.....synchronicities

Yogis,
I had the joy of spending this past week with my almost six-year-old granddaughter. Leisurely days with no set agenda where I could give her my full attention. Who doesn’t like having someone’s full attention!

The first day we picked oracle cards from my spirit animal deck. Each animal offers a message. I picked one that spoke to the power of synchronicities.

“What are synchronicities?” asked Abigail. I paused to find the right words to describe something that isn’t easy to put in six-year-old terms. I gave examples and felt she had some sense of what I was trying to explain.

Synchronicities. I later looked up the definition. ‘The simultaneous occurrence of events which appear significantly related but have no discernable causal connection.’  See what I mean?

We both forgot as we moved through the week doing things girls like to do. Yoga and playing with stuffies. Putting hair sparkles in our hair. Riding the carousel, hiking the creek and of course, a dance party. On Thursday I painted our toenails. I chose an orangey color for the beach and she selected a pretty pink.

Friday morning, I asked what she wanted to wear. Holding up a short set with stripes she at first said no. But then she shared that when she put it on for the first time her mother said she looked as cute as a button. Yes, she would wear it after all.

An image flashed on my inner screen. Downstairs I went right to our nail polishes. I called her over to show her the pink bottle. ‘Cute as a button’ it read. She looked at me with surprise and asked where I got the sticker.  No, I told her. That was the name of the polish. Her eyes grew wide!

THAT is a synchronicity. We can define them all day, but it is the inner jolt that can never be fully explained.

Pay attention. The more in the flow of life you are, the more synchronicities appear. Each one like a neon sign indicating you are heading the right way.

And she was indeed cute as a button,
SARAH

....bittersweet

Yogis,
Every year August begs to be put into words. Not this year, I say to myself, yet she keeps pointing out that there is more to notice. She’s right. I love August so I listen and put pen to paper.

I love July too though. The bright days, vivid colors and intensity. A month filled with a partylike atmosphere ushered in by summer. Fireworks and parades. Scorching heat. Sweat and rollercoasters. The sun, like a late-night partier, still hanging out when I head to bed.

August though, feels softer. Quieter. The sense we have gone over the peak. Still summer…..still warm…..still colorful. Yet not quite.

Bittersweet.

I love how August begins to throw in some mornings where the thermometer reads in the 60s and an unexpected cool breeze blows through while dining outside. Blissful to the skin, yet deep inside a knowing that it is a precursor of what lies ahead, even while afternoons climb to the 80s. I push the feeling back down. Not yet.

There are still flowers left to bloom. Goldenrod is on the cusp of her time in the sun. Cardinal flower shines her brilliant red blossoms from the damp corners of my yard. A favorite for hovering hummingbirds. Yet many flowers are beginning to fade. Most of the echinacea is drying now. A bonanza for goldfinches who feast on their seeds.  

Bathing suit departments cleared for school supplies.

Bittersweet.

So, I eat corn on the cob and peaches with a hint of urgency as they too will soon disappear. Pumpkins will replace watermelons in the blink of an eye. Next week glimpses of yellow passing school buses will join the hue of goldenrod.

No, summer is not over. The hum still remains. Peppers, basil and tomatoes continue making August dinners special and I still have a whole week at the beach ahead. Shorts, sandals and t-shirts. I will make time for more ice cream cones and boardwalk games.

But an image of me pulling on jeans for the first time lies just beneath the surface.

Bittersweet,
SARAH

....to know a place

Yogis,
Running on the canal this morning I heard the familiar sound. The Star-Spangled Banner playing over a loudspeaker at the nearby navy’s model basin. A daily ritual. It must be 8 o’clock!

I know this place.

Growing up we moved every couple years. My father worked for Bell Labs and every time he was given a new role we packed up the house and moved to another state. Georgia, Chicago, New Jersey…… New town, new school, new house. As a child you believe that is how life is and pick out the new carpet for your bedroom. I think this is why I am so adaptable today.

Yet I have now lived on the same street in the same town for 37 years. I know this place.

We form relationships with place not unlike the developing of friendships. Each take time, curiosity, patience and a sense of humor.

In the first couple of years, you scratch the surface. Learning the roads and knowing where to shop. It starts to feel familiar but it isn’t until much later that deep connections form.  A relationship where inner secrets are slowly revealed.

After all of this time I know her history. Every curve in her paths. When the hummingbirds arrive and where the deer lie to rest. It took time but now I know my way to the hidden patch of ramps which appear each spring without fail and which of the trees on the river are likely to offer hard to find pawpaw fruits in late summer.

Who to ask when I have garden questions and which mailperson gives out dog treats. The best times of year to climb over to islands usually submerged where Phoebe and I alone can explore terrain that feels other worldly.  Where to sit and where to find shells.

But as with a friendship, you also unearth the challenges. The flight path overhead and buzz of the highway when the wind blows a certain way. The costs and at times stifling humidity. Yet you love them anyway.

A deep relationship with this place. A home. So grateful we met.

Where are you in your relationship?
SARAH

......sounds

Yogis,
The melancholy sound of a train whistle fills the night, and I am brought right back to the bedroom in my grandmother’s apartment. Her building, located in a small town in upstate PA, was a short distance from the railroad crossing. Nestled in bed under her heavy quilts (my favorite) the sound always made me feel safe. It was one of the things that defined Jessup for me.

Every place has its own sounds.

I was reminded last week in the Outer Banks. Crossing the bridge to the island I always roll open my sunroof to let the serenade of insects who vibrate the hot summer air pour in. A symphony. I want not only to hear them but feel them. I have arrived!

The timing of that trip occurs when our bugs back home begin to rev. I return to their hum which is slightly different in tone. The undulating rise and fall in intensity is a soundtrack to my day. As the sun sets, the songs of night bugs waft through the open window next to my bed. I am lulled to sleep. I know it’s August and I know I’m home.

Every time has its own sounds.

I think back to college days when our townhouse sat on a busy intersection with a hospital in one direction and firehouse the other. The abrupt blare of sirens under my bedroom window took some getting used to. How professors knew to pause a lecture when the roar of low flying planes heading in for a landing filled the hall. Remembering puts me back in statistics class.

Visiting my family recently in northern New Jersey I remembered it is the land of chipmunks. Stepping out the door you are greeted by high-pitched chirps. Followed by sounds of tussling under bushes. Reminders of growing up.

Who doesn’t visualize a beach when hearing a seagull? The crash of waves and shrieks of kids on rides. Clanking and ringing of bells from an arcade. The song of Coqui frogs takes me to Puerto Rico. The bleat of goats lands me in St John.

What are the sounds that define a place or time for you? I would love to hear.

Listening,
SARAH