As I sit here, at the kitchen table, I find myself in a similar situation to that of one of my teenage cousins. For homework over February break, her English teacher had given the following assignment (paraphrased):
Write a short story on any topic of your choice. The story must be at least 1 and ½ pages long, but can be longer.
Choice? The freedom to choose is a good thing, right?
I recently learned that I have been dubbed, “the writer in the family”. As such, my cousin requested my help with this particular assignment. Specifically, she needed assistance with settling on a topic. Now, I’m not up-to-date with what teens are interested in these days—or what they find inspiring—so I asked her:
What was the last book that you read? What kind of books do you like to read?
Personally, I find this assignment—despite its simplicity—a little overwhelming. It’s extremely similar to the process of penning a blog entry. There is a plethora of topics that I could write about, could share…and, yet, when it comes time to write, I’ve got nothing. I thought, that if I asked myself the questions that I’d asked her, maybe I’d come up with a subject for this entry.
The truth is, I haven’t read a book from cover-to-cover in a very long time. I’m currently reading my way through three different books (a guide for writing Christian Fiction, a novel by Janet Evanovich, and a tome that leans toward cultural anthropology).
My cousin listed books that I’m unfamiliar with…yet another indication that I’m behind the times. I tried to play it cool, disguise my lack of knowledge, and asked:
What was the last TV show that you watched?
She replied, “The Vampire Diaries”.
I’M FAMILIAR WITH “THE VAMPIRE DIARIES”! In fact, I was in LOVE with that show circa 2010-2012.
She listed some other television shows, too…but I had no idea what they were/that they even existed. I think she sensed that I was clueless this time, as she quickly explained, “they’re all about love”.
Love. We were sitting beside the window in our grandfather’s hospital room. There were at least 10 other family members in that room—all there to visit Grandpa.
Grandpa is not doing well.
Nearing the end of his life on this earth, actually.
In a month. In a year. The date doesn’t really matter. Death is imminent for all of us, but closer for him.
Love. Love brought us there. Love inspires us to help one another (even with impossible English assignments). Love prompts us to share our experiences with others.
The God that I believe in, is love. He is hope. He is merciful. And, when we lose Grandpa, He is going to be right there, with all of us.
“What about a Hallmark movie?!” My cousin gasped, excited. “I could write something like a Hallmark movie!”
“Yeah,” I smiled, agreeing with her, “that’s a good idea.”
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Your prayers, love and light have (and still do!) mean so much to me. May you feel loved and appreciated today and every day.
If you were a kid in the mid to late 1990’s, and you were lucky enough to be home from school on-time, you may have watched a cartoon entitled, “Gargoyles”. If you were anything like I was during my late-elementary school years, you would have fallen in love with this show!
I mean, what’s not to love? It was the perfect blend of science and sorcery. And, the characters! They were amazing and so memorable! I mean, come on, who wouldn’t want to be fierce like Demona, flying away with a haunting screech and glowing, scarlet eyes?
For those of you who were not 90’s kids, and missed out on this cartoon, gargoyles (according to the show) were an ancient race of mythical beings that had wings, talons, tails and immense strength. The clan that the cartoon features originated in medieval Scotland. There, the clan protected a human castle. Although ferocious and nearly invincible at night, the gargoyles turned to stone during the day—a change that left them vulnerable. This was more than just an inconvenience or a commercial break; being stone during the day, when humanity was wide awake, made the gargoyles easy targets. A sledge hammer, a catapult, a mace…any of these tools/weapons could shatter a gargoyle and end its life.
Defending and protecting the castle by night would make one think that the castle’s inhabitants would return the favor and guard the gargoyles by day. Sadly, the humans were no match for a Viking raiding party and the conniving plans of a traitor among their own ranks. After the destruction and loss that they endured during the Viking raid, the remaining six gargoyles were turned into stone for 1000 years by the Magus (read: court sorcerer).
The gargoyle’s tale doesn’t end there, though.
The gargoyles—and the castle’s ruins—were airlifted to New York City by a multi-millionaire, David Xanatos. Xanatos is intrigued by gargoyle lore, and the spell that could not be broken “until the castle rises above the clouds”. When the spell is broken, thanks to Xanatos’ efforts, the gargoyles must learn how to survive in a modern, and fast-paced city.
That’s a lot of backstory, right? In the writing biz, that’s called, “backstory/information dumping”, and you should NEVER, EVER do it. So why am I doing it now? Well, Dear Readers, you know me well enough to know that when I break writing rules, it’s to make a point.
