I like that
You know where I live,
Under which tree I sleep,
How my garden looks
First thing in the morning.
You watched me sip my tea
At sunrise
And slip into the flowers and vines.
Under your gaze I was
Consumed by a glow
Few have been able to see.
When you left, I thought you
Took all that with you
But I know
You’re in me now.
I find you
In every seed and blossom,
And myself
In every naked tree
Bravely waiting
For spring.
{Jill Lurie}
At the beginning of this year I found myself in a very unfortunate situation that inspired a very positive outcome. I made a spontaneous new year’s resolution that I’ve kept the entire year – and it has been one of the most fun and lively years of my life. This was my resolution:
I am no longer doing things I don’t want to do.
One more time:
I am no longer doing things I don’t want to do.
Here’s how it works:
If there is something I want to do, I do it.
If there is something I don’t want to do, I don’t do it.
Now before you picture me lying in bed with a glass of wine while my six year old runs around the house with no dinner or clean underwear, you can relax.
I’m obviously talking about my Free Time.
We all have Free Time, some of us more than others – those blissful hours or minutes each day or week we get to spend however we like. Unfortunately for me, I found that for years I was spending much of my ‘free time’ not feeling so free – doing things that I felt obligated to say yes to, because I thought I was supposed to, or because I worried about hurting someone’s feelings.
A small miracle occurs when you turn the ship and decide that everything in your life (more or less) is going to be there because you want it to. Yes there are chores, work, etc. that can’t go away, but if you fill your Free Time with what you love, it makes everything, on the whole, seem much more balanced and manageable.
This might sound really basic or idealistic or impossible to some, but I’ve tried it the other way, and I can say without a doubt that doing what you like is much more fun.
Since I am no longer spending my weekends doing things I don’t want to do, there are big openings for me to do the things I LOVE. This past Saturday that meant a visit with my son to the magical garden at Venice High School here in LA (my husband spent his Free Time doing what he wanted to do – take a nap).
It was the Learning Garden’s Pesto Madness fundraiser. For $10 you got an all you could eat buffet of freshly made pasta, salads and homemade desserts; a pesto cooking demonstration with fresh basil from the garden; and a wonderful tour of the one-acre site by Master Gardener David King, who runs the entire operation and teaches a variety of classes there. All for a good cause.
It was a beautiful way to spend a couple of hours and a wonderful reminder that doing what you like is one of the nicest gifts you can give yourself, and in turn, those around you.
>
A language
Without words.
Animal instincts
And unidentified cries
In the night.
White bird:
You’ve set this amber sky
On fire.
I cradle you
To my chest -
Tie my heart
To your sturdy wing…
Treetops await
Our secret
Midnight flight.
{JL 9/26/11}
Some space
Or light
Beyond all I thought
Was possible.
Memories
That can’t be pinned
To this lifetime.
Knowing there’s a secret
But unable
To recall
Who first told it.
Walled cities crumbling,
Your brush dips
From this well
Of freedom.
{JL 9/26/11}
painting: Jenny Hager
The pastry that launched a thousand words
I’ve heard Keller’s name in passing for years, especially because of his famous restaurant, The French Laundry, here in California, where the minimum wait time for a reservation is at least three months and lunch costs $270/person (without wine). Keller has won every culinary award out there and is recognized internationally as one of the best in his field.
I am not a food critic or a culinary expert; I’ve never been to any of his high-end restaurants; and I’m not in the habit of name dropping – so why on earth am I writing about Thomas Keller?
Basically, I find his success story and dedication to his craft intriguing, and from a certain perspective, inspiring. This past weekend I watched a show about him on PBS called “Master Chef.” As one of five children, after his father left the family early on, he was raised solely by his mother, who owned a restaurant. After numerous professional challenges and financial setbacks, at 55, he’s now at the top of his game. The show gave a glimpse of a meal at The French Laundry. I was taken by the artistry of his food; his dedication to freshness, flavor and presentation; and the prolific garden behind the restaurant that sources much of its produce.
