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Daily gratitudes:

  • A decent night’s sleep
  • A lap cat
  • Pecans
  • War paint
  • Birdsong

When you think about it, we all start as seeds, in a way. And we grow, impacted by the circumstances of our lives, as the growth of a seed is determined by the soil in which it is rooted, how it is cared for, and the forces of nature that cause it to thrive. We can see each other’s changes on the outside, but it is a rare blessing when we can peek inside of a living thing and see all the petals that surround its core, its heart. As this image gives you a peek inside a rose, this blog gives you a peek inside of my spirit.

Inner Rose

Lafayette, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “There was something rather blousy about roses in full bloom, something shallow and raucous, like women with untidy hair.” — Daphne du Maurier (and I am most often a woman with untidy, tousled hair.)

Daily gratitudes:
A lovely day
Winning the battle with the lawn mower (but not with the voles)
Mr. Man feeling a tiny bit more like himself
Clean sheets
Showers digging in the dirt.

 

The bloom is still on the rose in the small garden in City Park. This picture reminded me of one of my favorite fairy tales when I was a child.

Denver, Colorado.

Quote of the day: “In our most ordinary days we have moments of happiness, moments of comfort and enjoyment, moments of seeing something that pleased us, something that touched us, moments of contacting the tenderness of our hearts. We can take joy in that. I find that it’s essential during the day to actually note when I feel happiness or when something positive happens, and to begin to cherish those moments as precious. Gradually we can begin to cherish the preciousness of our whole life just as it
is, with its ups and downs, its failures and successes, its roughness and smoothness.”  —  Pema Chodron

Daily gratitudes:
The sound of the sea in conch shells
Fringe
My Kindle application
Snuggle cat
Fuji apples

 

My Mother once told me a brief tale about my grandmother.

A friend stopped by my grandmother’s house one day to visit. In the course of the visit, this friend told my grandmother that one of their friends had passed. My grandmother said, “Well, why didn’t she stop by? It’s not like her just to pass without stopping.” Oh. Duh.

Monday was the seventh anniversary of my Father’s passing. I didn’t really think about it on Monday, but I have had a dim recollection of roses all week. That sounds odd, doesn’t it? Part of it stems from my resolution to post images that I’ve taken of flowers in order to hasten spring along. Tied into it are recent dreams of my childhood home, and memories of my Mother’s garden.

Many mornings in the spring and summer, she would cut a red rose from the big rosebush outside the kitchen window, wrap the cut stem in a damp paper towel, wrap that in tinfoil, and give to my Father to take to work with him. It would stay on his desk, greeting visitors and staff, until it was time for a fresh rose. We never talked about it, but it is one of those little gestures I recall that showed the love between my parents.

The  year after my Father died, the anniversary was very hard. The whole year had been very hard. I had been grieving in ways I didn’t even know about, but suspected. One evening, I went to a lecture put on by our local Hospice folks about grief, and halfway through, it was all I could do not to put my head down on the table and try to sleep. I realized then that I was still experiencing some deep grief, and that this desire to sleep was the way I was expressing it. And that it tied into my depression. I worked very hard to get through that time.

The next year’s anniversary was still hard – but it was a tiny bit easier. And then the next, a bit easier still. Last year was the first year that I did not deliberately dread and thus remember this anniversary. I felt guilty when I realized it had passed without my marking it, as if I had somehow forgotten my Father and his importance in my life. But I was rational enough to dissuade myself of that notion.

Remembering today that I had not attended to the exact day this year did not spark any sense of guilt. I have not forgotten my Father. I don’t know that a day goes by that I don’t think of him (and of my Mother) in some way, on some level. It might be a memory, or the sight of something he would have liked, or an experience I wish I could have shared with him. It might be a few tears of missing him, or wishing he was here to advise me. It might be  quiet contemplation of where he is now, and what he might be doing, and when we may meet again.

Yes, he has passed. He stopped with me for a long while. And now, time is passing, not leaving him or his memory in its wake, but simply moving on. As time does.

Photo title:  Mother’s Favorite

San Francisco, California.

Quote of the day: “Every man has his own destiny; the only imperative is to follow it, to accept it, no matter where it leads him.”  —  Henry Miller

Photo Title: Roses and Stone

Harper’s Ferry, West Virginia.

Quote of the day: “I can be changed by what happens to me.  I refuse to be reduced by it.”  —  Maya Angelou

June 2022
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