.....a wonderful world

Yogis,
On a picture perfect day under a brilliantly blue sky, my son Patrick placed a ring on the finger of my newest daughter-in-law Bridget. Last Sunday they said ‘I do’ while a butterfly fluttered by.

‘I see trees of green, red roses too. I see them bloom, for me and you. And I think to myself….What a wonderful world.’

The wedding was held in Dewey Beach at a hotel which backs to the bay. With our toes in the sand and tears trickling down from beneath our sunglasses, we witnessed love in action. My sister officiated the ceremony with words that were personal and touching, so eloquently sharing her love for them, their love for each other and our collective love for not only them, but all those seated around us. We wore freshly pressed dresses and suits, but love was the fabric of the day.

 ‘I see skies of blue, and clouds of white. The bright blessed day, the dark sacred night. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.’

If you were to describe the weather you want for a wedding you would have described last Sunday. Seventy-seven degrees, low humidity with a cloudless sky. The groomsman’s sand colored suits and the bridesmaids muted sunset colors were set aglow by the rays of the sun. Dinner was served on an open deck while the air turned crisp and the sun began her slow descent, painting the sky with the hues of the table settings. Candles were lit and toasts were shared. And while we danced the full moon paused over our heads to smile.

‘The colors of the rainbow so pretty in the sky, are also on the faces of the people going by. I see friends shaking hands, Saying, “How do you do?” They’re really saying “I love you”

As mother of the groom, one of the traditions is the dance with your son. We had gone back and forth on a song selection. None of them seeming quite right for the emotions we both were experiencing. Then I remembered the song I had danced with my eldest. We agreed that it was perfect, so it is now a Cahill tradition. And as I held my son’s hands and felt his heartbeat, the north star shone brightly.

‘I hear babies cry, I watch them grow. They’ll learn much more than I’ll ever know. And I think to myself, what a wonderful world.’

Patrick has always been an amazing human. Honest, warm, kind, generous and grounded. He is a gentle soul and was drawn toward someone who is his perfect complement. We are blessed to have beautiful Bridget joining the Cahill clan…..and of course their dog Ralph who himself shined in the ceremony with his sporty bow tie. I am excited to witness their journey forward which I know will be filled with adventure, laughter and of course, love.

‘Yes, I think to myself, what a wonderful world…..Oh yeah’

I told my youngest son that he can check off choosing our song from his to-do list when he is getting married, as that has already been decided.

I am still floating,
SARAH

'What A Wonderful World' by Louis Armstrong

A Fairytale......

....beauty

Yogis,
I’m not sure if it’s because of the time of year. Or how the sun is now sitting a bit lower in the sky. Maybe it’s the cooler nights or it could be the change in the air, but something has the word ‘beauty’ coming to me over and over this week.

Making my way through my days,  I keep finding something that will suddenly catch my eye and my breath, and all I want to do is tell it how beautiful it is. It started me wondering what is beauty.

Here is how the Oxford dictionary defines it. “A combination of qualities, such as shape, color or form that pleases the aesthetic senses, especially sight.” Ok, but seems a bit dry. Too superficial. Beauty feels deeper to me than simply being pleased. I check another source. The Webster dictionary starts with this definition. “The quality or aggregate of qualities in a person or thing that gives pleasure to the senses.” About the same, but then it goes on…….

“or pleasurably exalts the mind or spirit.” Exalts the spirit. Yes! Now that gets more to the depth of what I have been experiencing. An inner stirring. More of an emotion than a thought.

I started consciously watching for beauty as I walked yesterday. I was heading down a street that had suffered major tree damage in the woods along the walkway. Trees and branches, with leaves all now brittle and brown, snapped and twisted, laying crisscrossed over each other in a pile. But right in the middle something bright catches my eye and my heart. A patch of vivid orange flowers sitting on tall stalks amongst the devastation. The type of flower that would typically be found in someone’s well-tended landscape, blooming here in the destruction.

My next door neighbor’s house that was sold when he died last year sits sold but vacant. The grasses now as tall as me, as the house is slowly being consumed by the ivy. The earth will eventually take back what we borrowed from her. But amidst it all rises a plume of pink. His crape myrtle bush surrounded and almost buried, yet sharing her beauty with all that walk by. Beauty cannot be held down.

The way the sun catches the flowers in a flower pot a few doors down. How my neighbor installed a memorial bench in her yard for our lost friend. Beauty.

Its everywhere. Birds flying in perfect formation. The coo of the morning doves. How details of trees appear traced against a blue sky. Dark cloud formations of an incoming storm.

Even in death there is beauty…… Driving to the beach I passed mile after mile of cornfields. Thousands of dried brown stalks sitting in perfect rows, their tops being blown in unison by the breeze. Beauty.