Despite the constant danger/possibility that I wasn’t going to be home from school in time to watch “Gargoyles”, my infatuation with them continued to grow. In fact, between episodes, I started making my own gargoyles out of discarded cardboard.
Some of these home-made gargoyles were modeled after the cartoon’s characters, but I didn’t stop creating them after I replicated Goliath, Hudson, Bronx, Broadway, Lexington and Brooklyn. Oh, no. I created my own gargoyles—over 100 of them. And, for every gargoyle that I made for myself, I’d make an identical one for my brother.
Turning cardboard into gargoyles was so much fun!
It is in this hobby, I think, that my roots as a writer can be found. The creative process went well beyond drawing a gargoyle on cardboard, coloring and cutting it out—it also included naming and developing a unique backstory for every single one of them.
I am sad to say, that as it often goes with the pastimes of childhood, my cardboard gargoyles are no more….
Thanks to Disney+, though, I can re-watch “Gargoyles”!
In viewing these episodes again, I have learned a bit about my memory’s capabilities and its limitations. It surprises me, still, when I can randomly recall the next scene or the entrance of a new character. My opinion of the cartoon has not changed; I find it amusing and even educational. As a child, I was oblivious to these carefully constructed lessons, as an adult viewer, however, I’m in awe of them and how seamlessly they are incorporated.
As the cartoon series begins, the gargoyles decide that NYC is their new home. As such, they must “serve and protect” the city’s residents. It is, after all, the “gargoyle way”. This philosophy conjures visions of hard-working police officers, yet, it’s also something that we each aspire to in our own lives. To help family, friends, and the communities that we live in, isn’t that important?
Now, the gargoyle’s new community—a fictionalized version of the Big Apple—is riddled with violent business take-overs and high-tech weaponry. When not out on patrol, some clan members enjoy watching TV. Unfortunately, the clan soon finds itself in direct combat with the television personalities that they have come to adore.
As spoken by Hudson: “Maybe we shouldn’t believe everything that we see on the TV”.
In the beginning, neither Broadway nor Hudson can read. They don’t think they’re missing out on anything—they do have a television set, after all. After the kerfuffle with their favorite celebrities, and chance encounters with other humans that convey how precious the written word is, both Broadway and Hudson decide to take the plunge and learn how to read.
By the second season, a new theme emerges: cultural preservation. The importance of honoring one’s traditions and culture is highlighted in Goliath’s travels to Japan. There, our hero meets Japanese gargoyles who are trying to preserve their belief system, BUSHIDO, by teaching it to their own young as well as to the humans that they protect. This belief system values honor, fairness, and like Goliath’s clan, incorporates, “to serve and protect”. Not only is it a code for gargoyle warriors, it’s a dictum by which to live.
After writing all of this, and re-watching season one and two (thank goodness there’s a season three!), I would like to tell Little Laura to hang on to those cardboard gargoyles just a bit longer. There was such joy in creating and sharing them! Sure, our culture tells us that as we age, we out-grow our former hobbies and must abandon them.
But, maybe, that’s wrong….
Age shouldn’t stop us from pursuing what brings us joy, what inspires us to share. Although I will not be recycling empty cereal boxes by making another clan of cardboard gargoyles—I do believe that utilizing the same artistic skills that created those gargoyles in the first place, should have a place in my adult life.
If you find joy, try to keep it.
Try to share it.
Let the shape of it evolve as you do.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here. May you find child-like joy in something today!
Well, the first one. Having had cancer twice, albeit biologically the same cancer, this is a two-book project.
For this first book, I am using a journal from 2012. I will need other sources to cover 2010 – 2012. Good news is, younger me liked to journal and older me is a bit of a hoarder.
In 2012, I was in Course V of my treatment: Maintenance. Maintenance was the last and longest course. As I read through this journal, I am astonished by the range of emotions that I experienced. Anger. Depression. Extreme Anxiety. And, then, back again—in no particular order. These entries are not particularly flattering. I question the readability of this tome. It’s serious material, though…and I don’t plan on editing anything other than spelling, grammar and names.
That’s right. Everyone involved in cancer #1—that appears in that journal—is getting a brand-new name (with the exception of my parents and brother).
Why would I want to share the contents of my personal journal?
1 – I feel as though I am being called to do so. I really do think that this is part of God’s plan for me. I mean, I had those awful experiences for a reason, right?
2 – It’s Exposure Therapy. I carry these memories with me every single day and relive them, every night, when Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) comes to call. Exposure Therapy asks the patient to confront the triggering event in hopes of slowly desensitizing him/her to it. Will it work? I guess I’ll find out….