I do not have plans to travel to Yountville, CA any time soon to spend my entire month’s grocery budget on one meal with my husband. However, visions of Keller’s delectable plates did inspire me to pack the family into the car yesterday morning and drive ten minutes down the road to the brand new Bouchon Bakery, which opened last month here in LA. If I can’t have the full-on Keller experience, I at least wanted to try a small bite.
My expectations were high. On the ride over I pictured myself walking into a quaint French-style bakery; the aroma of fresh baked puff pastry and roasted coffee perfuming the air. I imagined the pastries I would eat – light, flaky, buttery with a hint of crusty, salty sweetness. I thought of the memorable food and inviting atmosphere I’ve experienced in bakeries such as Miette in San Francisco, Bovine Bakery in Point Reyes, Huckleberry in Santa Monica and Clementine in Century City.
My fantasies came to a screeching halt when I stepped foot into Bouchon Bakery. What I experienced was something more akin to Starbucks: a small, dark, run of the mill place that looked like any average chain operation – no soul whatsoever. I felt duped. Because instead of a superior product made with love, I got a generic pastry with a designer label – the culinary equivalent of expensive jeans that fall apart after a few washings.
My dry, day-old-tasting croissant left my throat parched and taste buds asking: So what’s with all the hype?
With multiple restaurants across the country in the “Thomas Keller Restaurant Group” (TKRG) I suppose Keller can’t keep a pulse on everything that has his name on it. It’s no surprise that something seemingly microscopic, like a croissant, might slip through the cracks. But I can’t help wondering: what is the cost of expanding to the point where your food has lost the culinary magic that you’ve become known for?
Please allow me to say that my intention is not to bad mouth Thomas Keller. In fact, I expected to write a glowing account of yesterday’s Bouchon Bakery visit. Truth be told, I find whining about minute details to be annoying, and I don’t believe in bad press unless someone has done something really awful (my stale croissant certainly does not qualify as a major offense).
But my let-down experience got me thinking about the bigger issue of where each of us draws the line in our own work, in whatever field that may be. What motivates us and how do we each define our own ‘sweet spot’ for success? Are we holding true to quality and integrity or are lines getting blurred in exchange for dollars and name recognition?
I suppose then, in the most unexpected way, my stale croissant reminded me that sometimes there’s more heart and soul in a good old-fashioned garage band, than in a flashy rock star.
Come to me at sunrise -
Soft body
Dripping
Warm beads of honey.
Whisper
All the places you’ve known -
Scarlet petals,
Gilded pollen rides,
Wax combs
Filled with your amber light.
Kindred soul:
Pull me from a world
I no longer recognize.
Take me home
To your ancient hive,
A portal
Of forgotten familiarity.
{JL 9/25/11}
"Sunflowers" by Vincent Van Gogh 1888
Fall is the season of harvest. It’s a time to reap the rewards of patience: sitting through the cold of winter, tending spring’s new growth, watching summer’s profusion come to its fullness. With the first day of autumn arriving yesterday, things are at their peak right now. There is a fullness in the air as well as the soil. It feels as though you could pull something magical out of the sky and hold it in your hand.
Of course there are seasons in our own lives as well: jobs, friends, lovers, family. Cycles are especially prevalent for those of us who express ourselves creatively – the artists, writers, poets, cooks, craftspeople and musicians, to name a few. Our work tends to peak at different times of our lives. Often we have to wait through long periods of drought before we reap even a small outwardly recognizable harvest.
We are all motivated by different things, and each of us sows our field with different seeds and expectations. We define our harvests in different ways. In an age of ‘instant celebrity’ the pleasure of the process is often neglected, if not forgotten altogether. There is an expectation that posting a video on YouTube offers the chance for an instant record deal. Or that a mention in a magazine guarantees that millions of books will be sold. We forget that creating something out of nothing takes time and dedication, often requiring us to work in anonymity for many years before being recognized, if at all.
