....remembrance

Yogis,
During morning runs on my Jersey shore family vacation I pass memorial benches lining dunes and parks. Etched with names of those who have died and accompanied by caring words, they are a form of remembrance. Honoring.

Certain words are used a lot. In loving memory…..Forever in our hearts…..Never forgotten. Lovely thoughts but if someone chooses to honor me with a bench once I no longer walk this earth, I am not sure those feel right. Then what would I want it to say? How do I want to be remembered?

I see one that says ‘She enjoyed life’s simple moments.’ Ok, that is getting closer.

I notice another that would perfectly suit my mother-in-law who passed away a couple years ago.  ‘Sea what you started. An ocean of memories.’ It was her own childhood love for Stone Harbor that drew the whole extended family to begin the annual tradition of meeting there for this week forty years ago. An ocean of memories indeed. Four generations under one roof in our house this year.

But what words suit me?

Thursday evening after taking a shower I lathered my body as I always do with olive oil and a drop of essential oil. I chose lavender. I consciously chose lavender each day last week since I was surrounded by my four grandchildren.

My granddaughter runs up for a hug. As she buries her head in my chest she asks “Nana, why do you always smell so good?”

I began choosing lavender when my first grandchild was born. A light lovely happy calming scent. Smell is our most primal sense. Bypassing the thinking mind it heads directly to our area where memories are formed. When we smell something from our childhood we are immediately back there. To all of them now, lavender brings memories of Nana, hugs and love.

Aha! My bench. How about this? Edits welcomed.

‘Feeling you and your hugs whenever I close my eyes and smell the lavender.’

What does your bench say?

Another option would have to include bare feet,
SARAH

....diary

Yogis,
My parents are in the process of emptying out their attic and basement. Items that have been sitting quietly in the dark for thirty, forty, even fifty years are being taken to the garage either to be claimed by family or friends or sold online. Any remaining will head to the dump. Something I should be doing in my own home.

One such item was my diary.

Did you ever have a diary? I remember starting, but never finishing several, yet the one my mom welcomed me with at the door this week was filled from Jan 1 through Dec 31. The year was 1974. I was 12 years old.

When my mom found it she read a few pages but decided she shouldn’t since there may be secrets. I assured her that although I didn’t know what it contained, I was confident there were no shocking revelations. I clearly remember being quite careful because the adorable little keys which were intended to be the security for my deepest dreams and desires did not seem very foolproof.

My hunch was right. More of a review of the daily life of a 12-year-old girl in 1974. Without social media and only a handful of tv channels, days were spent with friends, making up dance routines, playing with our hamsters and a lamb and wandering around the mall. Many sleep overs and experimenting with makeup. And frequent outdoor adventures.

On April 8^th I watched Hank Aaron hit his record breaking 415^th home run with over 53,000 other fans in the Atlanta stadium. Four months later we gathered to witness Nixon resign on the big wood console tv in my grandparents family room in New Jersey. In between the two we had moved states yet again.

I ended each day’s entry with ‘bye’.

Diaries stopped for many years to be replaced by journals as an adult. Journals then ceased and this blog began. That unchanging little girl in me is still careful but takes a bit more risk in sharing herself with others. And there is no key this time.

I wanted a boyfriend, my breasts to grow and more excitement in life,
SARAH

....arms in the air

Yogis,
As the weather warms and summer smells arrive, I am reminded of the feelings this season brought when I was young. With school winding down and the pool opening my jean shorts would reemerge. And my bike.

A banana seat bike with a sissy bar attached to the back so I could give friends a ride. Streamers hanging from the handlebars, a kickstand and of course a bell. I loved it.

Riding through the neighborhood, my long blond hair blowing in the wind as I headed down a hill. Then…..letting go. Arms out. Trusting that the bike would take me where I intended to go. Freedom.

As an adult it’s harder to let go.

Our body holds on to tension. The mind convinces us we have to hold tight to beliefs, opinions and worries. Emotions hold on to past hurts or angers. To let any of it go seems like we don’t care or we are giving in to someone. We have to control and drive this ship of life. Right?