3 – My experience might actually help someone else, someone traveling this same road. The societal norm of “grinning and bearing” it, needs to be debunked. Honesty might help some other young adult survivor to feel more comfortable with their emotions. As a cancer survivor, are you allowed to feel anger, sadness, anxiety? Yes. Absolutely. You do, however, need to dig your way out of those emotions, eventually, for your own well-being.
This attempt to document my own journey through cancer experience #1, has invoked panic. I know it is all in the past. I know it can’t hurt me anymore. Yet, it still feels real,
“fresh”, to some extent.
While working on this project, the need for levity has become apparent to me. As the adage goes, “laughter is the best medicine”.
So where can we find levity? Everywhere!
The easiest place for me to find it is by simply watching the dogs. Luna and Berkley, whenever they are outside, enjoy roughhousing. In this picture, a whispered conference has just concluded and they’re clearly “up to no good”:
Indoors, it’s Luna’s flatulence that evokes laughter. She has no shame. She’s also not one of those dogs that turns around, surprised, that she has farted. She knows what she’s doing.
Farts, in general, are often a source of amusement in our house. Yeah, it’s not exactly polite behavior, but it happens. And, sometimes, the necessary reaction is to let the dogs outside and open a window (talking about you Berkley with your “silent but deadly” farts).
I’ve never caught Alderaan farting, but I have captured some sassy-pants attitude:
Less smelly sources of levity include parody. This “Life is Good” t-shirt always brings a smile to my face:
It’s funny, mostly because it’s true. It is impossible to open a jar of peanut butter in this house without acquiring an audience.
I am finding, too, that gratitude has a positive impact on me while I work on this project. For instance, every morning, as the sun rises, I cannot help but be thankful for another new day.
Sometimes, it’s smaller things, like the daily calendar (featuring dogs and inspirational quotes) that a friend gave to us for Christmas. This quote, in particular, has made me reflect on life and how I live it:
“Mix a little foolishness with your serious plans.
It is lovely to be silly at the right moment.”
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Thank you for the prayers, light and love that you have given me over the years. I hope that each of you finds a reason to smile and laugh today.
All of nature knew that something was coming. The chipmunk—the one which insults the dogs on a daily basis—announced it with a long, shrill rattle. The birds, upon hearing this warning, disappeared into the evergreen depths of the cedar hedge.
When the weather reports confirmed that, yes, inclement weather was on its way, we humans set to work stocking our cupboards with non-perishable food. We bought gallon jugs of spring water. Rock salt was also a sought-after item.
My own journey to find candles (because we don’t have a generator, and if the power goes out, we’re going to need something to see by) led me to a small Christian Supply Store.
The store was bright, welcoming. Praise songs, played through hidden speakers, filled the air with cheerful music. The middle aisle, and three of the shop’s walls, were lined with various versions of the Bible, Daily Devotionals, and Christian Fiction. There was only one register and only one employee—an elderly lady with a lovely smile.
The grapevine had reported that the store sold reasonably-priced candles. There weren’t many candles available, save for some packages of Advent candles. I have always wanted my own Advent wreath! To say that I am enamored by these purple and pink candles is an understatement. They give life to childhood memories of Sunday services devoted to the coming of the Messiah. They fill my ears with Christmas carols. By their light, I am comforted.
I may have originally visited the store for candles, but I spent nearly 45-minutes browsing through the bookshelves. There were so many fascinating titles and beautiful covers. I’m a bookworm—I notice these things! And, really, can anyone expect a bookworm to pass up the opportunity to buy a book for $2? I came home with two books, two packages of Advent candles, and two (very) large white candles that are probably meant for the alter.
The eve of the icing event was spent filling every deep pot and bucket that we own with water.
The natural gas fireplace was turned on. All of the dishes were cleaned and the laundry hamper was emptied. No loose ends. Nothing left to do that required electricity. I went to bed with a flashlight on my bedside table. Berkley and Alderaan kept me warm while Luna, once again, claimed the spare bed as her own.
Fortunately, we made it through the night without losing power. We woke up to a world glistening with ice.
The lead-line of Luna’s puppy-hood was encased with ice, completely unusable.
Our backyard, thankfully, is fenced in so that Luna and Berkley can run free. They didn’t do much running, as the icy lawn crunched, cracked and creaked underneath them.