We know that Vincent Van Gogh, now one of the most famous painters of all time, painted over 900 works, but sold only one painting during his short lifetime. His “Sunflowers” painting sold for tens of millions of dollars after his death. Van Gogh originally painted this work to decorate the residence and artist studio that he briefly shared with fellow artist Paul Gauguin. In letters to his brother Theo, we learn that Van Gogh painted the sunflowers not because he adored the flower, but because he wanted to decorate the bare walls of the rented house, and begrudgingly could not afford to hire live models as subject matter.
So then, where does this leave us? What is the point of all of it? This open field offers both the freedom and the burden to define success for ourselves. What is it that makes our work worth doing? Is it money? Fame? As a basically unknown writer, I still write and create every day. Of course it would be nice to reach a wide audience and to eventually move into that small cottage on a large piece of land that I picture in my mind. Believe me, I do hope to get there.
But for now, I’m choosing to reap the harvest which is the enjoyment I feel in expressing myself through my writing, my garden and my food, whether or not anyone else is watching. There is immense value in creating for the sake of pleasure – its an invisible treasure you can carry in your pocket, wherever you go.
The garden is adjacent to the yard, but feels tucked away once you're in it
As the Official Garden Lady at my son’s primary school, I don’t just get to wear mismatched outfits, a large hat and a laminated badge. I also get to witness how a few planter boxes serve as a microcosm of how life works.
Every week we meet for a few hours after school learning about where food comes from. We have a good time digging, finding worms and ladybugs, weeding, watering, pruning, sweeping and planting. And every week I am amazed at how it all plays out. Today was the first Garden Club of the school year, and so it all begins again…
My son shows a new student and his mom the garden for the first time
There are The Regulars who I know from last year. I love them. They know the lay of the land: what to do with the hand shovels; where to fill the watering cans; and how to maneuver the red wagon through the maze of kids and coiled hoses. They arrive with smiles on their faces, are glad to be there, and then get down to business. They make my volunteer job a real joy. I can leave them alone for a few minutes and trust that they are not going to throw soil in each other’s faces or eat plant food when my back is turned.
Then there are the First-Timers. Shy, timid and unsure how to ask where they fit in with the gaggle of kids, I have to seek them out. I coax them into the environment like a newly transplanted seedling. They need time to acclimate. Once settled, you can see the wonder in their faces, the joy. Sometimes they even tell me, “Miss Jill, this is the first time I’ve ever planted a plant – EVER – in my Whole Life!” Their exuberance is innocent and genuine – such a pleasure to witness and support.
Unfortunately there is a third category, which I have to come into contact with from time to time. These are the wayward kids who are passing through between kickball and pick-up time. They use the garden as just another place to carry on with their playground antics: swinging shovels, pointing sticks like toy guns and on occasion, committing the cardinal sin of Garden Club: picking a plant before it’s ready. They make it not very fun for the rest of us, and test my skills in patience, compassion and keeping my language G-rated.
Today a group of drifters came in as a break from their flag football game. Unlike the Regulars who outwardly discuss how much they love being in nature and watching their food grow, I could tell these nine year old boys were most interested in stirring things up – but not in a good way. Dirt was flying, and they tried to implement a ‘digging race’ between the boys and girls. I was doing my best to keep the peace without having to resort to throwing them out altogether.
It all came to a head when, as an attempt to extend the proverbial olive branch and re-direct the energy, we gave the newcomers a tour of what was growing. I let one of my favorite Regulars – a fourth grade boy – lead the way. He pointed out our artichokes, strawberries, herbs and the last of the tomatillos. But it was the watermelon that proved too hard to resist for the drifters. A seedling we had planted last spring, there was one sizable fruit on the low growing vine that had made it through summer neglect. We should have known better.
