1. Peony season. All the blooms outside are done, and the ones I have inside, the last ones, the palest pink ones, only have a day or two left before they’ll be gone too. Each bush I planted is in honor of someone I lost, and the first bloom of this season opened the day that Sam died. Having them all around the house for these past few weeks without him helped to ease the grief, helped honor it.
2. Strawberry season. It comes early and is over in just a few weeks, but those weeks are delicious.
3. The back vegetable garden. We have more out front, another three beds and various other locations around the yard, but I’ve been especially loving the back, going out before lunch and picking kale and lettuce to add to my salad, how as soon as I pick some it starts to grow more.
4. Swimming. The few times I’ve gone, I’ve had the whole pool to myself — another thing to add to my list of “things I hope never return to ‘normal’.”
5. Our tiny house. When we were looking for a new house 18 years ago, our realtor didn’t really believe us that the yard was just as important or more so than the house. When we bought this one — older neighborhood, only 1080 square feet, giant tree out front, big back yard, larger lot, close to hiking and parks and trails, a solid house that needed work — she said, “I guess you weren’t kidding.” We wanted a good house, and that meant a place we could have a garden and the dogs we wanted could have a good place to play and take walks. What we really wanted was a home. All these years later — four dogs loved and three lost, replaced kitchen and bathroom and windows and furnace and water heater and roof (twice), me started and left a job at CSU, all the miles walked, weeds pulled, and hours spent playing and lounging in the yard, eating and sharing good food and flowers we grew ourselves — it continues to nourish and shelter us.
6. My tiny family. The Sam shaped hole is still there, so present. I hold space for him without even thinking about it, like when I go to bed at night, when it’s dark and Ringo and Eric are already there asleep, I expect Sam to be on his bed, wait for the shift, the sigh acknowledging me, and then, when it’s quiet instead, I remember. And this happens multiple times a day, all around the house and in the yard and on a walk and even in the car, me forgetting he’s gone, expecting him to be there and then the surprise, the remembering, the emptiness, the sadness. And yet, I wouldn’t trade this because this is what reminds me he was here, he was loved, and that I was too. It hurts, but with good reason.
The day we let Sam go, I gave him a frozen Kong stuffed with peanut butter and cookies. He fell asleep eating it, happy as could be. He hadn’t finished it and I didn’t realize Eric had put it back in the freezer. Every time I saw it in there, I thought, “now how am I ever going to be able to get rid of that?” The other day Ringo was really wanting to chew something, was wrecking one of his toys, so I got out the half eaten Kong and gave it to him. It made both of us happy. He got to have it and I got to let it go.
Bonus joy: clean sheets, a rainy day, that spot on the corner of our new couch that feels so tucked in but also so central, good books (I’m reading the The Broken Earth trilogy from N.K. Jemisin, and it’s so good), good TV (I’m watching the second season of of Homecoming with Janelle Monae and it’s so good, just finished Little Fires Everywhere which was so different than the book but also the same), good podcasts (DYANR still continues to be a favorite, and Mike Birbiglia just released a new one, Working It Out), good music (Rise up by Andra Day is on heavy rotation), yard time, monarch butterflies, new blooms in the garden as the season shifts, naps, writing with Laurie, hanging out with Mikalina, texting with Chloe’ and my mom and brother, practice, working on my book, a big glass of cold water, reading in bed at night while Ringo and Eric sleep, all the people working so hard and risking their own safety and health to care for others and hopefully make things better.
1. Morning walks. I finally went on the morning walk, a week and a half after the final one with Sam. It felt weird, awkward, sad. Eric walked Ringo and I walked…myself. Physically I felt off balance, untethered, almost as if there were suddenly no gravity, like I might float off like a lost balloon. P.S. it’s turtle egg laying season.
3. Flowers from my garden. The lupines I just put in are already blooming. There are still more blooms to come and I have jars full in my house — on the dining room table, in the bathroom, on my writing desk, next to my bed, on my meditation shrine, on a shelf in my practice room. When you get to the point where you think, “this is a lot of pictures of peonies” just remember that this isn’t even close to all the ones I’ve taken.
4. Practice. The through-line, the constant I count on.
6. The love of good dogs. I’m not sure this will make sense but I was thinking this week that I don’t miss my first three dogs because I loved them, but because they loved me so much.
7. My new rubber carpet broom. I am full on geeking out over this thing. Using a vacuum, even those made specifically for pet hair, you just don’t get everything. I’m amazed how much this thing is pulled up, how much better the carpet looks.
Bonus joy: sitting in the sun, roses blooming, pizza that we didn’t cook, getting all the laundry done and put away, clean sheets, when the morning is cool enough to open all the windows and run the whole house fan, a/c when it gets too hot, Wild Writing with Laurie and Mikalina and Chloe’, that I got to meet and cuddle Tex when he was still hers, kindness, naps, good books, good TV and films, good podcasts, texting with my mom and brother, reading in bed at night while Ringo and Eric sleep.
Open Space Practice, (AKA: A Thousand Shades of Gray) 