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Some are tentative in the morning. Preferring the softer glow of afternoon. Others are up early, ready for dawn's invitation. 

Many start out with great promise, but wither quickly without roots. Or are scorched by too much light. Or the downpours that come all at once or not at all but rarely in moderation. 

Others are predestined. Made mighty through careful engineering. Sturdy as they join their counterparts.  

Some are scrappy, emerging from a tangle of vegetation. Bending and swaying, eager for their time with the sun. 

Whatever the journey, they—like us—arrive. Ready to be tested. Analyzed for productivity. Admired for their beauty and grit. 

It's the growing season—summer in the garden.

Last Saturday

It was a beautiful spring morning. Birds chirping, buds bursting, the sun finally showing up to make us all proud. The day was embarrassing in its perfection. 

I however felt dusty and dazed, perplexed on how to handle the situation. The situation being spring.

There was of course a long list of to-dos. The usual rights of spring passage.

Leftover leaves in the beds. Edging and mulching before the weeds arrived. The bushes needed a good trim. 

Then there was the garage. It was like cold weather gremlins had roamed the shelves moving hammers and extension cords. Tucking the most used items in the least likely places. 

I normally love a good clean. Organizational feats are a go-to activity for me. What’s better than tangible momentum? But five minutes into a routine examination, I had nothing. The usual surge of excitement was nowhere to be found. Just like the garden hose.

I retrieved a seat cushion from the tippy top shelf and made my way to the back deck where we’d left the furniture frames out. Not our normal routine. 

I’m pretty sure my husband and I were both hoping that winter would take the tired set-up out of commission. But there it was, not much worse for the winter wear. Looking all useful and ready. 

I sat down, squinted into the sun. 

“Now what?” I asked my faithful companion. 

Daisy yawned before circling in place and plopping down for a nap. She wasn’t changing her routine for this gorgeous day. Canine wisdom being what it was, I decided to follow her lead and went inside to retrieve my current read. A dark thriller set in the Scottish countryside. 

Only this time when I returned, I found the shade. Not a speck of sun was going to ruin the mood. 

Spring in New England was notoriously flaky. Well, two could play at that game.

This year instead of throwing open the windows and welcoming the season with the vigor of a Disney princess, I would let spring get its act together, be more consistent, before I decided when to commit. 

Reclining on the weary outdoor furniture with green grass glowing in the distance, I opened my book preparing to return to the mist on the Isle of Amberley. 

And that’s when I saw it—still attached to the side of the house. The garden hose. Apparently, we’d left that out too. 

What the actual heck. 

We’d thrown literal caution to the winter winds. Four long months of it. 

And here spring was with or without my willful participation. Mother Nature doing her thing while I did mine. The weeds were already growing but so were the flowers.

I would join in the springtime parade...eventually. And on that yet-to-be-determined day, the garden hose was ready. Without me having to do a gosh darned thing. 

 

The audacity of 

sipping scalding coffee

On a frigid morning.

Unsettled, anxious, craving

Common sense?

Inspiration.

Nowhere 

while staring 

At the computer. The paper. The tv.

 

<< silence >>

 

Selfish 

(or courageous?)

To try

and fail

Many states of rage

Removed.

 

<< silence >>

 

Nowhere near enough.

Also, too much. 

SHOWING UP to

Create. 

With the audacity of

an artist’s heart.

Sigh

It’s the launching season. Time to grab a pumpkin latte and check the school supply lists.

Or if you’re in the roomier nest stage like us, it’s time to clutch the ache in your chest and drop your youngest at the airport for his semester abroad. To trust that he has what he needs, literally and figuratively, to explore the big, beautiful world and return home safely.

Then it’s time to rent a U-Haul to help move the newly graduated son into his first NYC apartment. It’s a big deal. I’ve been saving for this day. My basement is full of ‘first apartment’ offerings. Couches, a recliner, small appliances that work—just not as well as the upgrades that replaced them.

Yep, the kids are out in the world doing their thing. Starting new adventures. All good here, I texted my sister yesterday. Because it is. All good here. 

Sigh.

It’s a new season. One where my husband and I—who’d become more like relay runners—now get to return to the goofier selves to which we were first attracted. 

