“Bloom Where You’re Planted”, and other notes and quotes to live by…

Today is my birthday, my fifty-fifth.  I say this, not to elicit additional birthday wishes from Facebook friends (though who doesn’t love getting messages from so many people whom you are sure are having trouble actually picturing your face, from back in the day), but because I want to share my birthday wish with you…

I have no problem each year coming up with a few things for my wish list. Material things. Things that, in the long run, won’t really matter. I usually don’t receive anything from this list, so if it’s something I really want, I just wind up buying it for myself later. Top of the list this year is a $2,500.00 coat… “Legendary, exquisitely crafted, lush, raw-edged shearling. Rustic elegance, unrivaled warmth.  Exclusive.” Needless to say, I won’t be receiving that as a gift. Nor will I be buying it for myself…item number and size available upon request, just message me. Curses on Robert Redford for continuing to send me the Sundance Catalog as an annual taunt.

My birthday, timing such as it is, usually gets lost in the shuffle, though I don’t have it quite as bad as my youngest brother, whose birthday is Christmas Eve, and whose special day is usually overlooked entirely. I really am not bothered by the timing of it, and never have been…the festive lights and celebratory mood always brighten the day. What has evolved for me is that my birthday is usually a day of personal reflection and private introspection, a benchmark day for me to take stock in what I have accomplished, what I plan to accomplish, and just where I am in the world. Did I exercise enough, eat right, hit my goal weight, consistently practice patience and frugal spending? No, no, no, no and no. The most important questions during my self-review are always the same: Did I look at the world every day with the intention of seeing beauty? When I spotted beauty, did I feel joy, despite how the rest of the day was going? Am I happy? Yes, yes, and yes. Very.

I calculate that in my present form, I have been alive on this planet for twenty thousand, seventy-five days, give or take a few hours. For having tipped over the edge into the second half of a century, that really does not sound like that many days. And yet, when I calculate that I have probably learned, on average, at least one lesson a day, twenty thousand lessons would lead one to believe that some level of “smarts” would now have been obtained. Aristotle is quoted as saying “The more you know, the more you know you don’t know.” What I do know to be true, at least for me, are these two things:

1. Optimism, if one does not come by it naturally, can be a learned behavior, and
2. Beauty can be found anywhere, and we can be amazed, if we allow ourselves to be, each and every day.

These two viewpoints may seem unrelated, but for me, they are absolutely inseparable.

I would like to think I have been an observer since day one, however, my earliest recollection is from the spring after I turned two, so roughly eight hundred days in. I was with my parents, visiting a farm on Juanita Road in Sunnyside, Washington. My father had grown up on a neighboring farm, and we had stopped to visit the owners, who had newborn lambs. I remember the farmer encouraging my father to put me down, and to let me stick my fingers through the fence. The tiny lambs clustered around, and began suckling on my fingers. They had to be quite young, born maybe only a week or two before, as they had no teeth yet. I remember the sensation as if it were yesterday, and the joy of interacting with the lambs. I remember the brilliant green of the grass, the blue sky, the pure white lambs, the lichen on the worn wood of the fence posts that I leaned against. It is my first memory of being amazed, of standing in wonder of nature. My memories of that age are spotty, but there are others…on a trip to Galveston at age three: a lightning storm, the sky flashing in shades of pink, purple and blue. The white sand, made up of trillions of miniature shells, and the sea-foam green of the Gulf, contrasting with my mother’s black swimsuit, making her look like a shark as she swam away from the shore. If my memory bank was not overflowing, I believe I could retrieve such a memory for each day I have lived. A memory of something beautiful, inspiring, amazing.

The optimism element is one that I recognized in the most gradual of ways. I believe I was blessed by being born an optimist, so it has come naturally, and easily. That is not to say that every day has been easy, because that is far from the truth. But even as a child, I was always looking at the beauty around me, and my belief in the potential of it never wavered. I was lucky to have parents and grandparents that saw it, too, and were never too busy to point out some wonder or another. It was unwritten family law that we always took the scenic route, and that points of interest were to be stopped at. Family trips were to picturesque, natural destinations. At eighteen, I was about the only person I knew who had never been to Disneyland, but I had traveled to pretty much every part of Washington and Oregon, as well as many parts of Idaho, Montana, and British Columbia. I can’t even count the times, in my adult life, that I have traveled to a destination, thinking it would be something new and unseen, and found myself swept up in a wave of remembrance upon arrival…that deja vu feeling, “I have been here before”. But once arrived, seeing it as if it were new and unseen, and always ready to be amazed all over again. The expectation that even if I had been there the day before, today there would be something new and wonderful to discover. An open mind, an open heart, optimistic.

I was a book nerd growing up, and I loved quotations. In high school, one Christmas, I begged for, and received, a Bartlett’s Book of Quotations. Calligraphy was big then, and with my new calligraphy pens, I set about writing quotes everywhere, on everything, about many topics. The quotes could be from any source, and many were from songwriters, some of the best writers around. When I stumble on some of these old quotes, tucked in books, boxes, strange places, I see recurring themes of faith, strength, optimism. Many of these quotes have stayed with me, and buoyed me in hard times. My yearbook quote from senior year resonates with me as much now as it did then: “In every moment there’s a reason to carry on.” In the lowest of times, this quote has been my lifeline, a mantra to keep taking the next step forward, until things are better again.

