......scraping

Yogis,
I opened wide for the initial inspection. The tiny handheld mirror and long pic went in and passed slowly over every tooth. ‘Clean as always!’ the hygienist exclaimed. ‘This will be a quick appointment.’ Now this is not how it has always been.  

Every six months like clockwork I head to the dentist for a cleaning and checkup. It’s never been my favorite activity as my teeth are not the strongest part of my body. My mouth is a lifelong construction project. More fillings than I can count, crowns, root canals and an implant. Even a Maryland bridge put in when I was about ten that the dentist marvels at each time he sees it. A true relic.

The gentle scolding at the end of the appointment for my plaque buildup has also never been a highlight. I brush very well twice a day, eat healthy and keep up with my appointments. You need to floss more……you should get an electric toothbrush…..brush longer……mouthwash. I will, I promised, knowing full well nothing was going to change.

Until I began tongue scraping.

I can’t remember how I ended up with a tongue scraper but 4 or 5 years ago I decided to start using it. After every brushing and rinse I grab for the scraper. Placing the metal horseshoe end toward the back of my tongue I pull toward the front of the tongue a few times. Final rinse and good to go!

After about a year I noticed that the little lecture at my appointments became shorter. The scraping of tartar off my teeth was nowhere near as tedious. And my mouth felt great. The improvements continue.

Tongue scraping is an ancient ayurvedic practice which probably began being done in Europe by the affluent in the 15th century. It wasn’t until the 20^th century that tongue scrapers began to hit our US commercial market and is still not practiced by many. But the benefits for such a simple routine are plentiful.

It removes many unwanted bacteria from the tongue. Breath is better. Less plaque (halleluiah!) which can equate to less cavities. Reduced inflammation of the gums. Improved sense of taste. In general, better overall dental health.  For about a $7 investment. I’ll take that any day!

The other thing I notice is that scraping gives me instant feedback on myself. There are times where what comes off is not very attractive, indicating I have probably not been eating my healthiest. Other times it is clear and almost nonexistent, telling me I’m on the right track. And once it became habit, my tooth brushing doesn’t feel complete without it.

A new year approaches so consider adding this simple and easy practice to your day. As my mom always says…..what’s the worst thing that can happen?

Go for a metal one (we don’t need any more plastic in our bodies) and at first start scraping from the middle of the tongue and over time as your mouth gets used to it you can start further back.

The dental field does not seem to have embraced tongue scraping in their protocols so you most likely won’t hear it from them. And with dental insurance becoming almost obsolete and costs rising, consider this my public service announcement.

Would love to hear how it goes,
SARAH

.....O Christmas tree

Yogis,
Getting ready for the holidays is a month-long event. Each week holds certain activities on the to do list that have to happen. Putting up the lights……hanging a wreath…..digging out the cookie tins…..buying the wrapping paper….sending a tip to the paper delivery guy. This week’s calendar included a day for getting the Christmas tree.

What a funny thing. Heading to a temporary lot set up with a sea of different trees, selecting the one that is right, tying it to the top of the car and bringing it home where it will take up residence inside the house for a few weeks. But how is it that we know which is the right one?

When I was growing up, our ‘right’ tree was always one that was not too tall, quite thick and definitely Christmas tree shaped.  We had a vision in mind and were particular that the tree matched that image. That job often fell to me and my dad.  

I have memories of us heading out in the dark after he got home from work. We would stand up every tree in the lot and more than once did not find the right tree. On we would go to the next lot. And so on…… One year I think we even went home treeless and tried again the next day. We knew what we wanted and weren’t going to settle for just any tree.

I carried this with me into marriage much to the chagrin of my family. Being a mom of three boys, every tree that was stood up for our inspection looked perfect to them. No one shared my need to find just the right one. They would humor me for a bit but if the shopping started to become extended they would begin to wrestle and bicker with each other forcing a quick decision.

For a couple years I thought it would be a good idea to make tree shopping part of a family outing and would head an hour north and add in some holiday activities and a lunch. The trees were a little less expensive and it would put us in the Christmas mood. That only lasted until the year we pulled onto the highway and one of our sons was literally sobbing in the backseat that they didn’t want to go. U-turn. Ho, ho, ho.

I watched other families as they arrived at the fire station Monday night. Some do as we do and look at several trees. Others say yes to the first tree put in front of them. Some want tall, some want narrow. Scotch pine, Douglas fir, Frasier fir. Everyone has an opinion. Are they also making their decisions based on their upbringing? Are my childhood friends who always had the very skinny tall trees with only white lights now sitting in front of one of those in their own homes?

I have mellowed a bit. The tree should be about nine feet tall, have a nice shape and no gaping bare spots. Typically, I can select a tree from four or five we are shown. My idea of right has softened and each year as the tree sits with me in the great room and wraps me in the smell of a forest, I fall in love every time.

