1. The opportunity to rest, to heal. This applies to so many things, but in particular and most recently having COVID, probably for the second time. I feel like I didn’t get as sick as the last time but it is taking so much longer to recover my energy — and that’s totally okay. I have time. I don’t need to rush.
2. The ability to change my mind, see things more clearly. For example, this pile is in our front yard, consisting mostly of last season’s sunflowers. Here in Colorado, we don’t have to plant them, they just come, and the meadowlarks and bees love them and I love watching them feed on the flowers. All fall and winter, I’ve seen this pile and thought, “that looks so messy, we really should at least move it to the back by the compost pile.” And yet, the other day I looked out the window and there were at least ten finches and chickadees hopping around the pile, still finding things to eat in the middle of winter. Another example is this morning when I was meditating, had the door to my practice room open and could hear Eric unloading the dishwasher. At first, I could see how it might be a distraction, the banging of plates and slamming of cabinet doors, but then I thought about how the noise Eric was making was a music of sorts, a sound I would desperately miss in the silence of him not being here. He probably wouldn’t say the same about my snoring at night, which is currently worse because I’m still a bit stuffy from the COVID.
3. Bed. Naps, clean sheets, blackout curtains, down blankets and pillows, a weighted blanket, my moon nightlight, my Kindle, our sunrise alarm clock and white noise machine. It’s not just one of my favorite places in our house, it’s one of my favorite places in the world.
4. Practicing in community. Zoom art dates, wild-ish writing, yoga, and meditation.
5. My tiny family, tiny home, tiny life. Sitting on the couch with Eric doing nothing, thanking him for being my person, watching movies together, making each other laugh, cooking together, sleeping in the same bed, having 30 years of memories together, hugs in the kitchen, our couch comfortable enough to sleep on at night if someone needs to, all our plants, the promise of our outside garden, good neighbors, kitchen counter love notes (which he sometimes hides by the tea or on my meditation shrine), how close the river is, birds in the feeder, all the things we need to make spaghetti sauce, our spices, my bookshelves full of books, the wood floors, the rugs, the oval mirrors in our bathroom, the way Ringo is so much more cuddly in the winter, the way Eric makes him a pile of blankets and pillows to nap on, even how Ringo digs up the couch at night or barks at the TV, the way he comes to find me when he and Eric come back from a walk, an echo of how Sam used to do the same thing.
Bonus joy: a warm shower, clean pjs, a big glass of cold water, matcha lemonade, listening to podcasts, clean laundry, pay day, dark chocolate covered almonds, walnuts, Simple Truth Strawberry Paletas Fruit Bars, health insurance that covers prescriptions, NSAIDS, anti-anxiety meds, THC gummies, Burt’s Bees lip balm, the internet, having a backup option when one of my computers doesn’t want to behave, a washer and dryer, windows, sunshine, how bright and quiet it is when there’s snow on the ground, snow plows, the sunrise, reading in bed at night while Ringo and Eric sleep.
I’m glad you’re getting better.
I’m currently reading The Wild Edge of Sorrow, which you recommended here, and it’s beautiful. I can’t thank you enough for recommending it.
I love that book so much. I’m actually planning a local grief retreat for the spring — meditation, somatic release, restorative yoga, making art, building a shrine together, a fire ceremony. I simultaneously feel like I don’t know what I’m doing but also I HAVE to do it.
I love this!!