Try this. Sit quietly and mentally repeat to yourself slowly ‘I let go’. Over and over. Pay attention to what happens in the body. Any changes or sensations. To increase the effect, state it on the exhales.

Words are powerful. They hold a vibration and when spoken mindfully they create a roadmap of where you want to go, and the body responds. An internal mantra.

Even more incredible is not only the internal world changes, but life responds too. When we let go of something that we have been resisting or clinging to, over time it too softens.

Use this for anything. Something you are worried about. A relationship. An argument. A judgment. A rigid belief. Anything causing you discomfort by holding on.

Bring it to mind, close your eyes, visualize breaking the connection to it and as it floats away state ‘I let go’. Over and over. Whenever it pops back up…..repeat! By changing your vibration the outer world wants to resonate with you. It will follow your map.

Choosing arms in the air with trust in life. Freeing!

Hair blowing in the wind,
SARAH

....familiar

Yogis,
I have several birdhouses scattered around the yard, but one location has always been the fan favorite. At first it was a simple yellow one built by my neighbor that was attached to one of the pillars that holds up the deck. A busy spot close to my garden and right above the hose spigot.

For years it was the wrens that set up house there. Waking me on spring mornings with full throated songs through my open window overlooking the deck. Then four years ago it was discovered by bluebirds. Home ownership changed.

Eventually the yellow house became rickety, so I replaced it with a natural wood one designed for bluebirds. Many families have called it home.

Fast forward to this spring…… I can tell there is activity but I never see the bird. I peek in and find a charming nest. Perfectly shaped and adorned with moss and feathers. A chickadee nest! A first for my yard.

Eggs and babies ensued, and the parents finally learned to trust me as I worked close by. A different look with different sounds and relationships. This week they fledged, leaving an empty house.

Well, the bluebirds didn’t waste any time! Within hours they were busy. Cleaning and sprucing and they moved in that night. I laughed. It seemed like they had missed their opportunity the first go round and were determined not to make that mistake again!

They are now settled back in and egg laying has begun. Dad being so vigilant as he stands guard at nearby spots and reminding me when the bird feeder is running low. Fluttering his wings when I talk to him and occasionally sticking his head in the house to check on the mom. The familiar has returned.

A flash of blue streaks past my window whenever I look out.

I loved experiencing the chickadees. Something new. I am grateful they chose our house. Yet there is something very comfortable in having familiar yearly experiences that sweep me into the rhythm of nature and show me my place within it all.

Welcome back,
SARAH 

....nuclear family

Yogis,
I am acutely aware of how lucky I am to have spent Mother’s Day with my mom. First, to be sixty-three and still have my mom. Then, to have it work out that my sister and I (with our respective husbands) could spend the whole weekend with our mom and dad at the beach. All of us in one house….alone. We can’t remember the last time that happened.

Our nuclear family, as my mom kept reminding us.

As one would expect, the weekend was filled with stories, memories and lots of laughter. Recounting different places we lived and trying to remember names of funny distant relatives with whom we have lost touch. Working on the NYT crossword puzzle, several great meals and enjoying great people watching from a bench on the boardwalk. A bucket of Thrasher’s fries in between us of course.

My mom mentioned a mug we got her about twenty years ago which has a picture of her sitting in my living room chair, my sister and I awkwardly on the floor in front of her. All of us looking just a bit ‘off’.

It was an annual tradition. A picture taken of the three of us right before we headed out to lunch the day after Christmas. Always an odd looking picture. We have had many laughs over them across the years, but somehow we fell out of the tradition. My mom asked that we recreate it for a new mug.

After breakfast we set it up. Picked the right chair, assumed our positions and asked the men to take pictures. Twenty pictures later we were finally forced to settle on one. My mom does not believe it is mug worthy. We all look a little ‘off’. So perhaps it is perfect.

Fifteen minutes later, my dad decided he needed one with his son-in-laws. So back to the chair we went. Lots of cracking joints while getting ready.  A new tradition?

