The Kindness of Daily Rhythms

Our yellow house sits nestled in a cocoon of pine trees that drop their seeds daily, small prickly bombs falling all around. I pick up the pine cones one by one and drop them in my pail. The repetitive nature of gathering and removing feels oddly like confession and repentance. The yard seems to thank me for my small, quiet work; for when I am done, the grass seems calmer, and the atmosphere serene. My soul feels the same.

I slip on my daughter's Birkenstocks, and fill the green watering can in my garage's utility sink. I gently offer moisture to buried seeds, tubers, and newly planted annual flowers. The elephant ears seem particularly thirsty. I have to refill it three or four times. The herbs seems so happy and content, almost beckoning me to be snipped and added to the evening meal. The begonias are strong. A bit of drought doesn't seem to affect them. The eucalyptus waves in the breeze, and I wonder if I need to add a sprig to some tabletop flowers. I examine, tend, nurture. The garden and the soul require daily vigilant care.

I gently tug the happy Springtime quilt to the top of the bed, freshly laundered and attractively rumpled. A vintage pillowcase makes me smile and wonder at the beauty of the mustards, greens, and blush all coming together in a loose bouquet. Making my bed causes me to feel open to the day, ordered, ready to move from the coziness of bed and daydreams to the larger array of needs in my home. The made bed is a nudge to move forward, willing myself to face the day, the opportunities, the service.

Watering, making, tending, creating, ordering. These are the daily rhythms of late May for me. The school year has been laid to rest. The days are beginning to feel expansive, offering me the chance to breathe. The schedule loosens its tight grip and allows for everything to take longer, allowing me to linger, to lay rush aside. I make lists, but not ones that demand and push, but ideas that invite me to a different rhythm, a different way of being for a while. I don't fight against the current issues we are facing as a country; that's not my style. I choose to invite them in as teachers to show me how can I live well, simply, authentically. I receive this season as a gift to be unwrapped. I pray for those who truly suffer in myriads of ways. I listen to their stories. I take it all slow, feeling no need to rush, to figure it all out. I lean into the small things, the humble conversations that nourish, the optimism rooted in equanimity. I water the plants, pick up the pine cones, make the bed. I pray. And I'll be blessed if I get to start it all again tomorrow.