After the tour, the boys were on their way, but within five minutes of their departure, my favorite fourth grader discovered the offense: not only had one of the boys pulled the one and only not-ready-to-pick watermelon right off the vine, he had stomped it into mash on the ground.
This set the garden Regulars into a tizzy. We now had a crime scene on our hands.
The ‘good kids’ were beside themselves about what had happened, how unfair and simply unkind it was. “We worked so hard, we planted that watermelon months ago, now we’ll never get it back.” It’s an innocent and sweet response – and they are right.
A group of us walked across the yard to talk to the offenders, explaining that we expected them to be respectful of the plants and of all the hard work we had put into the garden. I told them that we’d taken care of that watermelon for almost a third of a year and they destroyed it in five seconds. No surprise – the boys could care less.
Their indifference put my fourth grade helper over the edge and he insisted that I either make them pay for a new plant or purchase a watermelon from the store that the garden club could eat as a snack. I liked where he was going with this, even though I told him I couldn’t press charges. My six-year-old son suggested we solve the problem by installing an electric fence around the plants. The fourth grader’s response to my son was not that this would prevent us from actually getting into the garden, or would be dangerous, but that “electric fences cost, like, $500, so we can’t afford it.” The consensus of the rest of the group was that I never let those boys in the garden again.
I told the garden club kids that I was as disappointed and upset as they were. But I also tried to point out that while we lost the watermelon, we’d had a great two hours in the garden and that we should focus on the positive, like the fun we had and all the new veggies we’ll be planting next week.
Truth be told, it’s hard to know what to do. How do you have a response that is, well, responsive, without being over reactive? Do you give the offenders another chance to redeem themselves, or would that turn into just another opportunity for them to be destructive? How do I convey to the Regulars that I’m there to protect their hard work, while not being exclusive of the kids who perhaps made a one-time lapse in judgment?
So much love goes into that school yard garden: a watermelon is not just a watermelon.
Mistakes and disrespect come in every form, at every age…so does kindness, gentleness and forgiveness. Today I witnessed both. Such is life in the schoolyard garden.
Everyone (mostly) works together, and every day in the garen is a new adventure!
Catnip and Borage blend into a beautiful display
The trees offer beauty, protection, mystery and in this case...rattle handles
The idea was born in a little log cabin, in the middle of a pine forest.
Eight of us came together, and in that setting, we became a family. We had found each other, and that weekend we were there to find and connect to something far greater than we could ever imagine. Our teacher, a Lakota Medicine Woman (who is also a Pipe Carrier), spoke about the tree people, and the land and the ancient spirits that all of us could feel and see around us. Inside that portal, two days felt like two years.
A fellow student showed us how to make the rattles in the traditional way. We gathered sticks fallen from the trees that watched over us – these would be the handles. We cut and soaked elk hide and used sinew to stitch the rattle head together and attach it to the wooden base. Beads, shells and bells were used as adornments. Then we filled it with dried beans and found objects like stones and acorns, bringing the music to life. Tobacco, sage, dried lavender and prayers were offered. We knew we were not alone.
I was resistant and uninterested at first. I did not want to travel all the way into the mountains to make a craft project – how naive I can be! Funny how what we resist most can be the very thing we are meant to do, something that brings us the most joy. Because as clichéd as it sounds, in the moment of making my first rattle, I felt like I’d waited my entire life to sit in that cabin, with that group, forming that magical, ancient instrument with my own hands.
When we sat down to begin the project, some force inside that tiny wooden cabin came to life – like we had all been there before, and were back again to complete a cycle, or maybe to begin a new one.
I was completely overcome with the beauty, simplicity and history of the rattle. The sum of its parts – each so individually important: the tree that gave its tiny limb, the elk that gave its skin, the bird that gave its feathers, the ocean that gave its shells, the earth that gave its stones.
The bulbous head of the rattle is achieved by filling the sewn elk hide with compacted sand and then setting it in the sun to dry. You are supposed to leave it alone so that it can harden into a perfect shape. My friend told me to leave it alone. I could not leave it alone.
