Notes of Hope: Vol. 2

(a practice: making a way)

Call it a practice in contentment or healing, a lifestyle or posture, or simply seeking the face of Jesus, call it what you will. I’m calling it Notes of Hope. In a world marked by pain and darkness, in a culture aching for acknowledgement, in homes desperate for connection, there are beauty and hope spliced and sprinkled within it all. I find it in nature. I find it in grace. I find it in literal light—and figurative light, as well. There’s so much I don’t have answers to, but what I know to be true is that when I take note of the goodness around me, it somehow
soothes my nervous system, my fears, my soul.

—

“See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” - Isaiah 43:19

***

I am sitting at a cafe table, beautifully strewn with flamingo-pink ceramic coffee mugs, birthday gifts, and waffles with whipped cream. It’s mid-morning and still cool, but the sun’s rays glimmer squarely on my skin. We’re celebrating a friend’s birthday. Everyone seems to be giddy with laughter; it comes easily when you are untethered. The birthday girl orders a mimosa and we clink glasses filled to the brim with sunshine.

One of the women—I haven’t seen her since last year—exclaims across the table, “Becky! Did you color your hair?!” I haven’t colored my hair, I tell her. All that’s new are more streaks of gray, spreading their wings of wisdom wider by the day.

She continues that the sun must be hitting my strands just right. That she sees golds, browns, and other bands of color. That it looks beautiful.

I take a sip of my cappuccino, smiling, wondering what else others notice that we so often miss about ourselves.

***

My daughter is jumping on the trampoline and I’m raking fallen sticks and watering the yuccas. I am content and peaceful, moving my body in the back yard, feeling a sense of togetherness yet autonomy. From the looks of it, she is feeling carefree, fulfilled, and joyful.

Out of the blue, like a hummingbird buzzing by, my sweet girl who typically steers clear of expressing emotions with words, blurts out, “I love you, Mama. Did you hear me? I said, ‘I love you!’”

I see it every day in her body language, in her snuggles, in her sparkling eyes. I see it in the way she reaches for my hand, the way she moves toward the longings of my heart. But I haven’t heard the words from her mouth in many, many months. Possibly years.

***

My family is working outside and I’m stewarding this opportunity to declutter and purge, quickly stashing what I can in the trunk for Goodwill.

I come across the wooden shopping cart I bought for Vera when she was three or four years old. She’d take it to college with her if she could, but it’s entirely too small and the wheels are dangling like loose teeth. On my way to the trash bin, I rethink the cart and head over to where Jesse and Vera are shoveling dirt.

“Ver, do you want me to take the wheels off this before I toss it, so you can build something new?”

Her deep brown eyes brighten at the thought of it.

***

Jesse is standing at the west-facing picture window in the living room, with binoculars glued to eyes. I think maybe he sees a coyote down the gravel driveway or he’s trying to spot the red-tailed hawk who’s made its home on a nearby antenna.

Instead, he reports that the golden apple tree we bought from Home Depot last month is sprouting fresh white buds on its barely-there branches. The tree sits mere feet from the window. Rather than walking outside to get a closer look, he’s using gear meant for scoping out far away discoveries. A little superfluous, yes? I guess the pursuit of noticing is beautiful, however you look at it.

***

I am sitting with a friend over yet another decaf cappuccino. I share some concerns, some roadblocks, some real discomfort I’m facing. I say I’m not sure if I’m getting what I should be out of a situation. It’s suffocating me like an old pair of jeans I should probably add to that pile in the trunk. She suggests that maybe, just maybe, my presence and story—despite my discomfort—are giving another woman a speck of hope she can hold tightly in her fist and clench safely to her chest. I finish my cappuccino and my complaining.

***

The rain usually comes in late December and January, sometimes stretching into February. Instead, last month brought dry heat, wild winds, and relentless fires. We’ve been collectively desperate for the rain: the trees, the earth, our scorched souls. Begging for something we have no control over. Begging for water and relief to drip into the hollow cracks of ourselves.

It started raining yesterday morning, Wednesday—I welcomed the rhythm on the roof as I lay under the covers—and it’s not supposed to stop until Saturday.

***

We’re in the Secret Garden, a nook of our property we’ve all come to delight in. The hidden ferns and moss-covered boulders, the manzanita tree and the stream that flows after a long rain, it’s all magical and inviting. The entire quarter acre, a magnet, pulling us out of the house into its presence.

I’m embracing my Lumberjack Era, maneuvering the handsaw back and forth to cut some of the branches and using the chainsaw(!) for others. As the dead weight thuds to the ground, I notice the space and sky that open up in its place.

Jesse flip-flops from building the deck to digging the trench for a year-round stream. Vera finds footholds, scaling massive rocks, with a jet black kitty tip-toeing sneakily behind her.

As we work on our separate projects, we shout updates to one another across the expanse. Side by side, we use muscle and creativity to break down and build back up, wholly nourished by nature and each other.

I feel a tap on my shoulder. A whisper. An inkling that we aren’t just building something new for the Airbnb we hope to have but also for the family we already do have.

***

Other Notes of Hope:

Vol. 1