I have also dropped tinsel from my repertoire,
SARAH

.....detour

Yogis,
It’s Friday morning and I’m packing for a quick weekend trip to visit friends in Pennsylvania. The plan is to leave by noon because as you probably know, any later is asking for trouble on a Friday on Interstate 95. I check my phone for directions to see what it is looking like and notice that it has me veering off I95 north of Baltimore. Uh, oh.

We weren’t leaving for a couple of hours and assumed that whatever the obstacle was would surely be cleared up by then. Imagining a detour creates that small pit in my stomach since I know 95 and can almost drive it with my eyes closed at this point.

Noon comes. Car loaded. Phoebe nestled into her bed behind me. I pull up the gps again……..no change. Certainly, in the hour it takes us to get north of Baltimore all will be resolved. Off we go!

Smooth ride north and through the tunnel. Making good time. Coming out the other side, a highway sign flashes brightly ’95 North – all lanes closed at Delaware border.’ Shoot. My phone tells me to exit fifteen miles up on a road I have never traveled.

The remaining hour and a half of the ride winds us through countryside and as soon as I relax my mind’s irritation with this unplanned detour and loosen my grip on the steering wheel, things change. I begin seeing cleared open fields and rolling hills. The way the sun lights the tree tops. Old bridges and quaint small towns. I find myself starting to like this new route.

Instead of eighteen wheelers on my left, cows grazed. Rather than rest stops we passed old barns.

When driving on 95 I am comfortably numb. No thinking. The miles click by as each looks like the one before and after. When we keep traveling the ‘known’, the mind gets bored and wanders off on a trip of its own. We stop seeing. On this brand new path though, I noticed how alert I became. More aware. More awake.

Red shutters on the old stone house.  A Christmas tree farm. The hawk perched on an electrical line.

In life, like our weekend road trips, most of us take what feels most comfortable. Whatever is easiest and quickest. We know the turns and what to expect. But when we are forced to take a detour (or at times choose one) everything becomes a bit more vivid. And how often do we look back at life and say ‘thank goodness!’ I was forced to veer into another lane?

By the time we pull up to our destination I am hoping I canfigure out how to take that same route back home on Sunday. Suddenly the thought of I95 is undesirable. I had been asked to travel a new path and realized it was a gift.

What other detours can I take?
SARAH

......passing the baton

Yogis,
It’s a wrap. The remnants of leftovers have been eaten. The house is swept. Bed linens stripped, washed and folded. Rugs shaken out……check. Turkey platter packed away……check. The french bulldog is named best in show. Thanksgiving 2022 is now in the books.

Thanksgiving is a unique holiday. It has its own personality and long-standing traditions, yet as soon as the table has been cleared of cranberry sauce the baton is handed to Christmas. Not even a full twenty-four hours exists from that moment forward that doesn’t share its time with thoughts of mistletoe and holly.

Turkey? Pumpkins? Autumn colors? They all quickly begin to look faded and out of place while red and green lights with garland are wrapped around the downtown light posts. Christmas tree lightings, carols and the frenzy of black Friday replace naps on the couch while watching football. Must I shower?

Some years it really gets on my nerves. Couldn’t we relish that warm feeling of family, good food and laziness for just another day or two? Is that an unreasonable request? But for some reason I am ok with it this year.

Maybe it’s the hope that Covid will not be one of our guests this year. Or that the sun has been so bright in the sky this past month. Perhaps it’s because there are four full weeks instead of three and change between holidays as Thanksgiving fell a bit early.

Whatever it is, on Friday after gathering with the whole gang once again to do left-overs we took a walk into town (Rehoboth) with Phoebe to see the Christmas tree. The streets felt filled with joy. There was a line for the world famous French fries as Santa’s little house on the boardwalk was awaiting his arrival.

A small lit Christmas tree in a front screened porch caught my eye and told me I should begin searching for the right one for our little house.

Temperatures dropped quickly as the sky darkened, but the orange light of Mars shone bright. As I looked around it was as if I was watching families walking out of Thanksgiving and into the pine scent of Christmas. I know it happens every year but this year I felt like I was in lock step with them. Ready for the baton to be handed. Like maybe I could even simplify the holiday season finally. Really? At least a little…….

Santa's house at sunrise 

Thanksgiving night is the launching pad for a whirlwind of a month, but I am ready. Good-bye pumpkin pie……and hello peppermint bark!

Grateful for it all,
SARAH

.....and grateful to all of you who read my Sunday notes

.....the impossible

Yogis,
There is a neighborhood in Washington DC called Adams Morgan. A culturally diverse area with a large Latino population and two main streets lined with restaurants, stores, bars and small businesses. This section of DC comprised a big chunk of my first sales territory with Xerox.

Earlier this month I began weekly tutoring for an adorable first grader. His school sits in the heart of Adams Morgan. As I have been driving around in search of those elusive parking spaces and walking past the old buildings, many memories are flooding in.

The year was 1983. Fresh out of college and 21 years old I completed training and was made a New Business Marketing Rep (a fancy name for door-to-door salesperson.) My job was to sell copiers and typewriters to the small businesses along these defined city streets.