The rattles we made in the woods, drying in the sun
I kept touching it, picking it up, feeling it. What was this ancient instrument? And with each gentle touch, a little more sand escaped. The end result was an instrument with a ‘mistaken’ shape – instead of having a round head like everyone else’s, my rattle formed itself into a heart.
And so the idea of the Love Rattle was born, or perhaps it was shown to me, directing me where I was supposed to go.
Within a week of returning home, I’d purchased my own entire elk hide, beads of every color, semi-precious stones, shells and bells to adorn all of the rattles I wanted to give away as gifts. Before I left the woods I collected dozens of sticks on the forest floor to be used for handles. Asking for permission from mother nature to remove something from such sacred land, I could feel the trees delighted that I was going to use their tiny cast off limbs to make music back in the city.
The process of making the rattles is time consuming and hard on the hands; sometimes puncturing the skin and leaving finger tips numb for days. But I love every step of it: thinking of the recipient and choosing the right handle, cutting out the hide, soaking it overnight, sewing it together, filling it with sand and letting it dry in my garden in the afternoon sun, finishing the rattle with colorful adornments and feathers, filling it with rice, love and prayers, bringing it to life.
So many people have asked if they are for sale – they are not. They are a gift from the heart, my heart. They are a tangible piece of something that moves through me, from one source to another. No two look alike, and each heart head dries to a slightly unique shape, though they are all cut from the same template.
Recipients have called them everything from magic wands to talismans. And for those who understand their power, they know they are so much more than just the sum of a wooden stick, some hide and a few beads. They come from deep within the forest, from a time and place that existed very long ago, that is reaching out to us again now.
Gathering the sticks that will become rattle handles
Yes, I did leave a few sticks back in the forest
The elk hide arrived tightly rolled - Jones is very excited about it
All things should look pretty - including the sand which I gathered from a beach in Venice
"Flower" and "Pearl"
"Awakened Dreamer"
"Crow"
"Midnight Moon"
"Inner Voice"
"Homecoming"
A yellow rose in my garden, symbolizing friendship and love
When you are extraordinarily lucky, you meet someone who supports, encourages and lights up your life like nothing you’ve ever experienced before. They change everything. There will always be your life before and your life after your time with them. You are never the same.
I strongly believe that while the body dies, the soul inside of it lives on. The deepest part of who we are is immortal, and it’s this essence that connects us all together. It is always there, taking different forms, showing up exactly when we need it, in a way we can recognize, even if our minds have trouble understanding. I wish I had a logical, scientific explanation for this. I do not. But it’s something that is as real to me as the air I breathe, which I know keeps me alive, though I cannot see it.
I met Marylee when I was 13 years old. I was in awe of her sense of joy, love, generosity, passion and fun. She never held back, on anything – ever. She was the definition of living life to the fullest. I think she lived three lifetimes in her brief 56 years.
To me she was a mother, friend, confidant, and mentor. In short, I adored her. We had 16 amazing years together. Soul mates come in all forms, and she was definitely one of them.
Together we loved food, gardening, art – basically anything that was delicious, beautiful, tactile or fun. We loved to spend all day in the garden, sometimes visiting three plant nurseries in a single day. Then we’d get dressed up for tea or a yummy meal. She was all about pleasure and enjoyment, something she helped me explore and discover for myself.
When Marylee died I was four months pregnant. I could not mourn; I had new life inside of me. Connecting with a loss that great would have destroyed me. In a sense, my unborn son protected me from that. His tiny body growing in mine kept me insulated. As I watched her body and face become unrecognizable in her final days, I sensed that some part of her soul was imparted into my belly.
Life moves on and I was now a busy new mom. In 2007 I timidly decided to take a meditation class. I had never meditated before. But a hectic home life with a crazy toddler prompted me to give it a try. I needed to do something. Since running away to Tahiti in search of calm was not an option, I knew I needed to find some inner peace without having to actually travel anywhere.