Without a mother, none of us would be here.

Happy Mother’s Day everyone,
SARAH

....soul

Yogis,
What is the definition of ‘soul’?  Oxford defines it as the spiritual or immaterial part of a human being or animal.  Merriam adds in all rational and spiritual beings and that it is the animating principle of an individual life.

So, can a house have a soul? Does a house have an individual life?

I have always loved old houses. Their sturdy bones, natural materials and everlasting character. The houses we have bought have all been old, with the oldest being our beach house. She was built in 1927, at least according to the city records when we ordered a historical plaque.

She has old pine floors, a brick fireplace and of course, tiny closets. And she has a lot of history. If only the walls could talk……

Starting life as a cape cod with a wood front screened porch, in the 1970s the second level was dormered out for bedrooms and she was wrapped with white metal siding. She became ours in 2002.

In 2016 we decided she would look much better in sage green Hardie plank (to blend with the ever present mildew and moss on her walls). In the process an old medicine chest was uncovered containing a women’s powder compact with large brush, a glass bottle and metal tin for snuff. The walls were talking.

Then just last week the foreman sent me a text with a picture. In removing part of a wall he uncovered handwriting. It said ‘Mr Robert Phillips of Rehoboth Beach DE done this in the year of 1927’.  I have research to do. The walls were talking louder.

We are now chest deep in the remodeling project. Every time we visit I find time to be inside alone To wander. Feel. Listen. She is my best guide for decisions when I feel overwhelmed.

Is it her soul that speaks to me? Or perhaps a small piece of each of the soul’s who were lucky enough to spend part of life within her walls?

Whatever it is, we have a relationship, and each time I leave I tell her how beautiful she is and that I will be back soon. Out loud.

Getting her ready for her 100th,
SARAH

....critters

Yogis,
It all began with a box turtle…..

The type with yellow markings that I often kept hostage in a box when I was young. My pet, if only for a weekend. Providing a lid filled with water and leafy greens while their pointy nails and heavy bodies made them anything but quiet.

Someone posted they had seen one. I will look when I get home! Quickly forgetting all about turtles I began weeding, only to find I am being watched by one. As a family we always call them Myrtle. This time I left her free and watched the different ways she buried herself in pine needles.

Early the next morning something caught my eye at the far end of our porch. A bird? Nope. A small raccoon who evidently had climbed up to snatch sparrow eggs from the birdhouse but couldn’t quite figure out how to get down. Some coaxing and an offer of a broom scared him enough to risk the slide down the downspout.

Shortly after I ran past a wild turkey. What the heck? I have never seen a wild turkey in our neighborhood. Standing alone in my neighbor’s yard eating something in the grass. Not a care in the world. Huh.

Later Phoebe is barking at the car and climbing into the wheel well. Uh, oh…. We pop the hood to see what was going on and the raccoon was just as surprised to see us as we were him. Yikes! He nestled in deeper so I called animal control and soon he was out and finally headed back to the woods.

I read a book on frogs to the kindergartener I tutor. I told him I find them in my garden. Of course, that afternoon I almost stepped on one. Telling these stories in class I commented that I could feel a snake would be soon. Next morning reaching under grasses to remove chickweed, I scare a snake, and therefore me. He slithered in further and I decided I was good on the weeds.

Earthworms, first butterfly, the carpenter bee who guards.

There are so many things I love about spring! One is reconnecting with all the critters.

I missed you all,
SARAH

....rocks

Yogis,
His five-year-old grandson was with him for the day. Adorable and bursting with little boy energy. I asked what his grandson likes to do and he told me he was always trying to bring rocks in the house.

‘That’s great!’ I exclaimed. Not the answer he expected……

It’s that time of year again when we shift clothing. Down coat moves to spring jacket. Thick  jeans begin to transition to cuter lightweight pants. Inevitably during this time my hand will enter a pocket and bump into a rock. Pulling it out I often remember exactly where I picked it up. It sat waiting in the closet for months to be rediscovered. Rocks are patient.