There is beauty in ice-laden branches—but also great danger. I experienced my first Icestorm when I was in 5th grade. At first, it was magical. School was canceled on my birthday! But, then, the reality of life without electricity settled in. I discovered, rather quickly, that I liked light, daily showers, and toilets that flush. My day-dreams of living during the time of the “Little House on the Prairie” books, were quickly shattered—just like so many of the trees in my parents’ backyard.
As I write this—high noon on Sunday—we still have electricity. Should any additional ice or snow weigh down the power lines, we have water. We have candles. We have food.
We have each other.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Your prayers, light and love mean so much to me. I hope, that those of you experiencing this weather phenomenon, are safe, warm, and well-fed.
I love watching snow fall—it’s magical, making everything new and bright. Autumn’s leaves that you never got around to raking? Can’t see them now! Withered perennials? Taking a much-deserved nap underneath a heavy, white blanket. Summer’s bunnies? Not gone! Easily found by following their tracks into the cedar hedge.
Although falling snow often takes my breath away with its beauty, I had forgotten how wonderful it is to play in! Thanks to Luna and Berkley, though, the exhilaration of snow days (and playing in the snow) has resurfaced.
Berkley, a southern gentleman from Texas, was not impressed with the snow:
In fact, he refused to leave the shelter of the porch. It took Luna several attempts to convince him that the snow is “really great”.
Once on the ground, and with Luna leading the way, Berkley became a snow aficionado. The pair race each other, making snow flurries of their own. They’re swift and undeterred by the cold. Every once in a while, they slow down and regroup—usually in a joint effort to sniff out the resident chipmunk.
All of the excitement that the snowy backyard offers, makes shepherding the pair back indoors difficult. When they do finally come inside, they’re exhausted, and quick to cuddle in whatever patch of sunshine that they can find.
Alderaan may not play in the snow like his canine siblings, but he seemingly enjoys watching it fall from his warm perch beside the office window.
Aldie concentrates on the snow flakes, as if trying to discern where they came from and how long they’ll stay. That is, when he’s not napping in my computer chair:
I was not ready for winter to arrive so soon, Dear Readers, but I will make the best of it.
Christmas music playing? Check.
Lighting our natural gas fireplace? Check.
Snuggling on the couch with my pups while watching a Christmas movie? Yeah, we’ve done that—and we’ll keep doing that, until we run out of movies to watch!
As always, Dear Readers, thank you for your presence here today. Thank you for all of the prayers, love and light that you send my way. I hope you have a Luna, or a Berkley, in your life—to remind you of just how much fun the snow can be.
It’s odd, how sometimes, memories that we haven’t entertained in decades, suddenly flare, with vivacity, in our minds. For instance, this Girl Scout song has been playing (on repeat) in my head:
Make new friends, but keep the old:
One is silver, and the other gold.
A circle is round, it has no end.
That’s how long I want to be your friend.
I was in elementary school when I learned this song! I was a Brownie! Still, many years later, the song rings true.
As an introvert, making new friends is a bit of a challenge. I have found that friendship is not something that can be forced; it’s found. The seeds of friendship are planted in the most unlikely of places. During a college internship in Canada. In a cancer clinic. At a boyfriend’s friend’s wedding. Behind a store counter.
Then, of course, there are the old friends—the ones that have been with you since elementary school. The friendships that were created in the chaos of a Middle/High School cafeteria. And, then, when you felt lost and alone, there was the tribe that adopted you in college.
I am grateful for all of these marvelous, wonderful people. Even if we don’t speak on a regular basis, even if years fly by before we get to see each other again, these are my friends—and they are worth so much more than silver and gold.
Unrelated to the Girl Scouts, is an adage that states, “friends come and go”. This is true as well. We change. We are not stagnant water. Our personalities and preferences evolve. The goals we may have wanted to achieve last year, might not even be on our to-do list today. AND THAT’S OKAY.
Some of our friends will be able to grow with us; others, sadly, won’t. AND THAT’S OKAY, TOO. It hurts, of course, but we will always have the memories, warm in our hearts.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for visiting today. I hope you each have a tribe of your own to turn to for comfort, encouragement, and laughter. We all need light in our lives.
It was exceedingly difficult to settle on just one idea for this blog post. So, I combined all three of them! I will try to make it a smooth read; it may get bumpy, so hang on to your seats! Or, is it ‘hang on to your hats’? Anyways, hang on to something.
