Gratitude * Sunday
Sunday’s heartfelt tradition.
A time to slow down, to reflect, to be grateful.
A list of gratitudes, our gratefulness feeds one another.
Quoted from Taryn Wilson
Joining the Gratitude Sunday Tradition at Wooly Moss Roots.
Late spring flowers bloom
all my favorite colors:
yellow, pink, purple.
Funny how some weeks are more interesting than others. I’ve had rather a different one. I’ve found when one goes through those interesting weeks the learning curve increases. Learning is good. So is doing different things or doing things differently.
I celebrated the birthday of a young man in my life who died at the young age of 24 when I was 19. He would have been 66. He was a musician, an artist, a lover of beauty. It’s a long story and I won’t tell it here, but I expended many tears again this year grateful to have had the small amount of time with him I had. As I do every year, I spent a lovely time remembering and grieving the lives and opportunities we both lost when he left this planet so early and so tragically. The anniversary of his death is equally as hard. I don’t tell his story to many people (only bits in this blog), but this year I told somebody else parts of his story. Grief never ends, and she graciously listened.
Most days at my place of work I get to make a field trip two blocks to another office to deliver and retrieve mail. It’s one of the highlights of my day, getting to stretch my legs, breathing the fresh air, feeling the sun or rain on my skin. Amazing how much nature there is to enjoy in those two blocks; after 15 years I still notice things I hadn’t before. This year I was looking at a vine maple tree with pretty magenta colored winged seeds and noticed tiny flowers on the same stem. As I watched the stems for several days, the flowers turned into the winged seeds. I’d love to find a time-lapse film of the process from flower to seed. Watching this all week reminded me what a difference a day makes and every day counts in grief and in change.
I’ve been wanting a new bed for a long time. Years. I’m picky and am taking my time deciding what size and brand to spend my precious money tool on as I am beyond the days where I might have made my own. At this point it’s a matter of need as I realize the mattress I’m sleeping on is at least 15 years old, used when I got it. And I am a traditionally queen sized woman sleeping on a twin sized mattress, totally wrong proportions. It’s not a matter of money because I know how to budget for what I want by cutting corners in other areas. It’s a matter of deciding.
The decision has been so difficult for me I decided to start working on the other end of a new bed and make the space ready. I have some floor space to clean and a chair to take out of the room. I have books to move and clothing to discard. Discarding is hard for me for reasons I still haven’t figured out. It must be done. Some of my discards are perfectly good things that can be donated to the Salvation Army or Goodwill. Some is really trash and needs to placed in the garbage can, gone forever. Some is merely in the wrong room and needs to be stored in a different room. The physical work of cleaning has become a challenge for me. I work for minutes now instead of hours, bemoaning my frustration at the chaos left in the wake of “cleaning” and not getting the task done in the time I have to do it.
My theory is if the space for the new bed is clean and prepared for it, the new bed will come. It’s a matter of time. On this day the space is still disordered, another day the clothes are discarded, hung, or folded, another day the chair finds its new home in the living area, anther day the books line themselves on a bookshelf in the living area, another day the floor is clear enough to vacuum a vast space. The yoga mat might again visit the floor every day and invite this body to stretch until the new bed finds its way into the room.
The room may be so happy with this new open space it might ask to have a dusty rickety bookcase full of an abundance of books and collectibles sent to another space in my house as well. My house has been telling me for years its space is not well used. I’m working on it. The space will increase and clear and the new bed will come after a different approach is taken. One cannot do things the same old way and expect a different result. Change is the only constant. And once that change is made the decision will come.
The flower of the clean space will become the seed of the new bed. Transitions take time, a day by day process, as grief is a day by day and year by year process. Whether it is 15,281 days, 7, 843 days, 257 days, or yesterday grief can be difficult, just as change is difficult for some of us.
Desire is a good motivator. Desiring something new creates chaos and out of chaos comes order. And since we have only this moment, only this very now, we shall make the moments count. One day at a time.
Color Watch – blooming attractions in my neighborhoods this week – I love finding plants I do not know yet or recognize like this pretty starry white bouquet; and this burgundy speared hedgerow; a red Japanese maple spinning out its new green growth; a neighbor’s yellow rose, Oregon roses are early this year; beige cattail fluff used by native American women to line the woven rough birch bark cradles made for their babies; a dark purple bundle, which gently opens to a subtle blossom, and then full blown into this lovely purple rhododendron; I can never resist capturing critters, especially ladybugs, in action; a creamy yellow lupine.
Currently Reading – The Damned (2015, fiction) by Andrew Pyper; Chasing the Scream: The First and Last Days of the War on Drugs (2015, sociology) by Johann Hari; How to Change Anybody: Proven Techniques to Change Anyone’s Attitudes, Behaviors, Feelings, and Beliefs (2005, communication psychology) by David J Lieberman. Yes, concurrently.
This week I have been grateful for:
- My house for giving me shelter.
- My clothing for keeping me warm and presentable to polite society.
- My abundance of stuff and all their opportunities for sharing.
- My hands and arms for writing and hugging for me.
- My feet and legs for giving me mobility.
- My back for bearing the weight of it all.
- My heart for making all the blood move and making all the parts work.
- My lungs for breathing in the air of life and spewing it back out again.
- My supporting cast physical bits, like muscles and bones and piping and plumbing and digesters, and how they keep it all going.
- My skin for holding it all together, combined with my nerves for feeling it.
- My eyes and ears and nose and tongue for sensing the rest of my environment.
- My first half flat of Oregon Hood strawberries of the season. At least two weeks early this year.
- Sharing my berries.
- Two good sucks with my plunger clearing my clogged kitchen drain. Yes, I am the family plumber.
- Graduation night in my little university town and the hubster, who was able to provide a hospital run service in the middle of the night to a neighbor who was injured in an incident in the street involving compromised (read: drunk) university students, because the injured parties were also compromised and unable to drive. Grateful all involved were not severely injured and the perpetrator was apprehended. Heck of a way to commence his new life.
- Sharing some time at the grocery store listening to the concerns of a 30 something young man shopping for his family, who had been researching American commercial food and bemoaned the disintegration of American health and intelligence because of Big Agriculture (poisoned foods) and Big Money (market manipulation). It’s comforting to know some of our young people are paying attention and know the Big T Truth.
Hoping you have a lovely week.
Namaste. Peace. Blessings.
Floral ribbon border by Laurel Burch
Rose photograph by Mary Drew