Go With the Flow

When it snows on your expectations

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Without further ado, today’s pocket.

This picture is from a delightful Kevin Henkes book called Wemberly Worried

I am itching for spring. Last Saturday, it was a balmy beautiful afternoon here in Spokane, and I walked around my garden to see what was hiding beneath the mounds of wet leaves. When I visit my garden in late winter/early Spring, I feel like a child hunting for Easter eggs. Each visit offers new delight. There are buds on the Lenten roses. The tulips, poppies and daffodils are peeking out from brown detritus, and the deep red heart of the rhubarb shows herself again. The spinach seeds that I started after last fall’s frost are starting to sprout.

Yesterday, on a walk with my friend Jamie, we talked about starting seeds and shared our anticipation to get our hands in the dirt. “I think I’m going to put out my garden bench,” I told her. I closed my eyes and imagined myself in my sacred spot with a blanket and a cup of tea. “I don’t think we are getting any more snow, right?” I asked Jamie. Jamie, like the good friend that she is, nodded, in full support of my delusions, and I did the same when she talked about changing out her snow tires.

If you also live in Spokane or in any type of climate where winter is sometimes a house guest that stays longer than planned, you are probably familiar with this kind of seasonal amnesia, and you know how this story ends. This morning, I awoke to a world blanketed in snow, a soft quiet reminder that Spring is a gift we get to experience, it is not something we can control. Nature reminds us better than anyone that we must be flexible with our timelines and expectations.

In Liz Gilbert’s Letters from Love last week, she wrote a poem called “Simple” where she asked the question, “why would you rather hustle than flow?” Those words have been sticking to me this week like the freshly fallen snow. I wonder what it would be like if I stopped trying to hustle and instead embraced the way things are rather than the way I want them to be. I’m not talking about an unwillingness to change and grow, I’m talking about acceptance of circumstances that are beyond my control. No matter how much my heart wants to sit on my garden bench this weekend, that is not in the cards. The question then becomes what will I do instead?

Will I hustle or will I flow?

This morning, I chose to flow. I took a long, slow meandering walk with Cato by the river, and I gazed at the flowing water with new eyes. I watched the duck float downstream on the swift current showing not even the slightest hint of resistance. I stopped to notice the great blue heron slowly walking through the water, and I felt my heart soar when I was there to witness his flight.

It was the loveliest and softest of mornings as I let my expectations sail down the river and I noticed the beauty before me.

I can’t always walk along the river, but I wonder if I can try to carry the river inside me… I wonder if I can internalize her rhythm when I am desperate to fight the current, when I worry about not having the time to accomplish my goals, when I find myself thinking I can control the many things that are not mine to control.

I’m going to close out with two poems. The first is one of my favorite Mary Oliver poems that speaks to the kind of morning I had and the reminder not to hustle, the second is one that I wrote in response to a gorgeous prompt posed by The Isolation Journals. The prompt was “What is the pain you’ve had trouble getting rid of? What offering would you like to make?”

I would love to continue this conversation in the comments. What resonates with you today? What are your thoughts on the topic? What poem is on your heart?

Softest of Mornings

by Mary Oliver

Softest of mornings, hello.
And what will you do today, I wonder,
to my heart?
And how much honey can the heart stand, I wonder,
before it must break?  

This is trivial, or nothing: a snail
climbing a trellis of leaves
and the blue trumpets of its flowers.  

No doubt clocks are ticking loudly
all over the world.
I don’t hear them. The snail’s pale horns
extend and wave this way and that
as her finger-body shuffles forward, leaving behind
the silvery path of her slime.  

Oh, softest of mornings, how shall I break this?
How shall I move away from the snail, and the flowers?
How shall I go on, with my introspective and ambitious life?

The Alchemy of Ache

by Mary Hutto Fruchter

I know this is not what you wanted

I know that all these years later you would change the outcome if you could

They say time heals all wounds

I know you know this is not true

I’m sorry I never let you sit with your pain

I’m sorry for putting expectations on grief

I can’t resurrect a dead dream

I can’t make sense of loss

But I can run the bath with lavender salts and love

and wait while the water does its work

When you are ready, I will offer you a robe of the finest purple velvet

to wrap around every inch of your sorrow

I know this is not what you wanted

I know that all these years later you would change the outcome if you could

They say time heals all wounds

I know you know this is not true

The ancient philosophers believed in impossible things

They imagined they could turn stone into gold

Foolishness

And yet, here you are

salt, breath and bone

forever forged

by the alchemy of ache

Here’s the heart to click if any of these words landed in your heart today. Have a beautiful Sunday!