Category Archives: Dexter

Gratitude Friday

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This post is a mashup of The Little Bliss List and Joy Jam, and as such is meant to celebrate: the little things that brought me hope and happiness this week, the sweet stuff of life, those small gifts that brought me joy this week. By sharing them, I not only make public my gratitude, but maybe also help you notice your own good stuff and send some positive energy out into the world.

1. Two amazing yoga classes. We had a sub on Sunday morning, and even though I missed my regular teacher, it was an amazing class. One of those classes that is yoga at every level–body, heart, and mind. I felt so alive afterwards, and so loved. Then in my Monday class, sadly Niight‘s last one with us, I did a headstand!!! I’ve done them before, but always need help getting up there, and this time, even though I still depended on the wall to stay upright, I was able to get up there all by myself. I did two of them, just to make sure it wasn’t a fluke.

2. The color of this rose in my backyard. I can’t decide if I should look at it or eat it. I imagine it would taste like the most perfectly ripe peach.

3. Neon green grasshopper. I didn’t even know they could be this color.


4. Comments on yesterday’s post. I have days where I don’t quite know what to write about, when I consider not even posting, but end up doing so anyway (like I’ve said before, I almost can’t help it now), but without the same certainty or plan I normally have. Yesterday was one of those days, but I trusted that something would come and wrote anyway, and I got some of the sweetest comments and nicest feedback. It reinforces the fact that I just need to show up with confidence and an open-heart, and the medicine, the magic will meet me there.

5. Making a mess, making art. Just in case you don’t believe me, here’s proof–proof of the mess at least!

6. First blooms on the Colorado Bee Plants.

6. My boys of summer. Oh, how I love them.

samson

dexter

Bonus Joy: gifted plants. Last year, one of my yoga teachers gave me some plants from her garden. This year, she gave me many, many more, as did as a fellow student who is also one of my Shambhala teachers. There is something so special, so precious about making a garden from gifted plants. I feel loved every time something sprouts or blooms, remembering the person who gave me that green. I think it’s the best way to landscape, with heart.

just some of the irises and lilies from jennie

This particular day

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Remember that this particular day will never happen again. ~Susannah Conway, from this i know: notes on unraveling the heart

A few moments from today:

Sleeping in until 6:15 am (yes, this counts as “sleeping in” when you typically get up at 4:30 am), Sam stretched out beside me, his warmth and deep breath lulling me back to dreams.

Roses from my garden, white and deep red, in a Mason jar on my writing desk. The open window lets in cool air, bringing with it morning bird song and the smell of rain, which mixes with the scent of the roses. I write in my notebook, but not about that.

Walking with Eric and the dogs, we see a man park his truck, get out dressed in nice work clothes (button down shirt and slacks), pull a pair of dirty work boots out and put them on. With a rake slung over his shoulder, he walks towards the ball field. We walk one lap around the dog park, and when we get back, he’s still raking lines in the dirt as if it were a giant zen garden.

I clean up the house a little more, folding sheets and sorting laundry. At first, the dogs follow me from room to room, but finally settle somewhere and sleep.

A blog post that brings me to tears of gratitude and recognition, exactly what I need to hear, and I wonder once again “how will I ever thank her?”

A shower while Eric barbeques steaks for lunch. The 1/2 side of organic beef we bought at the beginning of the year allows such extravagance, midweek and midday.

Another walk, at a different park. We try to identify trees, guess the types. Everything I don’t recognize, I call an Elm–Honey Locust, Kentucky Coffee Tree, all of them Elms.

In the backyard, reading this i know: notes on unraveling the heart, the sun making leaf shadows on the pages. Sam drops a toy for me to throw, and when I do, he jumps across my chest, over my lap and the chair to go after it, like some crazy agility move or circus trick. Later, both dogs are sprawled out next to me, Sam hoarding all the toys.

This particular day will never happen again…