I have rocks everywhere!

Some on my altar. A few on kitchen counters. On a shelf in my closet, on end tables and on many window ledges. Even on the dining room table. All of them rocks that one day caught my eye, ended up in a pocket and then found their place in my home. Rocks make a home more grounded.

I’m talking everyday rocks here. Not crystals…..although I have plenty of those as well. Rocks found on the beach, in the woods and along streets across many years. There are so many kinds! And if you have a couple in your pocket they make a pretty clicking sound when you roll them about. Rocks are long lasting.

I have inside and outside rocks. The ones I place in the garden are used as a focal point. A change of texture from the softness of plants. They are also fantastic holders of garden tools and when big enough are a great perch for me to rest and admire my work. Rocks are dependable and sturdy.

I photograph rocks. A lot.

Imagine my delight when I learned a new fact. There are many reasons I love otters, but did you know that they have a pocket in their skin? They use it to keep food while diving, but also their favorite rock. A special rock used for opening shellfish. Rocks are helpful.

Rocks carry many qualities I want to instill in my life.

Do you have a favorite rock?

Rocks are quiet and still,
SARAH

....the birds & the bees, and a goose

Yogis,
I’ve seen many geese in my life, yet I can’t say I have really gotten to know any. I admit I’m a bit afraid. When a goose is not happy, they let you know.

I have several memories of being confronted and I was always the one who backed down. The way they hiss and charge with wings wide is not to be taken lightly. One even bit my young son’s butt one spring day.

Yet last weekend I felt closer to geese.

It began with spotting a goose sitting on what we determined to be a nest, feet from the door of our friend’s house. A circular mound of pine needles, leaves and feathers against the trunk of a holly tree at the lake’s edge. An ideal spot. Dad floating feet away.

As she stood to turn, we saw the eggs. She threw things out of the nest. Pulled in new needles and re-fluffed the area. A gentle roll of the eggs. Housekeeping. Attentive mother.

She then lifted her back tail, curved her wings back and placed her wide warm belly down on the eggs, rocking from side to side until she was firmly nestled deep in the nest. A cool breeze blew overhead.

We read she will sit on the eggs for at least 28 days, leaving only occasionally for food, water and to bathe. The father rarely sits on the eggs. Yet we witnessed how he takes his role as protector quite seriously.

We checked on them all weekend. Once I found that neither were at the nest and I couldn’t see the eggs. We ventured out to get closer. I saw them first….mom and dad taking off from upstream, bee-lining toward us with much to say. ‘Run’ I yelled as old memories returned.

We realized she buries the eggs beneath feathers when she ventures out….but never takes her eyes off them. And as dawn broke, she was sleeping soundly with her head under her wing while Dad stood tall a foot away.

I realized how the qualities of attentiveness, nurturing and protection are innate. In all of us. Even a goose. But where do they come from? What is the source?

Always amazed,
SARAH

.....doing something

Yogis,
When I am at my parent’s house, I help in the yard. Picking up sticks blown down by wind in winter. In spring my dad and I head to the nursery to pick out new plants which I get settled in the ground before leaving. Weeding the herb garden in summer. But probably most importantly, removing ivy from trees.

This is my annual public service announcement.

Their house is surrounded by big old oaks, pines and maples, all there much longer than the 44 years my family has lived among them. Towering over the house providing shade, cleaner air and beauty. Ivy, though, has managed to snake up many of the trunks, threatening to bring them down.

Last weekend we tackled two more trees. Stately pines in the side yard.

Removing ivy from a tree is not nearly as hard as it might seem. With clippers for small vines and a hand saw for roots thickened with age, a tree’s life can be saved in less than an hour.

Ivy should be cut close to the ground and then again about knee height, with only that section removed. Everything above will quickly begin to die back.

I heard yesterday that federal funding for tree planting across our country has been dramatically reduced (if not eliminated). That makes saving our current trees even more critical.

In a world where everything feels overwhelming, there is always something we can do to make a difference. Saving a tree is a perfect example. With only a little effort, the tree will appear to stand taller and thank you. Every time you pass you will know you did something good.

