How Does Your Garden Grow?

Words still glomm together in my mouth
like lumps of peanut butter.
I speak to people and wonder if they notice, too.
Can one be socially stuttered, but robustly well?
Because I am so alive, so well 
since the surgery.

Maybe these word troubles are writer's block,
part of my recovery from troubles;
an awakening to the idea that life is short.
that more than publishing stories,
I want to love.
to make it count wherever I am.

I still want to write, but my words are hiding.
So...
I'm taking an art class.
 
And oh, what a class!
It's UCSD extension course llustrating Books For Children
with renowned book designer Joy Chu.
And it's amazing.

Maybe I'll find a back door to writing this way,
through visual storytelling.
Or not.

Maybe I'll just enjoy it -
watering a different part of my brain.
creating art.
(happy sigh)


And how does the rest of this garden grow?
How is that sacred dirt of every day?
 
We have a lot of dirt lately.
Lots of squiggly worms that I don't take pictures of -
like scowly faces, and kids throwing fits,
messy hair,


















piled-up laundry,
crumbs under the table.

But how can I not be thankful?
Even for the wormy parts.
There is less to show from this garden now.
but more to feel.
more to soak in and wiggle around.

more family days.
paint and shaving cream.

 a new outlook for Pip!

Sugar Snack turning five!

Not much of a gardener in reality,
still I will tend this sacred dirt,
I will water my back doors to writing, 
and see what wriggles.
what grows.

What are the back doors in your creative life?

What are your cover crops?

When you get stuck, discouraged or allover uninspired,
what do you plant?

How do you water your creative self?

Cooking class? Archery lessons? Trapeze?
Balloon animals? Book club?

My friends,
I thank you for your friendship and patience. 
for the many ways you make this world beautiful.
through your actions and special talents.
for your unique words and work.
for the nurture of your families and friends.
for the many creative ways you give of yourself to the world.

May your garden grow and grow
and grow,
with lots of good dirt
and wiggles. 

Another bonus from my new class? Library finds!

Here are some of my latest faves:

Journey, by Aaron Becker (Won a well-deserved Caldecott Honor this year!)
Mr. Wuffles, by David Weisner (Another Caldecott Honor winner)
Sea of Dreams, by Dennis Nolan

Flora's Very Windy Day, by Jeanne Birdsall, illustrated by Matt Phelan

Harry & Hopper, by Margaret Wild, illustrated by Freya Blackwood
Missing Mommy, by Rebecca Cobb 

On a Beam of Light, A Story of Albert Einstein by Jennifer Berne, illustrated by Vladimir Radunsky
Nelson Mandela, by Kadir Nelson
Bon Appetit!, the delicious life of Julia Child, by Jessie Hartland
Martin de Porres, the Rose in the Desert, by Gary Schmidt, illustrated by David Diaz

Light and Wishes

 

This year, this crazy Everest of a year!

Out of all of it - 

the stroke, 

the sickness,

the faintings,

the heart surgery -

out of all this year, 

I have packed this jewel into my life suitcase:

Even in dark times, there is light.

    Maybe not a beacon, blazing with answers.

    Maybe not something you can grab onto or tangibly feel.

    Maybe not a voice that speaks that everything will be alright

      - because sometimes, it's not alright.

    Sometimes the rotten stuff still happens - 

      like war, and poverty, and cancer, and loss.   

But I have this for you, my friends...

Even in the dark times, there is light.

    Light of hope in something better. 

    Light of remembering shining moments already lived.

    Light of kindness and compassion in friends and strangers. 

    Light of faith.

For me, it is faith in Divine Arms 

that stooped down to walk in human skin

and faced trouble with love. 

in Divine Arms that are just there, like in these old words - 

 

                      "the eternal One is your hiding place, 

                       and underneath are the everlasting arms."

Even my darkest times this year, 

there was light.

Not blazing. But enough.

Even in my most scared, most vulnerable times,  

there was this awareness of not being alone.

Not anything tangible. But enough.

Everlasting Arms.

Here is my wish for you, friends.