I was fortunate to grow up in just one neighborhood, with friends that I knew from preschool through high school. That early stability was nice, but when I made the transition to college, followed by an out-of-state move after college, I suffered a bit of culture shock. Even though I knew a handful of people in each place, those moves left me feeling unsettled and a little lost, and in both instances, it took me some time to find my footing. I had a Mary Engelbreit print that moved with me each time, that read “Bloom Where You’re Planted”. It always hung in my bedroom, and it was a constant reminder that even if I felt all alone in a foreign land, there were daily opportunities to discover new things. So I became an explorer, a watcher, a gatherer of images, a disciple of small details. An encyclopedia of nuances and impressions. When I call up images from thirty-some years ago, and ask my husband if he remembers the dead-calm, silver-grey light of the sand blending into the Sea of Cortez in the sunrise heat at San Felipe, or the sound of the wind whispering to the needles of the Casuarina Pines on Grand Cayman, or the absolute silence of the shimmering desert that time outside Palm Springs when the car overheated, or the hot saltwater smell of Lahaina in the late afternoon, he looks at me as if we weren’t standing together in the same place, at the same time, on the same planet. Looking at the same things, but seeing them differently. He wonders why I am always a step behind, dawdling…I am seeing with high expectation of being amazed, imprinting with intention to remember. Absorbing, with every sense, and rarely am I disappointed.

It doesn’t take much, as you leave the house, to look around and see something that you can tuck away for future use, to pull out later from a pocket in your mind, to turn over again for another look, another smile. The flash of sunlight through wings as a bird swoops up past your window to land on the roof. The sparkling dew on a spiderweb, shining like a diamond necklace. A hummingbird greeter, hovering nearby to inspect a flash of color on your clothing. A heron in the mist, a flock of starlings performing a moving, living sculpture, a ray of light on a patch of moss, the sunrise, the sunset. A seedling growing in a hole in the sidewalk. And when your catalog of beautiful memories has many entries, it only takes a brush of a finger on a lichen-covered wood fence on a winter day in a deserted petting zoo in a Toronto park, to be flooded with the memory of tiny lambs, on a spring day, half a century past and a continent away. The images weave together like magic, and fill your life. Gifts to yourself, gifts that matter. “Legendary, exquisite, lush, raw, rustic, warm.  Exclusive.”

These days, the sign on my bedroom wall has a quote by Abraham Lincoln. “And in the end, it’s not the years in a life, it’s the life in the years.” I found it in a clearance bin in the hardware store in Ucluelet, Vancouver Island, during an unforgettable camping and kayaking trip with my sister. It is a happy reminder of our ten days of exploration, adventure, daring and sisterhood. It is also a daily reminder of something more. As the years have crept by, the need to fill every day has become so important to me. The belief in my immortality is long gone, and with every loss of someone else I know, each day seems more precious. The need to see more, do more, learn more, has become more fervent. I keep thinking of new careers I should embark upon, and remembering the things I thought I would do when I grew up. Marine biologist, forest ranger, wildlife photographer, travel writer, photo stylist, weaver, museum curator, Peace Corps volunteer…the list seems endless. If Pinterest had been around when I was in high school, and I had known how many incredible bugs there are in the world, I would surely have become an entomologist and headed for the Amazon, or become a dendrologist, studying trees in Madagascar.  There must still be time to try them all, right?

When I decided to “put myself out there” by making my writing public, I opened myself up to a level of vulnerability that I would have never been able to expose myself to before. I seemed to have suddenly reached the point where I was okay with who I am, where I am, and the opinions of others could no longer contain me. The difference in how I feel, the communion with the world, has changed me. It has allowed me to seek new levels of connection with people, to have the courage to seek out people I haven’t seen in years. To tell them how much they meant to me, and to be amazed by the stories of their journeys. To meet new people, and not be afraid to make room in my life. In the last two years, I have learned more about myself, and the people around me, than in the past four decades combined.  I go into each encounter with a desire to see each person as they truly are, and I come away awed at the beauty of people, their strength and resilience, and their willingness to expose their own vulnerabilities.  My optimism gives me the courage to make that connection, to see the good in people, and to believe they will see the good in me. It gives me the confidence to share my visions with others, and the trust that some will share those visions.

So, while I look forward to another twenty thousand or so days, I don’t really know if I will have that many, or if tomorrow will be my last. None of us knows. But I believe we have an obligation to spend each and every day looking for beauty, learning something new, being amazed. It is as easy to go looking for beauty and wonder as it is to go looking for trouble and negativity. It is purely a matter of choice. And if one actively seeks out beauty, optimism and hope can’t help but to follow. I have many favorite writers, but Paul Simon stands alone as my favorite songwriter.  The way he can craft a line, and paint a picture of emotion with a minimum of words, is pure genius.  He said  “You know, life is what you make of it – so beautiful, or so what.” So true.

The day I stop learning, and stop looking for beauty, will be the day I am done. But I don’t think I will ever get to that point. As I am being wheeled, shoveled, or pushed into my final resting place, I hope I will still have one squinty eye open, and I will be able to whisper the words “Wait! Look…do you see? Isn’t that amazing?” And that whoever is doing the pushing will pause, look, and be amazed right along with me.

“These are the days of miracle and wonder.”  For me, they are…every day.  And for my birthday, that is also my wish for you.

 

“Whenever I Call You Friend”. Kenny Loggins, Melissa Manchester.
“Bloom where you are planted”. The Bishop of Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales (1567-1622).
“These are the days of miracle and wonder”, from “The Boy in the Bubble”. Paul Simon.