The class was intense, powerful and extremely helpful. We were taught many exercises, one of which was called the “Rose Exchange.” Our teacher asked us to imagine our heart as a rose which we exchanged silently with a partner in class. It was a beautiful way to practice the transfer of loving energy.
The next day I decided to try it again alone at home, this time imagining that the person sitting across from me was Marylee. It the three years since she had died, I hadn’t really tried to connect with her. I didn’t know how, I didn’t think it was possible.
But the class was opening me up, and though it felt awkward at first, I pushed forward. During this ‘exchange,’ I was surprised to find I got a very strong sense that Marylee was actually there, and that her heart’s rose was a vibrant yellow color.
It was her birthday the next day, so I decided to take a bouquet of yellow roses with me to her garden plot at the cemetery. I left the flowers beside her name, and for some reason, even with the heavy storm, I decided to take a drive around the large cemetery, which dates back to the late 1800s.
A large free-standing crypt far on the other side of the property caught my eye. I felt this strong sense that I was meant to get out of my car, in the pouring rain, and look inside the glass windows. As I approached the little building, which was clearly a family crypt, I found myself immobilized when I got close enough to read the name on top: Lee.
Lee was a nick name that Marylee occasionally went by, and it’s also the middle name we gave our son to tie us together. I slowly approached the leaded glass windows, soaked by rain at this point. I didn’t care. I looked inside, a bit scared at what I might find, and though I knew I was crying, I could not discern the tears from rain: the entire interior – or heart – of the tomb was covered with hundreds of bright yellow silk roses. They covered nearly every surface of the walls.
Ever since the first yellow rose, which I now know symbolizes friendship and love, it has re-appeared many times: when I need to feel a connection to Marylee but especially when I’m doubting it. The same year I gave Marylee a yellow rose on her birthday, I had a special visit with the bloom on my own. As a treat, I signed up for a session with a personal trainer named….Lee. He arrived holding a single, bright yellow rose and said, simply, “I know today is your birthday and when I saw this in my garden, for some reason I felt it was meant for you.”
The rose kept appearing but I still had trouble believing. My heart and mind were at odds. Was all of this a coincidence? Always a skeptic, I still needed more ‘proof.’
So I sat down around that same time and tried to contact Marylee again to ask if all of this was real. As a very logical person, this was way out of my comfort zone. But I did it anyway.
I sat down on the floor with no script, instruction or plan. I basically ‘imagined’ myself connecting with her. I asked her for a sign that she was with me and sat there, eyes closed, waiting. Would I ‘see’ her or feel her brush my shoulder like in the movies?
For a long time nothing happened. Then I heard a loud buzzing sound and decided to open my eyes, figuring that nothing was going to happen that day. I went looking for what I thought sounded like a large fly. What I found was a bee buzzing around my family photos on a table in the corner of the room. In the nearly six years I’d lived there, I’d never seen a bee in my house. There had been flies, moths, mosquitoes and even birds, but never a bee. I opened the window to let the bee out. Then I sat back down, one last time, asking for a sign. Three more bees immediately came through the back door and once again hovered around my family photos.
What was happening? I knew nothing about bees, or animal symbolism or ways in which souls can communicate. Marylee would have known that I was a skeptic, and that I’d need some sort of ‘proof.’
So I did the next logical thing we do in our modern world and Googled ‘bee symbolism.’ I read in awe:
“Bees are considered to be messengers between worlds. They symbolize rebirth, immortality and mother.”
I was stunned.
I also learned that bees symbolize achieving your dreams, doing what seems impossible (based on their body weight, bees technically should not be able to fly) and enjoying the sweetness of life that is the reward of hard work (honey). Bees live in the garden (as I often do) and transform the heart of flowers into a golden, sweet elixir. What could be more perfect?