My father and my brother made me bookshelves. They installed them in my home office two weekends ago. They also brought my filing cabinets. I’ve spent the last week sorting through boxes of books and old files. The cabinets have proven to be a treasure trove of surprises. I’ve discovered ideas for short stories and novels that I’d completely forgotten about. I’ve also found old diaries. This entry brought me to tears:
In the time that it took me to return home, she has grown deaf. She cannot hear my arrival nor my calls to her. And, still, she is happy. Her tail wags. Her brown eyes glow, meet mine, and flicker back to the path ahead. The wind rustles last autumn’s fallen leaves. The earth is ripe with the scent of spring. At least, in this, I have made an old dog glad.
This passage was about my Nissa:
Even though our puppy, Luna, is nothing like Nissa, I sometimes call her by that name. At first it bothered me that I was mixing up their names. After all, besides being dogs, the only thing that Luna and Nissa have in common is their love and ability to run quite fast. Otherwise, Nissa was generally calm, but wary of men with glasses. She rarely barked (Luna has a whole language of her own). Nissa would put my hand in her mouth and gently lead me to where she wanted me to go. I was a pup to her.
From the moment that she climbed up our deck stairs (with porcupine quills in her jowls), until the day that she died, she was my guardian, my best friend. I will miss her forever.
Even when I’m practicing mindfulness, the present moment always seems to be fleeting. Time passes so quickly.
In this present moment—the moment in which I am writing—Luna and Berkley are sleeping on the couch. I’m sitting a few cushions away from them, watching the cursor on my screen flash.
The air conditioner is on. The dryer is rumbling in the background. Sunlight is streaming through every window that doesn’t have curtains.
There’s dog and cat hair on the coffee table. I’d much rather have a home with animal hair floating around it, than a spotless one. I read, once, that pet hair (at least on your clothes) is a sign that you are loved. If that’s true, this house is full of it.
As a cancer survivor, I have difficulty trusting the word, “future”, or the fact that I’m apparently going to have one. What do you do in the face of distrust?
You believe, in spite of your misgivings.
You believe that the best days are coming.
You believe that happiness and health are right around the corner.
We’re walking in the direction of our dreams—to a “new normal”—that is, of course, influenced by the old one.
Prior to my relapse, Seth had started brewing his own beer. My personal favorite was his pumpkin ale (it was delicious!). That hobby, however, was put on the back burner when life came crashing down around us in 2017. He stopped brewing.
There’s light now, stretching over the horizon, and Seth will be brewing again soon. A return to former interests is certainly a sign that life is moving in a positive direction.
What does my future look like? In October, I will be receiving the last of my pediatric shots. I’ve been querying literary agents for my most recent novel. Hopefully one of these queries will be met with an offer of representation and eventually a book deal. I’ve been learning Norwegian (for free) via Duolingo, mostly for fun—and to keep my brain active.
Finally, I’ve been scrolling through Indeed and Monster in search of the perfect job. I don’t know how many hours a week I’ll be able to work; my stamina is yet to be tested. With that written, Dear-Readers-who-happen-to-be-locals, if you know of any businesses in need of an office assistant or writer (for about 10 hours a week, with the possibility of increasing hours as I grow stronger), feel free to share their information with me!
Thank you, Dear Readers, both near and far, for your presence here. I hope, very much, that you remain a constant in my future.
The neighbors, across the road, are selling their house. I don’t know their names. I’m not sure I could even recognize them if we were in the same grocery store aisle. Regardless, I’m going to miss them.
I’m going to miss the sound of a snow plow being attached to a pick-up truck early in the morning (that was my signal that there was actually snow on the ground!).
They were/are quiet, busy living their own lives. Last summer, they had their roof replaced and the effect was beautiful. Worn, darkened shingles were ripped off, and coffee-colored ones were installed. The change brightened the house’s appearance.
To be honest, I have no idea why I’m writing about this. And, still, I feel as though I must. Could it simply be an unconscious need to express gratitude? Having lived in various apartments, surrounded by loud neighbors, I am truly grateful for these quiet ones.
I wonder, sometimes, what kind of neighbor am I?
I try to be social. If I’m outside, wearing my glasses, and recognize a car going by as belonging to one of our neighbors, I will wave to them. The neighbors to our left have a magnificent outdoor patio (it’s surrounded by lush greenery and colorful flowers). Someday, I’ll drum up the courage to ask them for gardening advice.
I did meet one neighbor, this past winter, when I hand-delivered her mail to her. An envelope, addressed to her, had been erroneously placed in our mailbox. Although it seems like such a small thing, it was terrifying to deliver a piece of mail. My immune system was still infantile! What if the person that opened the door was ill? What if this neighbor wasn’t friendly? I can’t remember her name—but I knew, immediately, that all of my worries had been a waste of precious time and energy. My neighbor was a fellow yogi! Her clothes indicated this. She also had a glow that I associate with serenity.
