Notes of Hope: Vol. 3
(a practice: becoming who we are)
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.
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“The LORD will fulfill his purpose for me; your steadfast love, O LORD, endures forever. Do not forsake the work of your hands.” - Psalm 138:8
***
Last year, we tried to grow strawberries in our garden. We ended up with a lot of leaves but not much fruit. This year, I sprinkled zinnia, marigold, and sunflower seeds in the dirt. I dug holes for the winding roots of yarrow and statice, giving them a corner all their own. We added an arch for the vining snap peas, green beans, and morning glory. But we skipped the strawberries.
The other day, I was tending to my babies in the cedar boxes when I almost stepped on…
a strawberry plant.
A persistent little love from last year’s no-good crop is currently working her way out of the scorched earth between two wooden planters. Boasting not only her deep, lush greens, but also her radiant ruby red.
***
I’ve been living and working through what feels like perpetual grief these last few years. I’ve questioned God about the different circumstances and long-suffering.
I can’t say it’s a direct answer to my crying out, but somehow through it all, He’s sending sparks of creativity to keep me going. He’s flashing visions in front of my eyes. He’s dumping buckets and buckets of words into my mind.
Even though my chest still sometimes heaves with grief, I’m finding a place for the ache.
And so, I keep writing.
In the process, I’m slowly chipping away at dreams born from heartache. Each word and idea I bring to life seems to somehow belong to a grand picture, like a piece of a gigantic jigsaw puzzle I never imagined I’d be living. What will it be? How does it all fit together?
What do I do with the pain, God?
You create.
***
For two and a half years, every Wednesday of the school year, Vera and I went to co-op. She packed up her science or history and courage and I slung my purse over my shoulder and made sure to zip patience inside before heading out the door.
This group of friends, although so lovely and warm, is quite large. And when we’d show up, my sweet girl would instinctively retreat, as she typically does around a lot of people. Her sense of safety is inherently different from other kids, but over and over again, this flew out of my mind while frustration forced its way in. As all the other children ran free, mine leached to my side. She tensed. I tensed. And the next week, we did it again because that’s what we did on Wednesdays.
A few months ago, I sent the group text I’d been putting off. We’d no longer be part of the co-op. I’d no longer be part of the holy huddle of mothers I adore. We’d no longer be part of the science experiments. But also, my daughter’s nervous system would no longer have to work overtime. And, I suppose, my expectations of what “kids should be like” would no longer exist, on Wednesdays.
When I asked Vera about what she wanted to do instead of co-op, we considered a photo club with friends, or inviting classmates over for homeschool days. We landed on a book club for the third grade girls—there are only five of them.
Once a month, each girl picks a book and they meet to discuss it, eat cupcakes, and feel a little fancy with a tablecloth beneath their plates and bright bunches of flowers before them. The girls take turns answering questions and without fail end up lacing shrieks and giggles into their sentences.
Sometimes, on Wednesdays, Vera has a friend over and after we homeschool, they jump on the trampoline, scale boulders, and play cafe. Other times, we meet friends at the pickleball court and run down dirt paths that lead to blooming poppies. Sometimes, we hike in the rain. And other times still, we pick up a different classmate and her sister and I transform into a lava monster at the park.
I was so hesitant to walk away from the co-op. To send the regretful text. But last Tuesday night—knowing she’d see two friends the next morning—my sweet girl told me she couldn’t wait for Wednesday.
***
The winter rain came so late this year. Pelting down in March, instead of months earlier. Last year at this time, the hillsides near our home were covered in California lilacs. I gasped every time I drove up the mountain.
March came and went without a purple bush in sight. Had I somehow missed them?
I knew the answer. I knew the rain was late.
But part of me still doubted.
Weeks overdue (according to me), the flowers finally came. When they were ready.
***
It’s Friday afternoon and Vera and I are itching to get out of the house.
Ten minutes later, on the drive to the library, an idea sprouts in my mind and clanks and jostles itself around, loudly.
“Ver, do you have a notebook back there?” I ask. (She always has a notebook.)
At the library, we both look for children’s books. She chooses ones with chapters. I choose ones we used to borrow when she was four, five, and six years old. We spread soft and hard covers across an empty table, as if they’re a map and we’re trying to find the way.
