Water

Water in all its forms is so captivating. Even though I grew up an ocean girl, I love the endless variations of streams.

 

Grateful Epiphany

Four days ago, I was wondering how long I could keep on going through chemo. I told myself to be patient, that better days would come soon, that there is something beautiful in everyday. All my mantras that get me through the hard time.

And then I am blessed with a day like today. I could get out and run an easy dawn workout with my friends, the moon setting over the Flatirons, and the grownup calves bleating in the fields. I could hang laundry outside at least once more before it gets too cold. I could spend a few hours watercolor painting and get lost in the colors. I could visit my mom and sit outside in the courtyard, plucking some bright leaves from the changing tree for her. I could stop by Whole Foods and delight in the sights and smells and choices. Crusty bread in abundance, creamy blocks of cheese, bright fall veggies, conjuring a memory of taste in the back of my mind.

The fatigue and queasiness of the last five days slip away as if it never happened, and the wonder rebounds.

 

Indian summer

We finally got back to the high country this weekend, the first time since the epic floods. The road up Boulder Canyon has been repaired allowing one gateway to Peak to Peak highway. The aspens were long past their prime except in a few tiny pockets, like this one near Ouzel Falls. What micro climate protected them for an extra week or two of glory?

Although there have been frosts, the grass in the meadows has greened up after all the rain, not the flat brown of a typical October. Signs of rockslides and high water can be seen when you look closely, but most views are unchanged. I wonder if we will have incredible wildflowers next year with all the moisture trapped in the ground and awaiting the seeds in the spring.

Morning Glory

Morning Glories were considered a pest where I grew up. They would tangle around every plant in sight and take over the hillside behind our house. I don't see them often in Colorado, but one magical garden a mile from my house is a paradise of vines and whimsy right now. Zinnias of every color leap out of the center of the garden, threatening to jump the boundaries. But the fences belong to the morning glories, winding up to the sky, towering above the riot of color, imposing their regal purple majesty on the mayhem below.

August and everything after

Late August. Parking spots at the trailhead. Sunrise a little later and unaccompanied by birds. Sunset a little earlier, and bringing the constant background rhythm of the crickets. Still green in the high country, but the profusion of subalpine flowers has dwindled. Here and there the gentian pokes up its head, having saved the deepest hue for last.

And, yes, that Counting Crows album is the best album ever.

Unexpected

Sometimes life surprises you in very unexpected ways.

Catch the beauty

There are always moments to savor, even when life gets a little crazy. This week I start on my third round of chemo. Trying to get everything organized was a little stressful, but now that I'm started, there is a little calm. Time to squash those pesky cells again after having had a wonderful summer hiking.

I was out on a neighborhood walk this morning, and got to see the teasel in bloom. I have always enjoyed their seed head in the winter when covered with a dusting of snow, but had never noticed the tiny purple blossoms. It appears they bloom from the center out. First a ring of purple, then two rings on either side of the first. Subtle, not showy. How many times have I run by these plants and never noticed?

Evening

The perfect summer evening. Warm, windless. The river still strong enough to force its way downstream. The sulphur flower blooming amidst the grass that is holding onto green. Hummingbirds fighting over the feeders one minute and silently slurping on each perch the next. As twilight deepens, the hummingbirds get frantic, and just as quickly, they have slipped away for the night.

Moisture

Moisture comes in many forms. Drizzle, mist, thunderstorm, hail, sleet, snow. Although today is the first of May, the clumps of wet snow fall down my neck as I examine my tulips bending under the weight of today's chosen form of moisture. Perhaps gratitude comes in many forms as well. The heart swelling, bursting with joy kind that you can't escape. The everyday kind that is so easy to take for granted. And the secret, unlooked for kind that can so easily go unnoticed.

Everyday

Everyday is life, and everyday has its wonder and its challenges. My tulips are unfolding before my eyes, having been delayed by a foot of snow each of the last four Tuesdays. The challenge for my tulips this week will be six more inches forecast to fall tonight. April's last hurrah.
While the world around me is seesawing between winter and summer, I feel the same. Beautiful morning runs in cool, clear weather, bring out the best in me. There is a joy in being out that makes the effort feel effortless. At the same time, I'm thinking of my mom, and her challenges with dementia. It's part of her arc of life, after avoiding all the other diseases that have lain in wait, and now reaching her late nineties. She awaits the antics of the squirrels outside her window, or a phone call from one of the family, or a bite of bitter, dark chocolate, or a swirl around the dance floor as she leads my husband. I've spent the last twenty five years helping my daughters become more independent everyday, and now, everyday, I try to soften the blow to my mother of losing that treasured independence.