This is the time of year to tackle the job. With bare trees ivy is easy to see and the brush hasn’t thickened yet. And no poison ivy!

Start with your yard, but you can do this for trees along streets or in your parks. Unfortunately, there is no magic ivy fairy. If everyone who reads this saves even one tree, that would be a couple hundred!

Heading out to do something for the Sycamore at the bottom of my street,
SARAH

....signs of spring

Yogis,
He saunters up the middle of the street in broad daylight. Not a care in the world. Rounding the bend, he glances side to side and trots down my driveway, vanishing into the woods. The kits must be born or imminent. Fox sightings become more abundant as hunting picks up with more mouths to feed. A sure sign of spring!

There are the typical signs we expect this time of year. Daffodil greens pushing their heads up through hard winter ground. The return of the robins, the pink tinge on tips of tree branches and the noticeable gift of more daylight. Yet there are also those more subtle signals of the new season.

While taking my walks, the pungent smell of freshly laid mulch almost knocks me over.  An aroma distinctly tied to this time of year. Landscapers rushing through yards pushing wheelbarrows and wielding rakes. Spring cleaning for the outer world.

When you walk into any grocery store now you can expect asparagus to be the star of the show.  Abundant and relatively cheap for the short window in which it is in season. Strawberries deep red once more and nothing says spring like seeing artichokes for sale! A spring tradition, which began when I was a child, is eating whole artichokes for dinner one night….. dipping the leaves in melted butter and scraping them between my front teeth.

While sitting in my parent’s sunroom I noticed a bird flying in and out of the bush against the back window. Hhmmmm…. A nest must be in progress. I search and spot a mourning dove hunkered down in the branches. The cardinals must be doing the same back at home. Will have to watch when I return.

A rabbit nibbles the grass as I go by.

I have the urge to pick up sticks around the yard. Electric and gas bills drop dramatically (thank goodness). I slide the sunroof open for the first time and my thinner socks get pulled from the dark recesses of my drawer. Spring is in the air!

What makes you feel her approach?

Noticing,
SARAH

...nana's house

Yogis,
Someone asked what my grandchildren like to do when they come over. Immediately I had an image of each one and exactly where they head as they come through the front door and kick off their shoes.

Today we had everyone over and I got to watch it in action.

 Nana Jackson

I can remember going to my grandparents. At Nana Jackson’s I loved to play with the old Barbie dolls (including a Ken with only one leg) that my aunt had left behind. I can picture the case that held them and various garments. At Nana Cardoni’s I was in love with her quilts. Stacked in a wardrobe I would climb in to feel and smell them. They defined safety for me.

I even have memories of my great grandma Pilosi's home. Tall, mullioned glass kitchen cabinets that I mimicked in each of our kitchens. And, of course, the etched glass candy dish from which I was always offered hard candy.

 Nana Cardoni

As a grandmother my hope has been to instill those same feelings of familiarity, comfort and safety in my grandkids. Things they will remember when they are my age.

My oldest grandson heads right for the camera and binoculars that I keep on the window ledges along the back. He has become quite good with the camera and loves to discuss birds. Today a Pileated Woodpecker visited.

My oldest granddaughter runs to my reiki room to get the Animal Spirit oracle cards. She and I sit together to pick cards and discuss their messages. Today was the first time she was able to read them to me on her own.

My youngest grandson is the worker. He can always find our heavy metal shovel no matter how buried it has gotten in the garage and immediately begins to dig. In the yard. In the woods. In the driveway. It doesn’t leave his hand often.

And my youngest granddaughter inherited my love of baby dolls. She pulls me to the toy closet to get the babies, one of which is Sally, my doll as a child. She likes us to make them beds and feed them.

It warms my heart. Do you have memories of a Nana’s house?

Om,
SARAH

....doula

Yogis,
This is the quote that opened the training as we settled into our seats for a four day intensive…..