Back then you were required to report to the office at 8 am sharp, makes some calls, do some paperwork and then head into your territory for the day. The car console filled to the brim with quarters for the meters and my briefcase in hand, I would knock on doors. In a suit. With stockings. And high heeled pumps.

Now for those of you who had to squeeze your feet into pumps daily, you will be able to relate. You are walking along, looking oh so professional, when suddenly your shoe stops and you walk right out of it. The skinny heel stuck in a grate or between the cobble stones. You hobble back to release it and hope the heel isn’t broken. And of course, you always had the clear nail polish in the car for that sudden run in your stockings that got longer and more unsightly with each step you took.

Six months later, add a pregnancy to the mix.

Now I am walking up and down the stairs of these rowhouse buildings, at times carrying a typewriter, with an increasingly protruding belly. Still in heels. And speaking of pantyhose…….I can still distinctly feel that sensation of the waist band suddenly beginning its descent, not stopping until it was beneath the rounded belly with the stockings hanging down between my legs. As I continued on with my sales pitch to the decision maker it felt like I was wearing a diaper. I didn’t miss a beat.

Three times I worked through my pregnancies, heading back a mere six weeks later as if there wasn’t a scrawny helpless infant at home who had only recently exited my body in dramatic fashion. The same one who had me up at 2 am that morning. The same one who had me in tears alone in my car.

Pumping in the public restrooms. Milk drawing a bull’s eye pattern on my blouse while in a meeting. The occasional smell of spit up on my wool suit from the morning feedings. Looking for a pay phone to check in with the babysitter.

I look back and think ‘how did I possibly do it?’.

My cousin is in the thick of it right now and recently posted this quote from Tina Fey.

“I think every working mom probably feels the same thing: You go through big chunks of time where you’re just thinking, ‘This is impossible - oh, this is impossible.’ And then you just keep going and keep going, and you sort of do the impossible.”

Yes. It was impossible, but yes we keep going. Because we have to. Because we are strong. Because the world desperately needs us women. This note is a nod to all of you out there. I see you.

Or the day I realized I was wearing two different color shoes,
SARAH

.....anticipation

Yogis,
It begins to come into focus about a week ahead. I start to imagine everyone walking through the front door. Seeing the wide smiles and hugs all around as we gather in the kitchen. Visualizing the lively mood during appetizers as we catch up on a year that now sits in our rear-view mirror. Imagining the amazing spread of lobster, tenderloin and potatoes in my mind’s eye and the ceremonial tossing of the Caesar salad. That warm feeling of being together to celebrate us for the 34^th…..or is it 35^th year.

Saturday was our annual Lobsterfest, where ten of us converge for five hours to eat, drink, talk, dance and love. Lots and lots of love. But it always begins with the anticipation.

This year as I visualized adorning the table with small pumpkins, fall mums, fresh cut herbs and candles, I began to see something new. Twinkle lights lying down the center of the table. Online I go and $11 later I have a ten foot strand of small warm white globe lights which I weaved around the table toppers. They did not disappoint. In fact, I believe they will stay there through the dark of winter.

Two days ahead I sat in front of my Spotify to begin constructing a playlist that would get even the most reluctant dancers up out of their chairs. Seeing us all pushing in the dining chairs to clear our dance floor. Of course, the crowd favorites like Get Lucky and Blurred Lines went in, but I pictured some new energy being brought in. Songs like I Love It and Sweetest Pie. They did not disappoint. After one particularly exhilarating dance when the song ended, we all spontaneously broke into applause. Applause for us and for our joy.

Anticipating the laughter. Imagining myself bent over or even snorting from those stories of our younger years told one more time. The way we all know each other so well that our individual quirks and inside jokes never disappoint. Laughter like we have is absolutely one of the best medicines for whatever ails you.

Finally, the anticipation of late night where we feel we have eaten and moved enough and we can all settle together. Lights low. Music turned down. I can feel it.  It did not disappoint. We have two new chairs in the sitting nook of our great room where everyone was drawn to sit in a circle. Phoebe curled up in a ball getting her final pets. Reminiscing. Talk of young grandchildren and others on their way.

While I shop for flowers, I feel the anticipation. While cutting herbs. Washing the table linens. Putting chocolates in a bowl. Laying out the cheese platters. Lighting the candles. Each step filling me with the sights, smells and sensations of what is to come.

Thank goodness I have the anticipation for the several days leading up to Saturday because those five hours are gone in a blink of an eye. As the coats go back on and goodbyes are shared, I realize that no matter how high the bar is set in my vision, the event never disappoints.

I wake up Sunday morning a bit bleary eyed but bursting with gratefulness.

Still feeling the warmth that days ago I anticipated,
SARAH

.....acorns

Yogis,
Our small beach house sits surrounded by pine and oak trees. Big old trees that are great producers. As great producers they then also must be fantastic autumn droppers, and this was their weekend to let go. Acorns and pinecones falling at an incredible rate on the roof, driveway, gutters and everywhere in between. Like a rainstorm they clank on the metal roof next door and rumble as they roll, often having me glancing over my shoulder to see who is there. Twenty-four hours a day.