What exalts your spirit? The more you look for beauty, the more she rolls to your feet.

Being stirred,
SARAH

....the giving season

Yogis,
It is subtle but unmistakable. Another full earth transformation has been set in motion. Impermanence. The dense moist tree cover which for months lay like a blanket overhead protecting us from the harsh side of summer is thinning. Turning a corner, you catch a glimpse of leaves tinged with yellow. Grasses all going to seed. The downhill march of fall is underway.

Many plants in my garden are now dotted with dried brown leaves. They too have started the slow process of withdrawal. Decline. Yet at the same time another opposing energy is at play. One of plenty, as it is now harvest season.

On my return from the beach, I visited with my garden to see how everyone was doing. When I came to cucumber she was heavy with fruit. ‘Here,’ she said as I removed four and counted the other eight growing. Pickles will soon be on the menu.

  

Arriving at fig, she too was ready to share. A small bush that I received as a clipping from a friend finally took off this year, quadrupling in size with a glorious display of figs. ‘Climb in’ she says as I duck beneath her branches to find the ones turning red and come out with six figs and sticky fingers. I’ve received more every day. She has become a matriarch standing proud at the edge of my front yard.

Each year at this time I hunt for paw paw fruit without much success. Before leaving for the beach I had spotted my very first one though, high in a tree while hiking.  I go back with a friend on Friday to see how it was doing. We look up as we walk. ‘Look below me’ she says with a smile. An hour later we are driving home with five paw paws in a bag! They sit on my counter to soften. She gives, and gives and gives……

Basil gathered and blended into pesto. Rosemary and sage chopped into salt for seasoning that will nourish me until next summer. Plantain cut and soaking in oil for salves to soothe dry winter skin. The zinnias which continue blooming in every color, but on legs that are getting shaky, I give as gifts. Plump pumpkins make their first appearance in farm stands.

The gifts of late summer.

It’s as if nature is saying ‘I am going to be leaving you soon, so I am working hard on your behalf now. Please, please take all that I offer before I must lay down to rest’. Her final surge of energy used to give and give and give.  

Before we know it the earth will be quiet once again. The landscape barren. But for now, I welcome her offerings with open arms and a deep humble gratitude.

Thank you,
SARAH

....shell stories

Yogis,
A father and young daughter walk by at the beach. She is clutching a pile of shells scooped up in her tiny little arms. She needs a bag, we all decide, so I quickly grab the newspaper wrapper I have tied to Phoebe’s leash and offer it up. We watch as she carefully drops them in one by one. ‘Now you can get more’ her father tells her.

‘You can never have enough shells!’ I remark. You can never have enough shells.

I have a lot of shells. Bowls of shells in my studio. Shells scattered around the beach house. Shells on my kitchen counter and near my jewelry box. I have shells from the Virgin Islands and shells from Greece. I find them whenever I clean out the beach bag and occasionally in my jean shorts pockets.

Yet every time I walk the beach my eyes instinctively drop to scan for shells. Oh, there’s a different color! Look, a scallop shell! By the time I am heading home at least a couple are making the trip back with me. How can I resist when they are all so different?

Like a fingerprint, every shell is unique. Whether it’s the way the grooves spiral through, the light brushstrokes of color, or that broken edge, each different from any other. Some tiny and others, like Caribbean conch shells, almost hard to carry. Like us, each drawn from a new mold.

Every shell also has a story. I run my thumb down an edge smoothed by waves. I hold the conch shell to my ear and listen while it whispers of the ocean’s secrets. I visualize the clam shell in my hand being carried by a creature who called it home and wonder where her other half lies now. Each shell having been created, lived in, bearing a loss, broken down, washed ashore and finally becoming the sand between our toes (unless they come home with me). Like us, each one on its own life journey.

                     

Imagine the millions of shells which fill our oceans and beaches, and you can begin to sense the immensity of the creative power of the Universe. That every day, not only shells, but unique leaves, clouds, shadows and flowers are formed. Gifts that pour down on us in an ever-changing landscape that we, the lucky recipients, get to bask within. The Universe’s infinite ability to express herself in all of these glorious forms is nothing short of astounding.

People have always been drawn to gathering shells. I read that the earliest recorded shell collection dates from 74 AD in Pompeii.  Over the years they have been used as currency and formed into jewelry and musical instruments. There is even a recent discovery that perhaps the first artwork created on shells dates back to our Homo Erectus ancestors. I wonder if they found them in their pockets.

When I see shells, I see beauty. When I hold shells, I feel connection. When I smell shells, I am brought right back to my beach chair with the wind on my face and sand between my toes. I am awed by shells…….

What will I find today,
SARAH