My daughter hands me her tiny notebook.
“You can use one page, both sides,” she instructs me.
As she reads, I fill up five, six, seven pages, front and back. The words pour out of me like a reviving spring rain.
***
“Beach Day with the Burts!” It had been on our calendar for weeks.
I looked out the living room window and a heavy blanket of gray stratus clouds seemed to snicker back at me; I think I even saw one wink, sarcastically. But we’re not fair-weather Californians. Vera added cozy clothes to our beach bag, and I tossed it in the trunk with a stack of towels.
We quickly found a parking spot thanks to the chilly temps. And just as we unloaded the car, our friends walked toward us on the sidewalk. Serendipitous timing.
Our California kids did what they do, submerging their warm bodies in the icy ocean, plunging their bellies and cares into the wild sea, digging and burying themselves into the sticking sand. Until about an hour in, when they realized what the moms already knew: it was really cold.
We wrapped our chattering children in sweats and hoods, gathered our sandy stuff, and the six of us headed to a nearby coffee shop.
The day became something unexpected.
It turned into piping tea and hot apple cider in to-go cups. It turned into bundled up cuties with sandy sweatshirts and smiling mamas, happy to be out in the ocean air, mothering and adventuring together. It turned into an impromptu art lesson from two gray-haired ladies creating gigantic murals, scenes of the sea, on the walls of the beach town. It turned into meandering through a gallery, where we exercised the art of appreciating beauty.
I felt so refreshed and alive afterward. So full of spontaneity. So full of hope that opportunity is waiting on the other side of a cold and miserable day.
***
Our female cat, Dottie, is undoubtedly pregnant. She’s practically waddling. We watch and wait. Every day, we examine her sagging belly, anticipating the wiggles inside.
The last time someone was pregnant around here, it was me. But I never made it to the waddling. I never felt a baby kick.
Here I am, on the brink of expanding our (animal) kingdom.
New life comes how it may. Maybe not how I expected. In kittens. In second chances. In fresh ideas. In art. In words. In the Overflowing Well.
***
“I’ve got it, Mama,” my eight year old assures me.
She takes the Cara Cara oranges out of the top drawer in the fridge.
She places them neatly on the counter.
She gets her favorite knife and cautiously slices the fruit in half.
She smashes each half circle on the point of the yellow juicer, twisting and twisting.
She fills three tiny jars with the tastiest orange juice in town.
Cheers!
She’s got this.
***
Our sweet friends came over the day before Easter. Jesse weed-whacked the backyard in preparation, and I spread out the yellow-striped tablecloth with fresh-cut fuchsia bougainvilleas in the center.
Callie and I hid pastel plastic eggs filled with stickers and sugar, and then we let the girls loose. As they searched and collected, I felt my heart relax, even smile.
After relishing in carnitas tacos with pickled red onions and cotija cheese, we zipped up jackets and headed outside the gate by the oaks. The girls ran off again, this time, explorers searching for different treasures.
When they were fully satisfied with their discoveries, Vera and her friend flew like bats in the hammock swing, high against the darkening sky. And when they couldn’t work out whose turn was next, they scrunched in, side by side, smooshing their limbs and laughter.
My heart smiled even wider, watching my daughter fling her shoes and hesitations out into the night.
He is risen, and she is rising.
***
I wrote a western bluebird into my children’s book. I saw one about a year and a half ago when I was walking Archie, our Goldendoodle. I gasped at its beauty and have been on the lookout for another one ever since, to no avail.
The week I finished my children’s book, I spotted two western bluebirds, on separate days.
I don’t know where the birds suddenly came from or where my book is eventually going, but I feel it deep in my bones that it all has something to do with me becoming who I was created to be.
Other Notes of Hope:
This post is part of a blog hop with Exhale—an online community of women pursuing creativity alongside motherhood, led by the writing team behind Coffee + Crumbs. Click here to view the next post in the series "Become."
Beautiful writing! It's just the most fun when God speaks through perfectly timed creatures :)
I never wanted this to end. I love reading your words. You show us how to find the light, again and again. ♥️