It’s also a season where routines no longer reign. Tasks that once felt mandatory have been rendered optional. Grocery shopping? No thanks. Dinner? Maybe. Laundry is now a competitive procrastination sport. We get around to it eventually. But we’re both waiting for the other to run out of underwear.

The number of souls that might fall apart if I drop one of the balls that were once soaring through the air, registers squarely at zero. Well, that’s not totally true. Daisy needs me. Rob forgets to put ice cubes in her water, and she doesn’t always drink without them. So, there is one very special canine that might experience dehydration if not for my diligence. But you get the picture—exceedingly low stakes.

Which is mostly liberating. Cause during all the chauffeur/calendar management/kitchen duty years there was a feeling of losing myself, a lot of the time. Now I have meaningful work, amazing friends—heck, I’ve got trips to plan!

Sigh.

I miss the old days. The clarity found in the predictable rhythm of family routine. Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited for what comes next. For the boys and me. 

But there’s a tickle in my gut knowing that Staples is chock full of sharpened pencils, three ring binders, and those ridiculously expensive calculators that they had to have, and I knew they’d lose. 

I’m in good company. There are loads of poignant momancholy articles flooding my social feeds. I know that I’m not alone but it’s a lonely feeling, nonetheless. 

There is no fix for this condition. No going back. This was the goal all along. And someday not too far from now, I’ll likely look back on this chapter with a similar deluge of nostalgic emotion. 

Time to appreciate this day. Get cracking. No way around, only through. 

Sigh.

You know what might help? 

New pencils. Oh, and notebooks! Can always use those. We’re also running low on envelopes and my favorite black cartridge pens. Guess I’ll make a list. Right after I get my pumpkin latte.

That Was A Lot of Work, Also Fun and Quick...

When You Say Nothing at All

Ours was a whirlwind romance. Timing in the form of meant-to-be.

I opened the big wooden front door in my apartment building and there he was, my husband of now twenty-five years. He was there because a co-worker (now my sister-in-law) was gracious enough to show up to a Christmas party thrown by an eager twenty-something. Our first date was two days later, and we’ve been together ever since. 

It’s hard to remember most of the formative moments of those years. But there are some that are etched deep. Like the first time we heard Alison Krauss’s When You Say Nothing at All on the radio while driving. We both knew the words, sang loudly, and from then on it was our song.

We danced to the song at our wedding. It’s probably my most played selection on Spotify. When it’s featured in a movie, I rewind. The song is about what the title implies. Not needing words to communicate. 

You say it best when you say nothing at all.

Which is kind of funny because Rob and I rarely are at a loss for words. We’re analytical to a fault. Rob’s family calls the unique form of perseveration, Howleyizing. The practice is alive and well in our branch of the Howley clan. No subject is too small or too big for a good old-fashioned breakdown. It’s one of things I love most about us. It can also be quite exhausting when life, as it often does, requires a decision to be made. 

Which is also why it was a small miracle that after finding each other, we just decided. We were a we from the very beginning. We worked, what-ifs be damned.  

The totality of our two plus decades has not been a seamless fairytale dance. Marriage is a push-pull endeavor. But it’s humbling and extraordinary to live alongside your best friend who puts you on a just-high-enough pedestal so that tumbles aren’t catastrophic—and you’re equally excited when the other walks through the door. Also, our sons are fantastic. Better versions of us in every way and so on days and years when we’re hot messes, we have proof of our best selves.

I’m incredibly thankful for all of it—but especially for you, Robbie.

Try as I may I can never explain

What I hear when you don’t say a thing.

Happy anniversary to us.

Courage Reborn

I love things that hold things. Bags of all shapes and varieties. Boxes with top that have compartments on the inside. Ceramic anything, the brighter, the better. Glass bottles. Baskets. Tiny trays. Wooden trays. Vases. Pitchers. Clay pots. 

 

Of all the vessels I’ve amassed over these many years, my collection of notebooks is the most impressive. Some are colorful, purposefully adorned, other more muted; it hardly matters. Their value is in their readiness.  

 

In my early adulting years, I collected notebooks in preparation for the days when my thoughts would crystallize into profound formations. They sat unopened for a long time. Hopeful beacons on a wooden pedestal shelf. 

 

As time wore the path of perfectionism away, the notebooks were eventually opened. More were acquired—filled—with coffee-stained notions, lists (so many lists), and thoughts that later become sentences. 

