This is from two years ago.
It’s the night before the last week of the first year back to teaching. Perhaps I should create a rite of passage ritual for myself when I finish all the grading. To be honest, I have actually planned a restful three-day silent retreat at a local monastery for two weeks from now, so that will be my ritual.
I fall in love so easily. I get attached, you know? This shade of purple, that white stone, the way the light falls on the wood of the mantelpiece that we rescued from Grandma’s house before it was torn down. Oriole who calls to me from the treetops, Afil hamster who watches intently for the Farmer whom she loves to notice her noticing him, the old fuzzy-pants cat who demands more attention than I am ever able to give him. And these new people of my life–the earnest, anxious, goofy, lively, careful, carefree, fierce, tender, thoughtful, fiery, playful teenagers who populate my weeks. I have learned so much from teaching them, observing them, listening to them. And I’ve gotten attached, fallen in love with their antics and their wisdom. And some of them are flying off to new worlds. I’m proud, so proud, and grateful. I’m going to miss them.
Eager as I am for the coming rest and quiet and the chance to step back into the contemplative spaces inside myself, I sort of dread the transitioning, the letting go, the saying goodbye. I long for the quiet and cling to the chaos. Same hands, same heart doing the grasping in both directions.
1. All that transition has to teach me.
2. How the chaos of early spring has given way to a certain grace and tidiness about the house and yard.
3. My neighbor’s poppies. I think I am breaking a commandment, perhaps, coveting them? No, I really do appreciate their beauty, and I am grateful that they are there–mine did not bloom this year. I find that right now I am craving poppies with the intensity that I craved cauliflower during my last pregnancy.
4. Norm’s words on looking for hope.
5. Stormy weather. I love a thunderstorm. (And maybe it will bring down the last of the tulips on the poplar tree and rain the pollen out of the air.
May we walk in Beauty!