It’s difficult to make friends as an adult. Not because we don’t want to, but because as we age, we put walls up. We stop taking risks, stop reaching out. It’s a habit that I intend to change.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. You are my “online neighborhood”. You bring me so much joy and courage. Please continue to send prayers, light, and love. There’s a dental appointment this week…and, well, chemotherapy and radiation do horrible things to your teeth. Also, the overhead light tends to trigger my PTSD. The good news in all of this? Once my teeth have been examined, and fixed, I should (knocking on wood rather loudly) be able to maintain a healthy mouth. Our teeth affect our overall health more than we sometimes realize. Ultimately, this appointment is just another small step toward living a healthy life.
My husband and I spent the Fourth of July in the Thousand Islands—which are as beautiful as they are fabled to be. We spent the actual holiday on the St. Lawrence river, on a friend’s boat. We witnessed Boldt Castle’s fireworks from the water.
On July 5th—after having brunch with a beloved friend and his significant other (both of whom I had not seen in ten years!)—my husband I played tourist. We took a one-hour boat tour of the St. Lawrence; our tour guide directing our attention to various multi-million-dollar homes built along the river. Our tour guide, with rather bad jokes, recited historical facts and the names of the present-day property owners. The boat deposited us on Heart Island, where we walked through the stunning Boldt Castle.
Instead of describing our trip in great detail, Dear Readers, I have decided to share some of the lessons that I learned during our adventure:
If you’re not 100% certain of what someone’s name is, combine their name with a similar-sounding one (i.e. Laura-Lauren). As a new friend informed me, “even if I’m wrong, I’m still right”.
When you least expect it, someone who knows your story and has been waiting to talk to you about their own, might appear. Listen to these people. Learn what they’re trying to teach you. Honor their story the best that you can.
I’ve never noticed this before, but after the brilliance of the fireworks dissipate, the sky wears dark smudges. Both the vibrant colors, and the smudges, tell significant stories. It might even be the same story, from different perspectives.
It’s okay to leave the camera and/or cellphone at home. Being in the moment, actually living it, might just be more important than digitally capturing it. And, if it turns out that you need a picture for a blog post, just steal one of your husband’s.
Bad jokes, like our tour guide’s jokes, are often the best jokes.
Enjoy the white lights and birch branches decorating the restaurant you visit for dinner. Appreciate these little, artistic touches.
And, sometimes, when a literary agent gives you a “no” on your latest fiction manuscript, view it as a new traffic pattern—directing you to where you are needed the most—instead of as a defeat.
This coming week, Dear Readers, is a busy one—including a trip to Boston. I am hoping that my transplant doctors will remove more medications from my list. Please continue to send prayers, light, and love. They do have a positive impact.
What can you write about after sharing a moment as joyous and as monumental as your wedding day? I can’t match that. I’m not even going to try. I was, however, recently reminded that the” little things” in life are as significant as the “big things”.
The small things often teach us important lessons.
I heard—or read—at some point in my life, that if you talk to your houseplants, it will help them grow. I’m not good with plants; my thumb is not green. Curious, though, I decided to talk to the potted tomato plant on our porch.
Would it work? Would whispering words of encouragement to my little plant help it grow?
Whenever I water it, I tell my tomato plant that it can grow tall. I tell it that it can sink it’s roots deep.
Thus far, my tomato plant has lived well-beyond the average lifespan of most of the plants that have been left in my care. Not only is it taller, it now sports several yellow flowers!
On a darker note, I don’t like ants.
I squish them, and then flush them down the toilet.
Why do I go to such extremes to get rid of them? Because, like talking to plants, at some point in my life, I heard that ants will come back for their deceased. I had my doubts about this as well, but, then, I observed this:
Yes. This blurry picture is of a rather large, black ant—trying to carry the crumpled body of another ant home. These insects, which I abhor, have a code. A code of honor. They come back for their fallen.
These little things—plants demonstrating the power of words, ants exhibiting determination to care for each other—albeit it for only a second, it takes my breath away.
Caring for each other matters.
We have the power to do such good in this world! And, if we follow Mother Nature’s cues, we might just become better people.
Thank you, Dear Readers, for your presence here today. Please continue to send prayers, love, and light. We’ve only started trying to put Humpty-Dumpty (that’s me) back together again.