How Lucky Am I

Spring has officially sprung in Texas. It’s simply beautiful here. Green everywhere, Wildflowers blooming. Trees bursting. And as I do with every season (with the exception of the months of July and August which are simply abysmal in Texas), I find myself stopping quite a lot and saying, Ah. I adore spring. I’m pretty sure it’s most favorite season.

This week it has rained. A lot. We spent Tuesday evening inside as thunder rolled and rain pummeled down through the wee hours of Wednesday morning. It was wonderful. Roy watched tv while I hung out with my iPad and caught up on American Idol. I’m not sure why I like that show, but…I do. I enjoy listening to young talent, and I love the stories of the individuals they explore a bit more personally. 

But while that life of doing absolutely nothing is fabulous for a bit of time, it’s a temporary wonderful. By Wednesday evening, I was ready to get out. And so, Tami and I loaded up into her van with her cutest puppy Koda (who is only about ten weeks old now) and headed to Lori’s on the other side of Keene. Ryan - a high school senior who is pretty much family - was hanging out at Lori’s house, and so Ryan, Lori, Tami and I (with Lori’s five month old puppy Bex and Koda) went on a walk around the neighborhood in the drizzling rain. 

It was oodles of fun.

And then we headed back home.

I have an app on my phone that pops up a reminder every morning and again in the evening to stop for a moment and be grateful. Each morning is…What are you thankful for?

…that I have this amazing job that lets me travel some and work with great people who make me smile from the inside out 

…that I live in Texas where winters are mild and springs are alive with life

…that my sisters live close by and provide so much friendship and support 

…that the view out my kitchen window makes me stop for a moment and breathe

…that I am alive

And then in the evening, what was amazing about your day?

…that my cutest husband went with me to Sam’s Club so that he could load up 60 gallons of water for Homecoming Weekend into the back of the van so that I didn’t have to lift all of that by myself

…that Jacquelyn posts on Instagram for SWAU Alumni (a job I’m supposed to do but every time I try to post I experience brain freeze) and makes me look like a rockstar

…that Roy worked on the kitchen and it’s getting so close to getting done

…that Savana called, in her typical silly way, and made me laugh with her typical goofy stories

…that my sisters, Ryan and I walked the neighborhood, laughing at Ryan’s ridiculous antics and off the cuff comments because he is 18 and all of it.

How lucky am I.

How lucky am I.

The Master

I am in the midst of attending a CASE conference in Fort Worth. This is a conference for those in Advancement - the fundraisers, marketing directors, and alumni peeps of the world. On the first day of the conference, during one of the sessions, I chose a seat on the very back row in the very last chair — the closest to the back corner of the room. This is my typical seat of choice as I deem it the most inconspicuous chair in the room.

I like it that way.

When I attend conventions or fly on airplanes, it is the way I roll. I’m not too interested in forging new friendships or swapping personal information with someone I will never see again.

I know. It’s not the friendliest way of living. But I usually have my book, some sort of journal, and my headspace. And that’s quite enough for me.

Anyway, on this particular day and at this particular session, I was quietly hanging out in my seat, an empty chair beside me, as the meeting was about to begin. The room was filled sporadically - lots of empty chairs in the front and such. However, with the exception of the chair beside me, my row was totally full. Clearly lots of people prefer the back row.

Just as the doors closed and the session began, I spied a man out of the corner of my eye heading my direction.

And I instantly knew: despite the plethora of empty seats in front of me, he was headed my way: for the seat next to me.

I was instantly annoyed.

Clearly he wasn’t interested in the abundance of seats that offered elbow room and space to breathe. 