I wish for you 

Thankfulness

in each of the sacred rites of the day - 

dishes, drop-offs,
broken pencils,
squabbles and stomps,

"stop wiping your face with pancake!" 

"don't squirt tomatoes on the ceiling!"
and writer's block,

and in all the great gulps,  too -

a happy home,

a healthy heart, 

life.

Love

like everlasting arms, 

Love that surrounds and lifts 

when you can't lift yourself.

 

Joy 

that goes down to your very roots and comes up laughing.

and Light. 

I wish you the deeps, my friends. 

Blissful Christmas!

Bright New Year!

Beautiful Life!

 

Roots

In true page-turner style, the night before heart surgery,
I was rain-checked.

For a good month, I gnawed at this news like an old bone,
waited to hear if the docs would favor heart surgery after all,
or have me remain in this temporary place of not-quite-well.

 
What can we do when things aren't all better?
How can we meet the sacred in illness,
in poverty, in sadness,
in our imperfect selves?
 
Drink tea. Read good fiction. Take bubble baths.
Go outside and watch clouds.
And then, take a serious look around. 

Ill or not,  I am rich!

clean water. warm home. books.
food. literacy. art.
paint.

waves on the beach. limitless sky. stars. 

music. beauty. family.

love.
I could recount these riches all day.

Even ill, I am abundantly well.
 
I haven't been able to write.
That's the outlet that's suffered most since the stroke.
I'm tired, dizzy, and struggle with an aching head.
My dear friend Margaret Bloom of We Bloom Here
sent a breeze of wisdom my way,
likening this time to winter.
Sometimes leaves dry up and branches are stark,
but roots still go deep. 
 
Every time we struggle, may the roots go deep.
to grow us in compassion.
to grow us in perspective.
to grow us in steadiness,
and light.

What do we do with our troubles?
Find the gifts in front of us.

Even in our troubles,
there is sacred to be found:
laughter, forgiveness, grace, love.

Here's to deep roots and good dirt, my friends.

Epilogue:
I finally made peace with this middle ground,
and the next day: news!
Heart surgery is back on.

Friday, November 8, here we come!

Feel-good books:

Violet Mackerel's Remarkable Recovery,
by Anna Branford, ill. by Elanna Allen

(Thank you for the get-well-read, Margaret Bloom !)

The Mighty Lalouche, by Matthew Olshan and Sophie Blackall

Tea Rex, by Molly Idle

!, by Amy Krouse Rosenthal and Tom Lichtenheld

A Sick Day for Amos McGee,
by Philip C. Stead, ill. by Erin E. Stead

The Big Week

Words are few.
Heart surgery on Friday.
Summer is fleeting
and I survey my world,

reaching out to touch,
to linger,
to bless
like worn prayer beads,
all these things for which I am thankful.

I find myself brushing fingertips along our bumpy, imperfect walls,
savoring the unfinished-ness of them,

remembering that we are all unfinished stories,
sacred in our imperfections.


To feel the stained rim of a teacup,
a grooved picnic bench,
lichen on a tree

To soak up with my eyes
tissue-thin curlings of bark,

windowsill traffic,

popsicle drips,

  

chalk.
It's a liturgy of thankfulness
in today.
in the dirt.
in the dark. 


Last week, we stayed up late in a lightning storm.


Such power! Such beauty! 
And yet they shivered under quilts.

It's hard to be small in the dark
while thunder shakes the house with monster growls.

Being brave is having faith, isn't it?
Faith that tomorrow will dawn
calm and bright.
Faith that Light will come out of the dark.


As it turns out, some hearts
have holes that need patching.
Some hole-y hearts cause strokes.
The patch surgery may help.
We can hope!

Friday morning is my thunderstorm.
Be brave. Be brave. Be brave. Be brave.

Thankful for heart patches.

for imperfections. for thunderstorms. for light. and hope.

A brave book I hope you love as much as I do:

 
"The Girl With A Brave Heart" by Rita Jahanforuz, illustrated by Vali Mintzi.