Last night I lay in bed with the window open. Plop…plop…plop on the roof above my head reminding me of large teardrops. As if the sky and trees were finally allowing themselves this time to grieve as life begins its slow down. Fall is the season for grief.

Grief is hard. We want to push the inevitable off. I’ll get to it. But do we really want to wait for springtime, with its brightening days and bursts of lifeforce to grieve? Or maybe summer while eating an ice cream cone on the boardwalk? No…… As the nights become longer and the leaves float downward, we too are meant to let go. If not in fall, when?

And isn’t that what grief is at its essence? A letting go? A pouring out.

Grief arrives in small and large packages. A loved one. Our youth. A relationship. The end of summer. The daily tragedies of life. A missed experience. The way something used to be……

We claim we dislike things that are shallow, yet when it is time for grief we high-tail it for the shallow end because grief holds tremendous depth. It scares us. It’s uncomfortable. Unknown. If I swim into the dark of grief, will I be able to make my way back.

But wouldn’t life without grief be missing its texture?

We grieve because we loved. Two sides of the same coin. They travel hand in hand and cannot be separated. And when grief arrives, she will be patient for a while for us to acknowledge her, but only for so long. She yearns to be processed. A step at a time. Fall offers us this doorway.

Fog. Leaves crunching under my shoes. The flock of blackbirds in the tree. A late yellow butterfly floats by.

Another acorn falls.

Feeling it all,
SARAH

....trick or treat

Yogis,
Our relationships to holidays change based on where we are at the time. Our views, thoughts and how we celebrate evolve as we pass through numerous life stages. Halloween is no exception to this evolution.

When I was little I loved Halloween! Everything about it. Figuring out what costume I was going to wear…….hobo, Indian, gypsy…..oh my. The school parades. And of course, running around the neighborhood at night with friends and lugging back my heavy pillowcase in the dark. Finally dumping it all out to sort, count and trade. I will give you two Mary Janes for a box of whoppers.

The teenage years were, well…….just awkward.

As I became a young adult I soured on the holiday a bit. I could never figure out a creative costume and the parties felt like drunk fests. Georgetown became a mob scene. Masks became scarier. And I didn’t like the idea of not being quite sure who I was talking to. I was relieved when no one invited me to an event.

Fast forward to being a mom. Suddenly Halloween had new life! Our house decorated with multiple live looking dummies sitting on the front porch. Dressing up the kids (I still was not very creative) and walking the street with them. Neighbors all out with wine in hand and firepits lit in front yards. Gathering after for a bowl of soup while the kids sorted, counted and traded. Festive and low pressure.

But then the kids became men and moved on. For several years we still put up the decorations, dummies and all, and waited for the kids to come. Some years in droves and many others…..in dribbles. The holiday beginning to feel like a lot of effort without the thrill.

Enter Sea Witch Festival as I enter my older years. A full weekend of Halloween activities in Rehoboth, the town where we have our beach house. The main event being the Sea Witch parade on Saturday afternoon. A two hour extravaganza of costumes, floats and marching bands. The sidewalks filled with spectators, almost all in full blown costume themselves. It’s like a daylong joyful block party where anything goes.

Rehoboth is a town where you always see things out of the ordinary, but this weekend it is on steroids. The bars are full with music spilling out onto the street. People waving from balconies. Dogs in tutus and witches galore. Broom throwing contests and dancing hippos. Everyone wearing the mask of exactly who they want to be. Smiles everywhere. I love it!

Sitting in the sun in late afternoon eating a delicious taco, the Little Mermaid, perched on a rainbow-colored float, rolls by and waves. Once again, I am excited for Halloween.

Trick or treat,
SARAH

.....arriving home

Yogis,
You know how there are places that when you arrive you feel you belong? As soon as you enter, your body relaxes, your senses awaken, and your heart lightens. Where it feels as if you have arrived home.

These places are different for all of us. For some it may be a specific country or city. For you it could be an art gallery or the theater. A place in nature……. the top of a mountain or sitting next to a running stream. It could be you spent time there as a child and it invokes warm memories. Or maybe you never spent time there at all, but yet, when you get there, it feels like it has been waiting for you all of this time.

Most of us also have more than one of these special sites. For me a garden is one of my homes. Any garden. The rest of the world falls away as I walk amongst my friends, the plants. Stepping into the hush of the woods also has this effect on me. My energy immediately syncs with that of the trees. I feel welcomed and hugged.

I have one other that I don’t think about much. A farm.

I have never lived on a farm, but I always say I would like to. I haven’t spent much time on farms but wish I could. There is something deep inside me that knows that on a farm I would feel a connection. I often thing that perhaps I lived there in some other life. I was reminded of this on Thursday.

A friend had recently mentioned a county owned agricultural history farm about a half hour north of me. I had to go get my vision test at a dmv location and looking at the map I realized the park was in that same geography. Field trip!

