Tag: gratitude

Oh Shit! Praise the Lord!

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This week, I received correspondence from Walla Walla University giving a full report on the memorial nursing scholarship my siblings and I set up in our Mom’s name explaining the total in the endowment (over $34k), how much the interest has spun off and how much was awarded to a student for the 2026-2027 school year ($1k). Included was a lovely thank you note from the student, too, thanking us for the financial help to their education–very heartfelt, very sweet.

I hadn’t been thinking about my Mom’s scholarship much recently. I’m finishing up an art show and looking to get a donation off to the Blue Mountain Action Council’s Food Bank fund here in the next week or so. My 16.5 year-old kitty is nearing her rainbow bridge time and I’m heart-stricken. Other life things have been shaking me up so I’ve kind of been in triage mode. And then there’s home maintenance, the other two cats, a full-time job, and trying to manage my garden, eat correctly, get enough sleep. The works.

The arrival of this update has me thinking about my Mom, of course. I wish I could talk to her about ALL the things. I wish I could get her counsel and her curiosity, her wisdom and humor. She was so smart and wise. She understood heartbreak better than anyone. And she looked for ways to consider other perspectives, the other person’s reasons for behavior. If I have any empathy, it’s because I learned it at her feet. A friend of mine recently said of her mom, “I am who I am because of her.” Yes. This.

My Mom was also hilarious. She wanted very much to be a follower of Christ, to lean into grace, forgiveness, and above all love. She was no saint, but she was such a good teacher. She was known to get speeding tickets, dings on the car in the parking lot from backing up without fully looking, or clipping a corner too sharp. In those moments, I can remember her saying “Oh shit!” followed by a purposeful “Praise the Lord!” She was trying to retrain her brain in real time to take a bad moment and still express gratitude. My teacher. My role model. And I think about those two statements joined together an awful lot because that’s pretty much how I experience life, that and a hearty chuckle afterward. Life’s difficulties definitely merit an Oh shit! now and then, but receiving the update about our Mom’s scholarship fund and so many other reasons for joy merit a Praise the Lord!

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Lucky

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Bryan often spoke about how lucky he felt largely due to the relationships and people in his life. Bryan had plenty he could have complained about–a cancer diagnosis at 50 that he managed with grace and aplomb, another one at 58 that would give him less than five months to live. Even so, he practiced gratitude, particularly with regard to his daughter and wife, his friends, his healthcare providers, the quality of the pork chop served by the hospital kitchen at St. Mary’s. I’ve never heard anyone wax lyrical about hospital food, but he sure did. Bryan was lucky to be surrounded by so much love, but he fostered that in his confidence, his ability to know himself fully in order to put everyone else around him at ease.

I find myself trying to emulate his practice. The more I notice how lucky I am, the luckier I seem to get. In the past two weeks, especially, I’m reminded how the people in my life make me lucky in a similar manner. I have friendships, durable relationships that have lasted decades–friends who have known me since first grade, or middle school, or the whole time I’ve lived in Walla Walla (18 years this month, can you even?!) They have seen me at my best and unfortunately at my very worst (yes I did flip cold French fries off a plate in a fit of pique/temper…I’m not proud of it, but it’s funny to tease me about. And don’t get me started with what happens if I forget to eat breakfast). They span continents and time zones, which makes these middle-of-the-night musings welcome in Australia or to my bestie who works the night shift a few time zones away.

When someone doesn’t believe me, they’re all ready to line up and give testimonials of my character. More importantly, they remind me of myself, giving ME testimonials of how they see me, my heart, my intentions. It’s never fun to have the worst believed of you or to be painted with a brush meant for someone else, but at the end of the day, that’s not my business. What is my business is to tend this garden of friendships, of durable relationships because they’re the ones that see me through when my heart aches, when my person is dying, when the world is on fire. I am lucky because they see me and love me.

What’s Up?

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It’s been a while. It’s a challenge to write when the stories aren’t only your own to tell. So I will do my best to do the dance of sharing without oversharing. For the last few months, my house has been full. Two adult nephews have been here, living in the extra rooms, while working and settling into a now familiar rhythm. Plus I’ve gotten a new kitten. Things are lively, to say the least. It’s remarkable to have constant conversation and activity again. And it’s hard to get wrapped up in my own ruminations when I have people to cook with and for. I’m learning new recipes, vocabularly, memes, music, generational and cultural differences. It’s fascinating, hilarious, exhausting, and fun. Some evenings, I can almost hear my big brothers chatting animatedly. And yet these two are very much their own men with their own experiences and stories. It’s quite marvellous.

I can say unreservedly this holiday season is less heavy in that I’m not wallowing in my own sadness and anger. I’m looking forward to baking sugar cookies and jolabokaflod and creating art and spending time with people I love. Being able to provide a haven and support while also being wildly entertained is a measure of good fortune that gobsmacks me all over again.

Now it’s not all beer and skittles. I’m one who loves to bake and one nephew cannot eat gluten. But every challenge is an opportunity to be creative. We’re finding our way. I also know that every season has its end and this one will too. I’m just glad it’s not quite yet. My heart is full. My gratitude cup, my joy nugget basket, my thankful tank, whatever you want to call it–full to the brim and overflowing.

To Be Present

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August is on the downward slope and September will be here before we know it. I’ve seen any number of memes about the pull to the coziness of fall–hoodies, warm beverages, nestling under blankets amidst the soft glow of low lamps when darker evenings appear. Kids are going back to school; parents are mixed with relief and grief. It’s such a challenge not to plan, be forward thinking, eye always on the future, but every season is rich unto itself.