Adapting

We have an amazing capacity for adapting to what life throws at us. The water used the fence as a new support for the icicle, caught in the spring freeze and thaw cycle. We move on after senseless tragedies like Boston. Fear for my daughter's safety on that afternoon has moved to a commitment that we can't let "them" win. Whether the "them" is a deranged individual or an illness, it does not define us, and it does not hold us hostage. We can adapt, and find a new joy in the everyday that we may have been overlooking.

Persist

Even though we are alternating between snowstorms and sunshine this April, it's time for the pasqueflower to bloom. One of the first blooms of the season, it appears to ignore the weather and 60 degree swing of temperature within days.

Change is constant

Last Sunday we had brunch at this table. Eight days later it is still spring, but a different side is showing. If you can't deal with change, life can be uncomfortable. Embrace the unexpected as I start on another dance with my body and its roque cells.

Spring comes in many forms

While my daffodils have just opened to the sunshine, and the grass gains color by the day, the other spring is happening in the mountains. If you didn't have a thermometer handy, it might still appear that winter is firmly in charge. But the air is warmer, smells of pine needles float by on softer currents, the sun climbs higher in the sky to shine even on the north facing slopes, and the snow begins the slow transformation from a solid to a liquid.

Emerging

 

I returned from the beginning of fall in one hemisphere to the beginning of spring in the other. While the days were milder in the early fall, there is a sense that the long nights are approaching. Dark in the morning, but not yet cool. Plants past their prime needing to be cut back. Nature's bounty available at the farm stands.

Here a snowstorm had just piled a fresh 10 inches, but it was a memory within two days. Underneath last year's dead heads are new green shoots trying to climb out. While the temperature may be ten degrees cooler than what I left, the cyclists and runners and hikers cruise around as if it were midsummer. A brisk breeze arrives from the north. Maybe it will bring rain this time.

 

Colors

The winter is a perfect time to contemplate color. Perhaps its general absence makes it is easier to see what is there. The clumps of pine needles stand out against a white background. There is a yellow haze haloing the cottonwoods, so subtle I wonder if my anticipation of spring is playing a trick on me. The red in the tail of the hawk can clearly be seen against the grey sky as he scopes out a new perch.

Maybe it is also my new love of watercolors that is changing my view. I've looked at some of my photos and zoomed in so far that all I can see are the individual pixels of color. I know the impressionists discovered this long before I did, but my eyes are finally seeing it on their own. And they are seeing it in everything.

Community

You can find community anywhere. Sometimes it is with your neighbors. Sometimes in your church. But often with a group that shares some sort of interest. Our running group is that way; we love to be outside, no matter what the weather. For me, the worse the day, the more I feel like I've had a secret, special experience. The new snow feels soft underfoot. It clings to my eyelashes and the world becomes full of prisms, forcing me to rely on my other senses. We murmur to each other to watch for hidden spots of ice. We each do our own pace for repeats, but collect together for the next effort. Someone spots the hawk, hunkered down in the bare tree. Another wonders how the new calves are faring. And we all feel a joy that we didn't crawl back under the covers or we would have missed all this.

For Jean

She was too young. So much energy, so many things to do, daughters to finish raising. I only met her a few times. The first time was in the infusion room. Despite receiving poisons intravenously, if you are not medicated into sleep, it's a rather nice place. The best view in Boulder, looking straight up past the Foothills to the snow covered continental divide. Yet we all have cancer and live with a strange blend of fear and acceptance. We talk about life, not about our illness. We make plans; we celebrate the day to day; we take care of our families even while they are taking care of us.

She was planning a trip to California with her girls. She was also planning the local Relay for Life. We soon realized we both had ovarian cancer, the "other" women's cancer, the one that's not pink, the one that most people respond with a look that says "oh, shit". But we had learned to dance with it. To live fully when we had the energy, and even when we didn't. And we prayed that we were the ones who were going to beat the odds, to hang in there until they found a cure, or at least another drug that would buy us a few more, precious years. Jean, time ran out too soon. You were the one who really was supposed to beat the odds.

 

Energy

 

Some days are just so beautiful that they fill your spirit. Four inches of light fresh snow, a bright blue sky, and a run to my favorite tree. The herd of cows near the creek has been adding tiny black and white faces every day. They hide behind their mothers, then run around with complete abandon. Redtailed hawks perch in the cottonwoods, diving down and gliding up to a new branch. A kingfisher trills from the nearby creek, hiding on a low overhanging branch. Winter water pours through the spaces between the smooth river rocks covered in their snowy comforters. My special tree watches over all of this, as it has for the last century as winter slowly turns into spring.

Serenity

 

There are so many days that I find myself repeating the Serenity Prayer. That is when I need to take a pause and be in the present and admire a gift that is sitting right under my nose.