Heading up the long winding drive through freshly mowed rolling hills I start to get that tingle. Trees in bright oranges and yellows dot the landscape along side red barns and an old white farmhouse. I parked the car and began to explore. I was the only sole there. Around the first bend a large cornfield presented herself to me, the dried stalks waving in the breeze. I walked toward it and memories flood in.

When I was in 12 we lived in a house on a one block street that dead ended into a cornfield. After school one of our neighborhood activities was to play hide and seek within the rows of corn. I remember the sound. Stalks towering overhead making it easy to get lost. Not wanting to be found I sat quiet and still which gave me the gift of presence. Alone with the corn.

I walked along the field on Thursday to reconnect.

One of the small red barns was a chicken coop. I sat on the low bench watching two chickens grooming themselves. I talked to them. I sang to them. I took their pictures. I know it’s not for everyone, but I was completely content to sit there for a half hour. The sun shone and there was nowhere else I would rather have been. A bluebird flies by.

My heart was happy. I could live there.

Where is it that you feel you are arriving home? I would love to hear.

Farm girl at heart,
SARAH

.....messy

Yogis,
It’s an October morning and I’m sweeping the walk. Damp leaves, pine needles and cut grass matted on the entire length of the sidewalk from the rain last night. Side to side I move the broom. The swish of the broom against the flagstone creates a rhythm as I clear a path. Swish. Swish. Swish. I look back at my work and it is pleasing to the eye.

The lawn is littered with sticks from grandfather oak above. I grab a lawn bag and begin the first of this season’s many games of ‘pick up sticks.’ When the boys were young I would send them out this time of year and offer a dollar amount for every bag they filled. Now the bend, lean, reach and lift is up to me. I must be careful not to step in the piles of round pellets left behind by the deer who are currently ravaging my greenery.

I head to the car to run errands. Before getting in I pull out the dried leaves that are trapped under the windshield wipers and stuck in the crevices where the windows meet the car door. If not, I will have them flapping in the wind my whole way, like those cards we used to put in our bike spokes.  I notice the stains from the flocks who have passed through, pausing on grandfather oak to squawk and gorge themselves on nuts. A drumroll on the roof as I back up and hundreds of acorns spill off.

I brush the cobwebs from between the front porch wood rails. They stick to the brush. I pull them off the brush and they are now stuck to my fingers. I rub my hands through the grass.

The gardens need trimming as goldenrods heavy heads have her bowing down across the path. Dried brown zinnia heads create a jarring juxtaposition to the vivid Mexican sunflower just now opening. A late arrival to a party that is clearly winding down. I pick up berries that have fallen from the honeysuckle to deter her spread and find my fingers stained red. Every seed in the garden wants to hitchhike a ride on my sweater.

I will do all of this today and tomorrow there will be no evidence of my efforts. Fall is messy.

The messiness on the outside is also reflected on the inside. On colder mornings my bones feel like those sticks as I wake up a bit creakier. My body yearning to stretch. My hands suddenly drying like the leaves as I try to remember what I use to moisten them.

Emotions too are messy in fall. Like the temperatures they lift high one day only to drop the next. Do I go for a walk or cuddle on the couch with a book? Joy and sadness both holding residence in this form I call a body. Daily practices to sweep out the cobwebs and clear a path, which very well may be covered again tomorrow.

There is nothing to ‘fix.’ It simply is.

Fall is gloriously messy. Life is gloriously messy.

Stepping over the broken walnut shells,
SARAH

.....hugs

Yogis,
I am a hugger by nature. Come in for a hug and you will get the real deal. Not the lean in with the body held back at a safe distance kind, but a chest to chest, heart to heart, full on connection. A good hug feels awesome and I hadn’t realized how much I missed them.

Last week we had a big 85^th birthday party for my mom. A luncheon at a country club near them which we have now used on four occasions. After avoiding close indoor contact for the past few years we decided it felt ‘safe enough’ and that it was time to start marking the important milestones once again. Turning 85 is definitely one of those milestones.

Almost everyone came. My mom’s sisters, my dad’s sisters and all of my sons and grandchildren. Cousins I hadn’t seen in years who drove many hours or even flew from California. Close friends of my moms from various places we have lived over the years. One by one, we hugged. And hugged some more.  Reconnecting.

We hugged when everyone arrived. We hugged at the end of the party. We hugged again at the after party at my parent’s house and one more time at the brunch. We all couldn’t get enough.

A hug lets the other know that you feel them. That the space between you doesn’t really exist. That the time we have been separated can vanish in an instant. A good bear hug shares your love. It shares you.

I looked up the power of a hug and here is what I found:
When we are hugged we receive a jolt of oxytocin, the love hormone. There is a transfer of positive energy from one human to another, creating feelings of calm, closeness and trust. Hugs also lower cortisol which is the stress hormone.

Hugging is free medicine with no negative side effects. Be sure to share it!

That night as I lay in bed I felt as if my heart was bursting out of my chest. Like flowers may begin to bloom out of me. Smiling ear to ear I replayed each of the moments of the day in my mind. Still feeling the hugs.