Hello to here.    ~ Padraig O Tuama

As I write this I am deeply immersed in a class for certification as a death doula/end of life doula. I didn’t know such a role existed until the last couple years. I didn’t even know of birth doulas until my daughter-in-law used one for the birth of my grandchild. The word doula is new to me.

What is a doula? It comes from the Greek word doule which translates to female helper or maidservant. Yet in practice today it is anyone, typically without formal medical training, who provides guidance and support either to a mother during the birth process or to a dying person as they navigate their final path of this current journey on earth.

For four days I am deep in conversations on my own mortality, the deaths I have been witness to or impacted by, and all of the feelings, thoughts and emotions that arise around death. In a society that avoids the topic, there is a lot to discuss when one is willing to take the chance.

Isn’t it depressing? I am asked this. Sad at times, yes. Tears come up. That lump in the throat. The fear that if I talk about it, I may be creating it. Yet for many years I have been drawn to learn about death, read about it, follow hospice nurses on social media, and speak to those who have died and come back.

Death is the only thing that is certain.

We are learning about the physical aspects and all of the options now available in the process on which we can guide people, but what we keep being told over and over and over is that what is most important for this role is deep listening. Being present for the dying. Seeing them. Supporting them.

Not a role for fixing which is my natural instinct, but being the companion for the hard work….the labor….of dying. All of this requires being fully in the moment. Being here.

Hello to here.    ~ Padraig O Tuama

Back to class,
SARAH

....puzzle

Yogis,
I am halfway through my second 1000 piece puzzle! My puzzle sum is always a good barometer of the winter we are having. What’s your barometer?

For perspective, last winter was extremely mild and I didn’t even open a box to start one. This winter though has brought ice, frigid temps and winds. For me to devote the time required to complete a puzzle, and have the desire to do so, the weather has to force me inside.

Physically and mentally.

Doing a puzzle requires a shift. It is a mental activity and every time I get into one, I am reminded of life lessons mirrored in its successful completion.  

The first is slowing down. A puzzle, like life, is not a race. You can’t start a puzzle and set a timer. It moves at its own pace. I find the slower I approach it, the more successful I am.

The next, which goes hand in hand with slowing down, is patience. In a world brimming with annoyances, the ability to consciously turn patience on is powerful. Patience allows steady forward progress. When impatience rises, it’s time to walk away.

When I stand up and look from afar the blues all look the same. The sky section will be impossible! I lean in and get closer. Subtle differences in the shades. Differing patterns I hadn’t noticed. To get to know something…..get close.

Another is being present. Immersed in ‘now’. When I decide to work on the puzzle I have to detach from outer activities. For that time my full attention must be on the table. Hearing my breath. I can tell when I get distracted because progress halts. I must notice and pull my awareness back to this moment.

And finally, my favorite……letting go. There will be a particular piece I am looking for. Green stem with brown edge on side. I look and look. Trying hard to find it. Deciding the piece must be missing. It’s not here…….until I let go. Shoulders dropped and gaze softened. No longer trying. Shifting from looking to seeing the table as it is.

Oh, there you are!

Learning her lessons,
SARAH

....believe

Yogis,
A neighbor at the beach placed a new sign in their yard. I have now run past it twice. It has one simple phrase.

Believe there is good in the world.

We are at an inflection point. Yet if you pay attention, we are always at an inflection point. There are always jolts that shake our sense of equilibrium. A pandemic. Wars. Fires. Every moment is a moment for change, it’s just that some rock us more than others. It is how we live our lives within them that matters.

Over the last few weeks I have had several people say this is the end of our democracy. When words are spoken out loud it indicates that a belief has set in and has become strong enough to send itself out through the lips. From inner to outer.

I do not believe this. I do not choose to believe this.

Humans are odd. We love what is negative. We click on it, stream it, and talk about it. So that is what we are provided. It isn’t media’s fault. They give us what we ask for and then we build a belief system around it.

Beliefs become things. A belief has a vibration which alters our own vibration. Once we believe anything and then speak it, feel it, see it…….others will feel it and some will instill it until it becomes a group consciousness and becomes real.