And then, just that quickly, he was beside me, offering a smile and a nod at the coveted chair, squeezing by as I turned my legs to provide a little extra room, and then settling in beside me. And as I figured would happen, once he leaned back he was all up in my business. I grabbed the edges of my chair, and not so subtly, shifted my seat so that I could at least lean back without my elbows directly hanging out with his. And then, as he quickly engaged with the presentation happening at the front of the room, I took a moment to scope him out. He was older - possibly in his 70’s, and reminded me a bit of a mouse. He was slightly hunched over, balding…but when he glanced over at me, he tossed me a rather engaging smile.

And despite the fact he forced me to give up my personal space, I liked him immediately.

The next morning, I hustled into one of the breakout rooms deemed for alumni directors and quickly found my seat - the same one in the back corner. I pulled out my moleskin - my all-time favorite notebook that I am never without - and my black pen - the one with gel that writes smoothly - and settled back for an hour of how to engage alumni that aren’t engaged and don’t care to be. 

And then I saw him.

There, at the very front of the room, waiting patiently in the presenter’s chair, sat my seat partner of the day before.

I chuckled to myself.

And sure enough - as he was introduced, it was clear that my seat partner was a hair bit more accomplished than I will ever be. 

Clearly he was the rockstar of alumni directors.

I should have been offering my own seat rather than feeling chagrin that he sat next to me.

I should have been seeking pearls of wisdom from the master.

Naturally.

Because isn’t that the way it goes? 

The Rose Bush

When I was in seventh grade, my dad and I planted a rose bush. We watered it faithfully and watched it grow, admiring it with delight when it first began to bloom—vibrant pink popping out amidst emerald leaves.

Ever since, I have wanted a rose bush. But, for whatever reason, I have never ventured beyond the “wanted one” to the “purchased one” phase.

Until this past Friday.

On the side of the garage, we had a beautiful rose of sharon bush. However, since we’ve moved in, it has been declining. A few days ago, Roy grabbed its trunk and gently tugged upwards, pulling the entire bush up by its roots.

Deader than a doornail.

Darian flew home Thursday morning. When she’s around, I have a “partner in crime” for all of my projects, and so…the two of us headed to the Garden Center to pick up some plants for the front flower bed. It’s been sorely bare since we moved in but my goal for this spring is to bring some life to it. 

As we perused the selection of bushes, we happened upon the roses - all kinds of available colors. Together Darian and I chose a pink and white hybrid rose bush. And as I stood in line to purchase it (along with a few other flowering bushes), I couldn’t help but picture my seventh grade self, hair pulled back into a ponytail, posing in front of our beloved rose bush.

When I was in high school, I fell in love with an author named June Strong. She wrote a few books (I devoured each one) and wrote faithfully for a small magazine that was published monthly. I eagerly awaited each month’s article - though I doubt I read much more of the material in the magazine. Her writings, simple in nature, inspired me, and I longed to write like her. One time, she was the featured speaker at a series of meetings I attended and my mom set up a meeting for me with her. I well-remember the butterflies I had in my stomach as I sat in that small room, June across from me, and asked her questions about her life story and such. She encouraged me to keep writing, to make it a daily habit. Her calm, soothing presence will forever be etched in my memory.

Anyway, one of the things that June Strong often wrote about was her flower beds. She loved working in the garden, her hands buried in the moist dirt. And though I’ve never been much of a success as a gardener (tragically), I, too, love the feel of dirt on my hands, the wonder of life buried within each seed. Each spring when I plant flowers, I think of June and I am grateful for her tender, encouraging words to a teenage girl struggling to find her way. 

This past weekend, Roy and I worked together to plant the hydrangeas, the peonies, and the rose bush. We dug up the soil, laid down black plastic to keep the weeds at bay, covered the plastic with more dirt, then dug a hole for each bush. I carefully planted each one, reading the instructions with fierce determination. And then we stood back, admiring our handiwork.

The rose bush stands by itself in the corner of the driveway. And though it’s really just a rose bush, it reminds me of a time…

…when life was simple

…when I was on the cusp of teenage-hood

…when Dad and I forged a special bond

…when I discovered the wonder of life, sprouting up from clods of red dirt