Blowin' In

Perhaps, it is not that I am forgetting my mother’s litany, but rather, her words have become part of my cells, my heart, my soul. I walk with her spirit each day in hope that I can share in her light.

In our family, the children and their adored cousins always wore Irish sweaters on St. Patrick’s Day. We have photos of the young crew all lined up at the windows of the hotel where they could watch the parade in warmth and safety, until they were old enough to march down the avenue ...

On one early February walk, Lucy and I passed by a familiar pine tree, but an unsettling whoosh passed above our heads. In the quiet of the night, I heard a solitary whoo and signaled for Lucy to stop.

Above all, we need to allow ourselves the grace to understand that the outcome may not be perfect, that life is not a script, but rather a glorious opportunity for revision.

I too am distracted by the rain as it falls on the birds, on the trees, and the fleeting violet of the mysterious lilac bloom. My thoughts are formless and lack the purpose of the cowbirds or the red-beauty of the cardinals. Perhaps all I need today is ...