 

I used to worry that when I was long gone, someone would open these containers of truth and see me. How embarrassing to be fully exposed. Like being naked in a picture window. Took quite a while to understand. That was the whole point. To see and be seen. Also, how grandiose and silly of me. 

 

Read away, I say now to the soul(s) who will someday sort my left behind treasures. Good luck making sense of the disconnected musings. I spent a lifetime happily trying. 

 

A recent article in The Athletic section of the NYT describes Michael Phelps’s ritual of journaling. His practice has two guiding principles. 

 

1) No limits. No prompts, no planning, just riffing.

2) Document everything.

 

According to the article, Phelps uses this practice to put the puzzle pieces of his life together. He sees trends and picks up on threads by re-reading entries, noticing patterns. It’s clear in the piece by Elise Devlin that Phelps’s Olympian commitment extends to all areas of his life, including journaling. The only similarities between my practice and his are the paper and pen. But the outcomes are much the same. 

 

The gratitude found when recording life’s details. The growth that materializes when you value thoughts enough to write them down. The power in releasing fears, hopes, and dreams onto the page. Allowing the notebook to help carry the weight along with the wonder.

 

There’s a quote by Anne Frank. “I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.” 

 

Courage reborn resonates with me. The world feels increasingly unrecognizable and it’s going to take courage not to sink into a deep hole of despair or look the other way. To figure out what to do. How to help. How not to stand by, but in the way. 

 

Thankfully, the world is chockfull of notebooks. It's time to fill them up. To see what courage can be found.

Happy Birthday to Us

Mom and Me, 1970s
The Holly Hobbie Years

It’s our birthday month—Mom and me. Two weeks apart to the day. 

 

October is a grand month for a birthday. Falling leaves. Sweater weather. Apple pie. Sunflowers. A return to inside by the fire. Holiday glow on the horizon (before the to-do lists). 

 

This year, lots will happen in October. A weekend in NYC to watch our oldest perform. Our youngest coming home from college in Texas for a jolt of fall. Wordsmithing with cups of tea nearby. Cozy dinners with friends. Presents! A trip to see my mom. 

 

She—the other October birthday gal—would like my assistance picking out carpet. I’m looking forward to the visit but not so much the carpet part.

 

Me helping her to decide on a soft landing that is a) practical and b) pleasing to her, will go quite predictably, and only so well. Our brains work differently, maybe because while we share a birthday month, we are different zodiac signs.  

 

She’ll start by giving me all the criteria in her head for what carpet won’t work and why. I will then become confused because what she describes will strike me as contradictory. 

 

Then I’ll say something very Libra-like: which one speaks to you? And she’ll say something very Scorpio-like: the Berber because it’s easy to clean, but then again, the medium pile is so soft. You think I should get the Berber, don’t you?

 

My mother assumes that I have the correct answer always—a trait that she assigned to me at birth. “Convenient,” I used to think. Now I mostly marvel at the unconventional way she instilled confidence in me.

 

I will not, however, think she should get the Berber, because Berber is boring. I’ll suggest the one with the warm mixed hues that remind me of sand because I am craving a beach house and never paid attention to which one was the medium pile in the first place.

 

This process will go on and on, and likely end in explosions of laughter or possibly tears followed by a meal where my mother will ultimately choose which carpet she will buy. I will nod with confident approval even though in truth, by then I will have absolutely no opinion. 

 

We’ll feel self-satisfied and generally warm about each other and the chosen carpet. Then over apple pie we’ll retell our favorite stories. These stories will remind us of songs that kept us warm when the Volkswagen van had no heat and how snowy the world used to be. 

 

Then, the next day on my six-hour drive home, I’ll get a call where she’ll tell me she’s changed her mind about which carpet she’s buying. I’ll listen and think about reminding her how she arrived at the first decision, then decide better of it. It’s only carpet after all.

 

Two months later, almost to the day, I’ll traipse back to her house with my family for the holidays and see the carpet now installed and think how nice it—whichever carpet she goes with—looks. 

 

Mom will remind everyone to take their shoes off many, many times. And I’ll do as I’m told, until I catch my sister’s conspiratorial eye, then I’ll stomp on the new carpet with my shoes on (don’t worry, they’ll be clean) just to make a point. 

 

And what will that point be?

 

Happy birthday—to us. Love you, Mom.

Us, 2020s
Still Adventuring