Musings

August 6 marked the midpoint of summer. In Colorado, until recently, we’d experienced an extremely hot and dry season with smoky air-filled days due to the fires occurring in our state and elsewhere.

Without going into details, January was a month filled with personal messages to slow my roll and not force myself to jump into anything beyond what was most immediate.

October was a month of both-ands: the birth of a book and the death of a family friend in California. Both have left me filled with a mixture of emotions, including gratitude, joy, and grief.

All went well as I lifted each pot to the deck—about eight inches off the ground—and slid them back to their designated spots … until I came to the last one. As I squatted, put my hands on either side of the pot, and lifted, my lower back seized. The excruciating pain was immediate, and I dropped the pot to the ground and grabbed the frame of our backyard swing for balance and support while taking deep breaths.

I’ve been in a dry spell lately with my writing, which has been an uncomfortable place to sit—especially since I had a commitment to myself to get at least one blog on my website and one piece on Substack each month.

I refuse to label what’s been happening as writer’s block, a term I try to avoid using. What I’ve been experiencing feels more like a fallow time. Just as a field is left unsown for a growing season to restore and strengthen the land, it seems I’ve needed nourishment, most especially from other people’s writing. With the pace of my editing prior to my fall in November, I had dropped off from doing any personal reading.

Over the past five months, however, as I’ve continued to heal, it’s as if I’ve required the sustenance of others’ words as much as rest, movement, and healthy food.

On February 18, I was cleared by my surgeon to begin putting weight on my left leg. Eventually, with the help of PT, my intention is to be fully mobile with no limitations. The success of my surgery has made that outcome not only possible but a very real end goal. In about three months, I should be walking unaided. I was told it can take up to three months, but to remember that because everyone is different, it might take more time … or even less. However long it takes, the weeks and months ahead will take patience, perseverance, and my full commitment. This reminds me of the process of writing a book—a process I’ve experienced as an author and as a writing coach.

As we approached the Winter Solstice in December, I was introduced to the concept of wintering by writer and artist Anna Brones . Through her, I learned about author Kathleen May and her book by the same name. I’ve since begun reading May’s book: Wintering: The Power to Rest and Retreat in Difficult Times .
Anna also wrote about her perceptions of the month of January. She calls this month the “in between.” Contrary to what most of us have been taught about the first month of the year and the need to hit the ground running, she sees January as a time of hibernation, marination, and percolation. I love her perception and the reminder to take our cue from nature.

The blog that follows was written before the election took place—I purposely wrote this prior to November 6, knowing I would have my own thoughts, feelings, and emotions to process; knowing that the election results would leave us with winners and losers; knowing that we would have voters who are thrilled and overjoyed, voters who feel devastated and disheartened, and even many who will be angry.
Rather than project the aftermath of such sentiments before I’ve had the opportunity to sit with my own, I chose to focus on another aspect of our humanity: compassion. And what especially brought this front and center for me were my recent health issues. So I’ll start there …

Summer reminds me of what I loved most about being a child. I couldn’t wait for school to get out, for days filled with bike rides, roller skates, shorts and midriff tops, going barefoot, donning bathing suits, and lathering on Coppertone lotion. I can still smell the Coppertone. Days spent at the beach or at our local swim resort or our neighbor’s Doughboy pool were some of my most favorite times. And nights that included a bike or car ride to our local Baskin-Robbins were the absolute best!

We define our quest for perfection by all we attempt to do and what we accomplish, not realizing that our perfection comes from allowing ourselves to be who we are, in all our splendid imperfectness. Our imperfections are what make us beautiful—inside and out. It is from our acknowledgment of being perfectly imperfect that we discover grace and humility, compassion and kindness, and above all else, love of self and others.