.....pearls

Yogis,
Every one of us is unique. Each with special gifts we offer the world. Gifts that impact other’s lives and will one day leave a legacy when we no longer walk this earth. My father is no exception.

This weekend we all convened in NJ to celebrate the accomplishment of a 90^th birthday with him. Wow. Ninety years is a long time and he and the rest of us were ready to party. An afternoon event at our usual spot for big milestones with over sixty in attendance.

Also as usual, he made a grand entrance.  Walking in on my sister’s arm wearing a robe and hat, hobbling with a cane. A Kiss is Just a Kiss playing softly. The song suddenly changes to Stayin Alive, the volume escalates, the cane tossed, robe thrown off, his signature yellow lens glasses go on and a dance ensues. Those of you who know him can instantly imagine it.

But what struck me most from the afternoon was the ‘entertainment’ while we ate salads. Figuring everyone was sick of always hearing from my sister and I, the five grandchildren took over. Each stood and shared a few of Pop pop’s pearls of wisdom, while wearing yellow lens glasses of course. We all know and love his pearls. They are part of what make him….him.

‘Good enough’ my niece shared. Good enough is most often enough. No need for perfection.

‘Do good and avoid evil……..Everything in moderation…….Two must haves when considering a spouse – shared humor and political party….. When you go to college always go to class (even with a hangover, even if you don’t listen) and don’t ever sleep in your clothes…..Don’t EVER look at the dinner menu until you have received your drink.’

And the one I have taken to heart and try to live my life by is ‘Everyone is doing their best.’

They go on and on. All of us know them. All of us think of him each time we are in a situation where his words play in our head. All of us affected by his wisdom.

In his speech he announced he won’t pass…. He will die. Sooooo dad.

My dad is awesome,
SARAH

....roots

Yogis,
As a certified tree hugger (yes, I actually hug them at times), I have always been in awe of their roots. Certain trees allow us a view of them spreading above ground, giving a glimpse into what lies below. The fact that roots burrowing into dirt can feed and hold up trees that seem to touch the sky, through wind, rainstorms and drought for hundreds of years is incredible. And no two sets are exactly alike.

There are skinny roots and those grown thick and gnarly. Some that spread far and wide and ones that quickly disappear from view. Others crisscross along paths giving me a place to plant each foot as I hike through. The ones along the creek and river remind me of ballerinas dancing on the tips of their toes.

They are all intricate and beautiful in their own right.

Imagine my surprise when this ad crossed my feed:  How to hide unsightly tree roots in your yard.

Unsightly? What? Could this be serious? I looked it up and found that yes, it is a thing with many options from landscapers on how to get them out of view so your lawn can look neater. Tidier.

Yikes. Please don’t cover up your tree roots. Putting even a couple of inches of soil on them can suffocate the tree. Instead, sit with them, listen and take a good look. See them with new eyes.

Children know this. We have an enormous oak tree out front at the base of which my boys created little forts among the roots. My granddaughter recently commented on how intertwining roots under two river trees made the perfect nest area for a nap. She was right. They invite you in.

They weave and bend, intertwine and reach. A complex network creating stability in a shaky world.

My hope is we will not allow our world of marketing to do to tree roots what it did in the past to our precious dandelions and clover. Nature knows what she is doing and if we allow her to paint the world her way, we will be surrounded by beauty…..and nourished by her roots.

Nature as sculptor,
SARAH 

....the skipper

Yogis,
While working in the garden I develop relationships. Relationships with plants, each with their own personality. Relationships with birds as I watch them raise new families. Relationships with dragonflies, bees, swallowtails and the occasional turtle, snake or frog. I talk to them, observe them and of course, photograph them. A lot. I make sure they have clean water, nesting materials, cover and their native food.

They in turn give me joy and companionship.

There are some though that develop a special place in my heart and one of those is the Skipper.

Skippers are a group of butterflies with over 3500 species that are named for their quickness with speeds up to 20mph. One minute they are on the leaf in front of you, the next across the garden, before darting behind you. Here I am, they say!

They come in a variety of colors. Most of the ones in my garden are clothed in golds and browns, some with a white spot. They are quite small, yet stocky and sturdy with a body covered in hairs causing them to be confused as moths. You can tell they are butterflies though by the little clubs at the top of their antennae. Many believe they live in a world between butterflies and moths.

And they love flowers! I find them most often skipping from my bright colored zinnias to echinacea, sunflowers and bergamot. They use their long tubelike proboscis to suck up nectar before curling and retracting it back in like a hose. Important daytime pollinators, I am grateful to have them around.

If you spend time with a skipper they will become comfortable and let you approach. Once close you can see their big bulging eyes which will turn to look right at you, and I swear at times it appears that they break into a smile. They do not shy from attention.

They will even land on your arm and stay for a spell as you continue trimming and weeding. A gentle presence. I like that.

What a big personality packed into such a small creature!

Relationships,
SARAH

.....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