Even though the bee (and the yellow rose) kept visiting me at exactly the right moment, my mind was still holding me back (I am a hard sell). I could write ten chapters on all of the magical synchronicities that have occurred between Marylee and I (since her passing) but one thing in particular finally made me a believer. I’ve never looked back since.
It was April; almost a year to the date of when the yellow rose (and the bees) first appeared. I was on Rose Avenue, down the street from Marylee’s old house. I was walking to my car after a yoga class, past a café where she and I had spent many fun afternoons. I was running late and needed to pick up my son.
But for some reason, I felt compelled to walk into the café. I was not hungry. I did not need to use the restroom. Something pulled me in – by then I had learned to trust the inner voice calling me.
I walked into the café and looked around, still not sure why I was there. And then there it was, pinned high on the wall: a nearly seven foot tall watercolor depicting a redhead in a garden…dancing with a bee. I was in shock, as I had spent innumerable times meditating as a way to connect with Marylee – always picturing myself in the garden with her as the bee. I caught the artist’s faint signature. It read, simply, “JT.” My name is Jill Tracy – I was looking at a mirror of myself.
Stunned, I spoke to someone at the café and inquired about the work. I was told it was installed the previous weekend, on April 20 – Marylee’s birthday.
It was also explained to me that the artist’s intention for the painting was to symbolize a relationship or communication between the redhead and the bee, something that took place in the garden.
I knew I needed to purchase this painting, which was far more expensive than anything I had ever imagined giving myself permission to own.
I had a personal savings account that I’d held onto for a long time. The cost of the painting was within 100 dollars of what I had left in my account. Fears of being too lavish or irresponsible almost crippled my decision. But I studied art, I love art and I knew this painting was meant for me. It really did symbolize believing in all that is possible, and I knew Marylee was telling me that directly, and wanted me to live with that reminder every day, never giving up on my dreams.
This felt like a once in a lifetime experience – I decided to go for it. I made an appointment for the sale of the artwork. When the time came to go to the café and pick up my precious item, I could not find my checkbook anywhere. With no way of paying for the artwork, and now running late for my appointment, I needed to stop at the bank.
And the whole time I knew intuitively that all of this – each and every last part – was happening for a perfect reason, even if that reason was not initially clear.
I put on one of my nicest dresses and adorned myself as if attending some sort of ceremony. For me, this purchase was ceremonial. The painting symbolized my crossing over to recognizing, believing in and experiencing a world that had previously seemed impenetrable. It also symbolized believing in my dreams which was something Marylee hugely supported. She had always encouraged me to push far beyond what I thought I was capable of, “You have to look for a path you cannot see,” she’d tell me.
I could feel Marylee around me as I entered the bank and walked towards the teller to obtain a temporary check. I knew I could have quickly filled out the slip of paper at the counter, but something made me want to take my time with it. If this entire experience was really a ceremony, I wanted to honor each step.
I saw an empty desk and chair on the other side of the bank. Whoever worked there must have been at lunch or out that day. I sat down and watched my hand slowly write out the letters and numbers. Then I signed my name – something I’d done thousands of time before, but rarely with as much care.
With the completed check in my hand, I wanted to get to the café as soon as possible – I was excited and didn’t want to be late. But then I remembered to slow down and savor each part.
Right then something on the far end of the cubicle, on a table behind the desk, caught my eye. It looked like a greeting card, but I wasn’t sure. I don’t usually make it a habit of being nosy in people’s personal space, but I couldn’t help myself – it was out in the open, after all.
I got up and walked over to the card so I could see the image up close.
This is what was on the cover:
A painting of a redheaded fairy dancing in a lush, green garden, surrounded by bees.
Under the image, it said, simply:
“Thank You”
This photo does not do justice to JT Steiny’s watercolor, which is an impressive 6.5 by 5.5 feet, and covers the entire wall of my workspace, reminding me to savor the sweetness of life and never give up on my dreams