The next morning as I ran around the kitchen cleaning up and getting packed for the trip home, my mom came down from bed and asked me to come over to her. ‘I’ll be there in a minute’, I said as I had a few more things to do. ‘No, put those down and come over here now’, she said. Huh. So I did. Laying everything on the counter I turned to walk toward her. She opened her arms as wide as she possibly could and I walked into one of the biggest hugs ever.

She too was feeling the medicine.

Want a hug?
SARAH

.....the perfect gift

Yogis,
This story begins back in late July. I noticed something growing along the edge of our long gravel driveway. Getting close I found those tell-tale gigantic ear shaped leaves attached to a running vine underneath. No question, it was definitely a plant in the squash family.

Now mind you I certainly didn’t plant any squash seeds next to a driveway that is in constant use. It is an area that is not tended, underneath a honeysuckle bush and doesn’t get much direct sunlight. Must be the handiwork of a squirrel or bird. How fun!

But what kind of a squash is it? Zucchini, yellow squash, pumpkins, gourds and watermelon all belong to the squash family. Each time I tried to ID it with my phone, the app would get only as far and announcing it was a squash. Hmmmmm…….

Beautiful orange flowers began to emerge, one a day, as the vine lengthened, but always on tall skinny stems. No fruit would come from those as the skinny stem indicates they are male. Each day I checked. As she tried to meander into the center of the driveway, I would gently guide her tendrils back to the edge.

Leaving for ten days at the beach at the end of August, I checked on her one last time. There it was! A flower about to bloom that was attached to the vine by a swollen node. A fruit! I was sure that when I returned there would be a huge zucchini waiting for me.

Ten days later……nothing. Not all fruits make it. The wait continued.

Finally, I saw another. Every day it grew bigger. I started noticing though that it wasn’t growing oblong, but instead was getting rounder. Definitely not zucchini. I kept watching. A week later grooves became visible running from the stem to the bottom all the way around. A pumpkin!

I have never tried to grow pumpkins on my own. For some reason I felt that would be too difficult. And here was the universe giving me a lesson on just how easy it can be. Reminding me that nature does the work. I am only the assistant.

I waited for it to begin turning orange, but oh no. That wasn’t her plan. A gorgeous pearl white began to spread across her surface. I picked her this week before the busy squirrels had a chance.

What a gift! A perfectly shaped white pumpkin now sits in my house bringing me joy each time I walk by. I love her.

I didn’t ask for a white pumpkin. I wasn’t expecting it. It is simple. It cost nothing. It brings me joy. Isn’t that the definition of the perfect gift? And nothing was expected in return, yet I am sending  gratitude…..which I have in abundance.

What a magical world we live in.

Gifts are all around us,
SARAH

.....stale

Yogis,
In the early days of covid life took a major turn. Days on end spent at home. All classes moved to zoom. What I cooked changed. What I read changed. Even what I wore changed. New routines were developed and for the past two years these have all become my new norm and I have felt satisfied.

Recently though it has all begun to feel a little stale. Dry. Not bad, mind you. I have a wonderful life and still enjoy my days but this little inner stirring is quietly nudging me to break out of the current patterns and is making itself noticed. Some part of me realizes I am in a bit of a covid rut and wants to switch lanes. I am paying attention.

Last weekend my sister and I left our daily lives behind to meet up in Philadelphia for some good quality sister time. Three days where we only had one or two things plugged into our schedule, leaving lots of open space for life to fill on its own. It felt awesome!

We walked and walked……and when we felt like we couldn’t walk one more step, we rested up and walked some more. We ate when and where we felt like it. We stood in awe in front of a wall of bagged herbs and tinctures and bought books on teas and mushrooms. We wandered through parks, immersed ourselves in art and jumped into a late night group’s selfie. One evening we even found ourselves alone in the dark in front of the liberty bell at ten o’clock while bells tolled the time overhead.

One afternoon as we finished up our salads at a hip vegan lunch spot, my sister offered me a breath mint. I don’t really do breath mints so I waved it off. Then my inner voice said, ‘take the breath mint.’ I did. Silly, right? But maybe not. Life offered and I took. A teeny tiny step.

I don’t tend to drink tea at night. I did when she offered. I drank mushroom coffee. We ate fresh figs for breakfast. I dressed up more. We were spontaneous and it was exactly what I needed. Thank goodness for sisters!

Now that I am back home, I am watching my days for those small opportunities to continue saying yes to the mint.

I noticed that I am in a rut (noticing is always step number one) and found that I am ready for change (wanting is always step number two.) Now it is up to me to take conscious steps which sets the energy of change in motion. They can be small…….or they can be large.  Shifting around the order of things. Reading a book on a new topic. Taking a walk on a different path. Making a new recipe. Wearing a different shirt.

Each step tells the universe that yes, I am ready for new……and the universe will respond with new coming my way.

This afternoon I was at the beach. I am more of a knee-deep ocean splasher than an ocean swimmer (as my sister will attest), but I felt the stirring. Do it. Come in, the ocean whispered. And I did. Really in. Feet off the ground and face in the water in. You know what? It was scary and exhilarating at the same time. It was a change and it felt great.

