June 2019
Outside my window, the cherry tree, reshaped. It was an old tree with long, reaching limbs. Over time, some limbs developed stress fractures, and recently, gravity pulled against it. Shane shaved off half its limbs. We hope to keep it around for at least another year, but it is old. And like a lot of things around here, our landscape is changing too.
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So long, lovely
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Giving thanks for friendships. Long thoughts on level ten and how my own thoughts stood in the way of my happiness. How my own expectations distracted me from seeing what was already there. And still, a hard focus to let go and move on. Move on. On, on. I wrote in my goal book from a quote I'd seen that not everyone can go where (you're) going--and added: because they likely don't want to. Learning to stop holding space for people who are not holding space for me. Learning to move forward into my own story, joyfully, and to give thanks for those who are willing to link arms, and to bless and release those who want to tell a different, separate story. Truth: there are some stories I don't want to be part of either. Focus.
In the school room, we sent in grades and papers. I took this past year's books off the shelves to make room for a next year. Lanie will be in eleventh. Erin starts seventh. I am so acutely aware of the dwindling years with them as children under our roof, homeschooling. Like Lanie wishes all we could do would be to make music, I wish learning could be our pursuit for life--and it can be, but soon it will all be happening on new turf, on new terms: theirs, as they take ownership for the depth and richness of the story their lives will tell.
From the kitchen, too many treats. I impulse purchased Trader Joe's Scandinavian Swimmers and mini gluten-free cupcakes. When we got home from last night's recital, the girls convinced me it was perfectly fine to eat cupcakes after 10 p.m. And so we did.
I am thinking long on recent words. Last week's yoga class as we approached the summer solstice, my instructor commented on the longer days and how (we) have made it halfway through the year. Lying on my mat, I started to cry. And if I had been alone, I would have sobbed. I made it. Half way. I think of (his) words, encouraging me to take baby steps, quarterly, and reevaluate commitments and be mindful of health, and here I am at halfway. Another year. I thank God. And today, a focus on letting go--and I had walked into the room holding so much, still, despite wanting to let things go. (She) talked about things we carry, and forgiveness, and things that no longer serve us. We did heart openers and twists and lots of planks and I was grateful for the queue to let go. Let go. Let go. God, help me. I remember too much. Wounds still sore.
I am reading, rather, skimming through
Atomic Habits. I have lots of cookbooks around me and I always want to plan better, but lately haven't planned much at all as far as meals. Even tonight, wondering if I can pass off another pizza dinner. A delightful library book on bowls, and now I want cozy rice bowls with warm gooey fruits, and oh, I just stepped into summer and I'm already reaching for fall and September skies, apple pies, warm drinks and denim jackets.
I am hearing nothing. And sometimes I wish there was an airplane mode for all of life and enough time to be still, unrushed, unburdened. I guess that's death. Unless you're Marley, and wander with the lost souls, looking down at life and what your hand wrought.
Around the house, a focus on what remains of summer. Summer doesn't officially seem to start until the day after the dance recital (today!), and I'm looking at the calendar, looking how to make the most of what remains of this summer, of this season. I feel so desperate. But this week, getting the house in order. Getting the yard in order. Cleaning the windows.
A view of my favorite things:
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| June Summer Mummers |
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| A heart-shaped petal on the run |
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| Movie day with this fun crew |
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| Home, sweet home. Focus. |
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| photo adventure with a friend's family |
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| dress rehearsal |
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| And that's a wrap! Thankful for friends. |
At the table, sitting here. Ruth at my feet. Looking around. I am tired from a late night and an early start. I'm thankful for the quiet. All too aware of nearing this finish line. Thinking on last night's dance recital, and likely the last. We want to hold onto things because we recognize the beauty of a season, want to squeeze out the deeper hopes, or stay long enough to give an experience or a place or a relationship another chance to be everything, everything we were looking for. I know this thought of "one more" (day, chance, year)--in a neighborhood, in a church, in a co-op, in a friendship, in a family, in a class. Waiting for the moment that redeems all that hope held empty. (Secret: sometimes those moments never bring redemption. Sometimes redemption comes in letting go. Sometimes redemption waits a step away, in the exhale.)