I choose instead to believe the words in the sign.

It can be hard to find the good, not because it isn’t there, but it doesn’t sell. Believing in good requires a desire to want to, and then a practice of looking.

Today on my run I looked for the good. There was plenty!! A sunbeam shone down on the ocean at the same moment church bells rang in the distant. It gave me chills. The warm open smile from a woman made me feel seen. Phoebe’s full body greeting on my return. A text from a friend.

I believe the world is inherently good. This is where I will consciously hold my awareness. By believing it, I create it.

See and believe what you want……not what you don’t want. Beliefs become things.

Using my power,
SARAH

....as if they know

Yogis,
It’s like the plants know. As December arrives with its northerly winds and lack of light, hard frosts finally turn any remaining green a brittle brown. I look out the back windows to watch my garden enter her period of deep, well-deserved rest.

I too get a rest when the garden sleeps. Nothing to weed or water. My garden tools stored neatly in the garage as there is no need to check on everyone each day, or prune or even clean up. Dried seeds and berries left to hang from bent stems offer needed nourishment for birds and deer as the snows arrive.

No growth. No color. No scents. Quiet.

Yet at the same time my indoor plants are watching out my south facing windows at their ice covered friends. It’s as if they talk amongst themselves and decide it is now their time to shine. One by one they stir.

Christmas cactus is always first. Solid green all year, the ends or her leaves become adorned with bright red shoots. When they all open, she is transformed to a thing of beauty.

Next, I notice a new stem of one of the orchids peeking out from the leaves. Quickly it arches toward the light and sends out tight buds. The other orchid, not to be outdone, sends up her new growth, blooming first in deep magenta. Her white cohort moves more slowly, spreading out the winter show.

Last winter a friend gave me a plant covered in gorgeous orange blooms. Lovely…..yet I knew that often a gifted plant never blooms again…..and I am ok with that. I kept watching with a tinge of hope though, because you never know. Well, about to give up I glanced over to find buds everywhere. She is now again in full bloom!

My studio dotted with purples, reds and orange, while the outer world sleeps.

Yet only days from now, my Lenten Rose buried beneath snow in the front yard will offer a spark of pink to the barren landscape and start the process all over again.

Continually awed,
SARAH

.....forts

Yogis,
This week we had what you would refer to as a real snowstorm. The kind where for days snow boots are the only shoe wear appropriate when leaving the house. Mindful planting of each foot on slippery sidewalks and keeping an eye overhead for dagger like icicles hanging precariously over doorways.

If you grew up in a cold climate, snowstorms bring back memories. Bundling up to the point where bending at the waist to pick something up is a feat. Ears so covered that the world sounds muffled. Scarves, mittens and wool socks. Red noses.

Yet another memory resurfaced this weekend while at my sister’s house in Rehoboth. Forts.

Her large backyard, dotted with magnificent oaks and pines, is a deer superhighway. Each dawn and dusk they follow their well-traveled diagonal path from the woods behind her, through the yard and out to the street. Hundreds of hoof prints dot the snowy landscape, at one point passing through an area where numerous bushes and evergreens converge.

Here is where you can tell they rest. Out of the wind and hidden beneath heavy branches. I decided to crawl in to get a better look. I found areas where the snow had been kicked aside exposing the warmer fallen leaves beneath. Oval nest like spaces created, perfect for sleep.  A fort.

My body remembers this. Finding those hidden nooks under the brush where I too could get out of the wind and sit hidden beneath heavy branches. The smell of pine and the hush. A secret world that I was drawn to, much like my soul friends, the deer. Feeling loved and safe. Held by nature.

I would declare it a fort and quickly decide which area was the bedroom and which was for hanging out. Tidying up to make it just so.

Like the deer……

Even in my home I find I have created a fort. A tucked away corner in the great room with a comfy couch, blankets and lots of books. Where my footsteps lead when I want to take a nap, don’t feel well, or simply need an escape from the noise of life.

Remembering,
SARAH