From the book I started reading today – If I want things to change, I have to change how I do them.

Indeed,
SARAH

.....seeds

Yogis,
We have officially entered nature’s fifth season. That wonderful space that exists when the sizzling days of summer are dwindling yet the trees remain green and lush. Not too hot…..not too cold. The sounds of crickets fill the night and birds begin to flock. The sun lowers after dinner, but the days still feel long. No longer summer, not quite fall.

The arrival of the fifth season ignites a desire in me to get out and collect seeds……..

As a gardener it is never too early to begin planning for next year’s plantings and this time of year is prime for a productive jump start. The flowers and fruits of this year’s plants are beginning to wilt and are turning their attention to ensuring their survival going forward. Making seeds.

When I first began gardening I was scared to death of seeds. I felt like that way of growing was for those more advance gardeners. You know….the ones who have any idea what they are doing. That wasn’t me. I needed that seedling already grown by the professionals at least a few inches high in a plastic container. But in these last several years I have discovered the magic of seeds.

For one, they are often free! This week I collected seeds from butterfly weed, echinacea and cardinal flower from my yard. A friend traded me some butterfly weed for some of her hibiscus seed pods. Down at the river I snipped off the dried heads of wingstem, sneezeweed and ironweed. Am I sure all of these will grow from the seeds I scatter over these next couple weeks? No. Does that matter? No. Scatter away and see what happens!

I tend to scatter some in the fall, and save some to put out in the spring, giving me a higher possibility of return. I spread them out and put a very light sprinkle of dirt over them to keep them from being blown away and then I wait. They may sprout in the spring……..they may wait a couple of years. Seeds are funny like that. They rest until the perfect time to rise.

Secondly, I can take the seeds from the plants that I know thrive in my garden. I began several years ago with one echinacea that I bought (coneflower) and by spreading their dried seeds every spring and fall I now have a large patch and have them in two other areas in the yard. The largest zinnia flowers with the deepest colors are dried and saved (they like spring planting.)

Seed gathering also connects me in a meaningful way to the past. Our ancestors knew seeds. They gathered, saved, traded and planted. Seeds are life. A form of self-sufficiency which is becoming increasingly critical in these tumultuous times.

Finally, seeds are beautiful. As their own fifth season, when you look closely, they are perfectly formed to do the job for which they are intended. A bundle of pure potential.

Head out and pay attention to the plants that you love, whether in your yard, the park, or the woods. Notice the environment they are growing in. Snip off a couple of seed heads and sprinkle away. Who knows! There is a thrill in discovering something new rising from the earth as nature re-awakens in spring, especially when you had a hand in it.

Spreading seeds,
SARAH

.......witness

Yogis,
I experienced a new clarity but not sure I can put it into words. I am going to give it a whirl anyway.

While at the beach for our vacation I decided to get up early the first day to go see the sunrise. Alarm set for 5:50. Quick brushing of the teeth, Phoebe fed, clothes thrown on and we are out the door by 6:05. Sunrise was at 6:25. We began our run.

As soon as we start toward the ocean, we enter a thick dense fog. Uh oh.  The closer we get, the foggier it becomes. We crest the dune to an eerie scene. Only one other person sits in the distance quietly on a lifeguard stand, shrouded in fog. As we sit in the sand, the sky slowly lightens but no clear evidence of the sun’s ascent. My hair wet from the air.

It became a habit. Each day the alarm rang at 5:50 and we made our way down. The next day less foggy with small portions of the sun showing through the breaks. The following day low clouds along the horizon line with a pink streaked sky I spotted from two blocks away. The day after that crystal clear. Different people. Different birds. Every sunrise unique. Every one special.

On the fourth day as I stood welcoming in the new day, I experienced a moment where instead of watching the sunrise, I was her witness.

I have always announced that ‘I am going to see the sunrise’ which puts the emphasis on me. Me as the center and an action that I am taking. What I noticed that morning while being serenaded by the waves was that the sun rises every morning whether I am there or not. She lifts slightly differently each morning even when I am snuggled under the covers or sitting at the table drinking my tea. Whether it is raining out or there is a snowstorm. She happens.

That day I felt different. Instead of watching her, I felt that I was her witness. Can you feel any shift? It is quite subtle.

To bear witness to her is to stop my ‘doing’ and be present to the life force that is happening in front of me at that moment. The sun as the doer and I as the receiver. Acknowledging her awesome ‘sun-ness’.

We can choose to be the witness at any moment. Instead of looking at the flower…pause, let go of thought, and receive the beauty she is already shining your way. Look up to the sky and watch the way a cloud floats across the blue sky, shape shifting as she moves. When you see your next star, bear witness to the miracle of stars lighting our night sky.

On the yoga path we practice being in touch with the ‘you’. The self. The observer inside who doesn’t think, judge, worry……or ever change. It is this ‘you’ that can bear witness, and in so doing, creates a bond between the seer and the seen.

