i thank You God for most this amazing
day:for the leaping greenly spirits of trees
and a blue true dream of sky; and for everything
which is natural which is infinite which is yes

(e.e.cummings)

i’ve been thinking a lot about gratitude lately.  about how precious every little thing actually is — and by “thing,” i don’t just mean material things, i mean people, too.  of course, people.  nothing warms my heart more than being surrounded by the people i love.  nothing.

life is busy and messy and in the midst of all it’s glorious messiness, it’s easy to forget to be grateful.  it’s easy to be pulled into one ridiculous drama after another only to realize that countless moments have been wasted, consumed by things like fear and anxiety and anger and jealousy.

i’ve been hearing whispers of gratitude for a while now, and here’s what i’m starting to do:  when i feel pulled by something out of my control, i start to think of things i’m thankful for — laughter, the smell after a spring rain, hugs from mom, storytelling sessions, coffee with cream, shared music, the full moon — and pretty soon, everything else quiets and i’m grounded again.  things fall back into perspective and i can carry on with my day, free and unencumbered.  it’s lovely.

i’m quickly realizing that, like grains of sand, there aren’t enough numbers to account for all of my gratitude.

i am a lucky girl, indeed.

i watched the sun set by his side and as the last bits of golden light danced on the water’s surface, he took me inside, into his arms.

with the darkness, the rains came, and we had to leave. thunder and lightning followed as he drove me home that night. he held my hand in his as he drove too fast on the dark, country roads, singing along to the music that pounded through the speakers.

he drove like nothing else mattered, just us.

trying to keep up with the music, the car, the rain, our hearts raced.

and it was then, with him, in the darkness, that i felt truly alive.

it’s three years later, and i still can’t believe how lucky i was to share sixteen years of my life with the siamese cat i called chloe.

one look into her piercing azure eyes that november day in 1993, and i was hooked. she came home with me that evening and never left. i was enchanted by her stubby tail, her deliciously chocolately seal points, and the gaze i came to realize was laden with wisdom and truth and understanding. she was quiet yet fierce, intensely loyal, and always the embodiment of beauty and grace. she was the best of everything good i’ve ever known.

the years treated us well, save for a few mishaps — most notably the window ledge incident and the porch roof escapade — but we survived the adventures, and she was always there to curl up with me at the end of each day and quietly lull me to sleep with her velvety purr.

it was a good life, filled with pillows and smiles and nicknames and sunbeams. and love, so much love.

it was a life well-lived.

the lymphoma and renal failure eventually slowed her step and tired her body, but there was always a twinkle of fire in her eyes, and when she looked at me that saturday morning in may, i knew. it was time. there was only one thing left for me to do.

and so, on that clear, sunny morning, joined by the people who loved her, i said goodbye to my sweet, sweet girl — my chloe.

today, as yesterday, and as tomorrow,
she is missed as she was loved –

g r e a t l y .

humankind has not woven the web of life. we are but one thread within it.

whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves.

all things are bound together.

all things connect.

(chief seattle, 1855)

i think my fascination with the horizon comes from my love affair with the ocean. walking along the sand and looking out at the sea, it’s impossible *not* to see the horizon — where the water and the sky meet seamlessly in a line that seems to go on forever.

it’s where the sun rises each morning and where the sun slips into darkness each evening. it’s the separation of earth and not earth, sky and not sky. it’s something that we all accept as a truth, as a constant, perhaps even as a reminder that we are a part of something much larger than we can understand.

i think we all have a horizon in our lives. something constant and orienting — a compass of sorts, a true north. i’ve come to the realization that too often in my life i have looked outward for my horizon, to someone, and then when that someone leaves, i am left disoriented and struggling to find my own way. perhaps it’s better to find the horizon within myself, and then when someone else joins me, we can travel together — compasses aligned — to where the sky meets the sea and beyond.

i pause today to remember.

we are virginia tech.

the hokie nation embraces our own and reaches out with open hearts and hands to those who offer their hearts and minds. we are strong, and brave, and innocent, and unafraid. we are better than we think and not quite what we want to be. we are alive to the imaginations and the possibilities. we will continue to invent the future through our blood and tears and through all our sadness.

we are the hokies.

we are virginia tech.

(nikki giovanni)

someday, somewhere – anywhere, unfailingly,
you’ll find yourself,
and that, and only that,
can be the happiest or
bitterest hour of your life.

(pablo neruda)

three full moons.

one charlotte martin release.

one long weekend in delaware.

two saintly holidays (valentine & patrick).

sixty-or-so sunrises and sunsets (some brilliant and blazing with colour, others softer, quieter, refined).

all of these are lost between us.

two months will turn into two years.

and then two lifetimes.

(as strangers)

we are almost there.

and i’m ready.

“you do realize that you’re still holding on with both hands, right?,” he said from that overstuffed beige arm chair with dark wooden legs.

puzzled, i let that sink in for a minute before saying, “i do now.”

and it was then, in that moment, i realized that in order to really move on and let go, i have to be still.

yes, still.

so, so still.

i have to stop running — to or from — and just be *here*. and listen.

it’s in the stillness of *here* that i’ve found my answers, my compass, my light — things i’ve been seeking from outside myself, only to realize that they’re already here, inside.  and they’ve been here all along.  they come to me in a hushed whisper, in the breath between words; they come from a place of absolute truth and authenticity carrying with them things like hope and peace and grace.

being still is work in progress, especially for me.  my mind is always going and  it can be difficult to quell the expectations and entitlements and fears to find that quiet space inside.  at best, it’s a struggle, and sometimes i find myself feeling frustrated and defeated and empty.  and that’s precisely when i tell myself to stop, and be still, in this moment.

yes.

i hear you.

i’m ready.

if i had to pick one, “change” would be the word of the hour, the week, and the month — and it’s just beginning.

spring and fall always seem to find me on the cusp, hoovering for just a few moments before closing my eyes and taking the plunge. it’s exhilarating and exhausting all at once, but i wouldn’t want it any other way.

i always say that fall is my favourite season, but spring holds a very special place in my heart. spring makes me laugh — it sneaks up on me with a warm breeze, and suddenly, everything is alive and filled with colour! it’s an awakening, a rebirth, a beginning, and that fills me with hope. hope and peace and grace — the loveliest of things.

there are moments, like today, when i feel at the top of the pendulum’s swing, exhilarated by the view, all the while knowing that it’s just a momentary pause of clarity followed by a rush of change.

but, as they say, change is good.

spring is my perennial reminder.