Last night I took the fixings for a tarte a la moutarde to my cousin’s and her family. Now don’t tune out yet. Yes a “mustard tart” sounds kind of gross and a little insane, but it is probably one of the most exquisite summer dishes I have ever made. Dijon, gruyere, herbes de Provence, salt, pepper, and fresh garden tomatoes sliced up all on a crust with the edges rolled up. The combination of flavors is heady. As my good friend Holly would say–“restaurant quality.” The time at table with their family, my family, was so good.

In conversation with my cousin, we discussed “being present” versus “flow.” As introverts who value solitude, I could relate to her struggle with longing for flow–that place where we step outside of chronic consciousness into body, creation, and spirit (best I can do) and be physically, mentally, emotionally attuned to this moment in time. Many of these moments in time are brutal for reasons stemming from the personal to the collective. Some of them are boring and tedious. Some of them break our hearts. Bryan talked a lot about the importance of “being here now.” It takes discipline and effort. I find all the easily available tools of dissociation right at my fingertips. I’m not immune. But dissociation is neither presence nor flow.

What can I conclude? To continue to hunt for the joy nuggets of the moment and savor them in real time like we did those tarts last night–ripening tomatoes, produce to share, flowers in glorious reveal, eye contact with a friend over a bawdy joke, phone calls and texts from nieces and nephews, puppies, saying I love you–these help keep us grounded in the right now in ways that comfort our hearts.

Pumpkin spice, cozy blankets, and dark evenings will come soon enough and they will be worthy of savoring, too. Right now, every hot, dusty moment of August and the bucketloads of tomatoes will be plenty of joy unto itself.

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Blackberry Picking

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It’s August in Southeastern Washington and that means one thing–blackberries! Last weekend, I had to pivot to a new weekend plan. I had every intention of going to Portland to visit my cousin when my mechanic friend and co-worker recommended I’d better put that plan on pause until I get a few repairs done (another story for another time). Disappointed barely scratches the surface. I’d already missed out on a fun scheduled weekend with Mary, her Mom, and her godmother–the infamous “Moms Weekend”–to Portland a few weeks prior due to a savage bout of Covid. Ugh. Thwarted. Twice. Talk about bummed. In an effort to rebound, and redirect, I went for a walk at Mill Creek Friday evening–always a recentering. Saturday morning I enjoyed some coffee and classical music on my back patio. Then I decided to do something outside my more normal routine. Was it a fun trip to Portland? No. But it was good.

Years ago, Bryan took me to a place just past Waitsburg on the way to Dayton, up in the hills on an old gravel road near wheat farms. On a bend in the the road up a ways there’s a great place to park and a whole swath of blackberry bushes fairly easy to access and not terribly picked over. He had told me, Sara, Mary’s mom had shown him this place years ago. I made sure to wear a long sleeve flannel button-up, jeans, and socks and tennis shoes (in August!), giving the brambles less of a chance to tear into me. Anyone eavesdropping might have heard a rainbow of colorful expletives worthy of a sailor’s blush combined with an updated version of Beethoven’s “Ode to Joy.” There might have been some prayers and minor begging for snakes not to find their way to me as well. As you can see from the photo above, my quest was successful. Later that day, I turned these berries into two pies. The next day I took one to my dear cousin and her family who live in town (yes, I have a LOT of cousins.)

I often think about solitude, loneliness, rugged individualism, and all that jazz. It occurred to me on a day where I was very much alone physically that I was in reality surrounded by people, by memories, by love. I started with a phone consultation to my baking mentor, my big sister. When it comes to pie, I’m going to refer to her expertise before the internet, before Betty, before anyone or anything else. She makes more pies in one session than I might for a couple of years. She doesn’t mess around and she’s honed her recipes and technique. Add fresh lemon zest and juice, you don’t need more than 3 1/2 to 4 cups of berries for an 8-inch pie. A pinch of cayenne will enhance the flavor. While she wasn’t in the kitchen with me, she was very much present.

The entire drive to the berry thicket, Bryan was with me in my heart and memories, journeying over roads we’d been on so many times, laughing, reminiscing. Sara was there too in a place she had shown him so many years before–a gift given to him then given to me. Later, in the kitchen, I pulled down my Betty Crocker cookbook with the broken spine. It’s one I found at a thrift store or yard sale. It had reminded me of my Mom’s and I had to have it. My Mama used to quote my great Auntie Iris when someone would compliment a baked dish or some culinary delight “Just Betty and me.” There was my Mom, my auntie, and Betty. The crust I make is one passed down from my sister’s mother-in-law, Erma Torretta. She worked in the kitchen of the old Walla Walla General Hospital. Her oil crust recipe was designed to make a large number of pies at once. Cut down to it’s smallest iteration I still end up with one 10-inch and one 8-inch pie. So there was Erma in my kitchen, too.

I can get so wound up in my pity parties of how alone I am without Bryan. And you know what, it’s a worthy thing to be sad about. I miss him. I miss the spirit of fun and teamwork and humor we shared. He was so interesting and smart and full of life. Kind. Good. Loving. The house is quiet without his presence and I often feel overwhelmed by the magnitude of all that has to be done. But this past weekend was a good reminder that I’m not truly alone and that even when things don’t go exactly as I planned or hoped, there is joy to be found and connections to be made.

Sunday, laden with garden tomatoes, basil, mozzarella, balsamic vinegar, blackberry pie, and vanilla ice cream, I headed to my cousin and her family’s house on the Old Milton Highway to enjoy the consummate Walla Walla brunch in August–caprese and blackberry pie a la mode. It was bliss.

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