On that day, the sun was seen,
SARAH

......butterfly weed

Yogis,
As summer begins her swan song, I would like to introduce you to a plant you might consider adding to next year’s garden. Her name is Asclepias Tuberosa, but she also answers to Butterfly Weed or Pleurisy Root. As a member of the milkweed family she plays an important role in the landscape.

There isn’t any other plant in my garden that has as many stages of interest as butterfly weed. It all begins in spring as her upright stems carrying thin lance shaped leaves begin their rise. As a perennial she will return each year with no intervention on your part, reaching a height of about 2 feet at maturity.

As summer arrives large flat-topped clusters of long lasting brilliant orange flowers begin opening on the tops, catching your eye each time you pass. And as you would imagine from her name, several varieties of butterflies begin to arrive for her nectar, including Monarchs who use her as a host plant to lay eggs. In fact, the milkweed family of plants is the only place Monarchs reproduce. An important and distinctive honor she carries!!

As the monarch caterpillars emerge, they spend the next several days eating the leaves of butterfly weed which contain a toxin they need for metamorphosis. They fatten up nicely and head off to form their chrysalis. I love how their black antennae look like horns.

In the meantime, as the flowers fade, large pods filled with seeds begin to form. Now it’s the milkweed bugs turn to arrive to lay their eggs and raise their young on the stems and pods. Hundreds of them! Bright orange and black, they stay solely on the butterfly weed as they are specialists, with juveniles requiring the seeds of milkweed plants for growth. Her toxins when ingested protect them too from predators. Once again butterfly weed to the rescue!

As if that isn’t enough, the milkweed bug’s activities help open the pods revealing hundreds of seeds each attached to a white silky hair. The wind will catch this weightless fluff and send the large seeds floating like fairies through the early autumn air, aiding in their dispersal. This fluff is even used as a hypoallergenic pillow filling.

You can start your butterfly weed from plant, lay seeds in the fall or if you are lucky, one of the fairies may land in your yard and surprise you.

As the days begin to cool, butterfly weed begins to die back.  The monarchs, bumblebees and milkweed bugs too will disappear but will remember where to come next spring to continue this miraculous life cycle.

Thank you butterfly weed,
SARAH

......camping with nana

Yogis,
Every summer I spend at least a few nights camping in my backyard. It’s the best of both worlds! Woods, wildlife and stars……no travel, a kitchen for cooking and a shower in the morning.

My grandson has been wanting to camp with me. Last weekend I decided to sleep out and checked in with my son but they were hoping to go to their bay house for the weekend. Options were for me to go with them or them to drop Johnny off here. He turned 7 earlier this month so I figured he was old enough to choose.

I got a text later that night. Johnny chose ‘camping with nana’! It kind of sounds like the name of a weekly outdoor tv show. Hooray!

I ran to the store to stock up on camping essentials. Marshmallows, graham crackers, chocolate bars, burgers, watermelon and glow sticks. He didn’t own a sleeping bag so a quick overnight order was placed. The owl visited me that evening and I kindly asked it to return the next night so my grandson too could experience the thrill of a hoot in the night air.

He arrived the next morning raring to go. Luckily, I had a full agenda planned.

Off to Glen Echo park we went to ride the carousel. The same carousel in fact that his father rode often as a young boy. We walked the park. Played on the playground. Visited the aquarium. And of course, picked up a pizza for lunch.

Now it was time for the camp activities to commence. First on the agenda…..prepare the firepit. Stick hunting ensued.  I showed him the way to layer and he loved the idea of using dried pinecones as fire starters. He found the perfect marshmallow roasting sticks and got them ready.

Next, setting up the tent. He helped with the poles and immediately wanted to get in and check it out. Right on cue, Amazon showed up with a sleeping bag. Pillows in. Tent ready.

After a hearty dinner we lit the fire which blazed, cracked and popped. He explained to me the physics behind the cracking. Much time was spent throwing sticks on the fire which was perfect since all the summer storms had sent quite a bit of wood down on my property. The smells, the heat, the sounds.

Smores were next. Messy, gooey and oh so delicious. As we sat licking our sticky fingers the owl arrived and sang us her song. Thank you, owl!

Washed up and teeth brushed we lit our glow stick necklaces and climbed into the tent. ‘I don’t think I will be able to sleep with all the noise out here. I need quiet’ he announces. I tell him that is part of being a camper and that I know he can do it. We lie there together and look at the stars. Before long he is sound asleep.

I feel movement. Opening one eye I find him looking at me. It is 6:05. The sun is rising, and the birds are awake and ready for the day. We see how many bird calls we can identify. I tell him that opening my eyes as morning is breaking is my favorite part of camping. The sky overhead turns pink. We are both awed.

One of the great joys of being a grandma is being able to share your gifts and passions with someone you love with all of your heart.  My hope is that when Johnny is a grown man with kids of his own and he takes them camping, he remembers that his very first experience was…..camping with nana.

Anyone want to come to ‘camp nana’?
SARAH