . .

. . . to having survived a bitter long winter of the soul . . .

. . . to feeling the uncomfortable yet exceedingly welcome itch of new growth.

May you, too, experience the unutterable joy of having your heart come back to life.

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. :)

Gotta Bloom

My flower buddies are teaching me sooooooo much about persistence. And even more than that: about doing what God has designed me to do. No matter what.

One winter several years ago, I just got mad when our outdoor growing season stopped so soon. It's not unusual for a freak snow in September to wipe out flowers that are really still at the height of their growing. I heard news of a coming hard frost and went outside and dug up my geraniums and plopped them in a glass bowl. Honestly, I didn't hold out much hope for their successful transplanting--I'd been sorta rough and fast in my "rescue." But I'd fallen in love with their fiery red blooms and just did NOT want to see them end.

To my surprise and delight, they immediately prospered. However, over the next few years, my tending of them went seriously downhill. My personal life was unraveling, with marital separation, reconciliation, then another betrayal. Then ultimately, divorce--unwanted by me, seemingly unavoidable, like an emotional avalanche I couldn't stop nor avoid being buried by.

Every so often I'd remember these sweeties and water them. Every time I thought my neglect had killed them, they rallied. These pictures show them as they are this morning: gangly, wild, raggedy, and exuberantly blooming. Look how they turn to the light. True, only a mommy or daddy geranium (and ME!!) could call them "beautiful" in their present state. But oh, how their insistence sustains me.

Most days, I, too, feel gangly and disjointed, trying to survive despite arid conditions. But most days--no, EVERY day,--I, too, turn to the sun, to divine Love, and blossom. Not because I "choose" to, but because that is how God designed me. Hallelujah!

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.

Renewal

Fresh start. What an incredible feeling. Much prayer the last few days. Deep sorrow layered with a heart open to God. The scraped rawness was also tender skin exposed to healing warmth.

I made some decisions about relationships. Played with colored pencils and tissue paper and glue sticks. Helped my mother's sister celebrate her 88th birthday. Helped teach a dance class. In the middle of a very long and sometimes bitter winter, sat outside today in the winter sun and smelled hope on the breeze.

I will never give up on love. Never. No matter what.

Amen.