All you must realllly know is that they aren’t slimy at all, but curious little red friends that emerge on well-worn trails after North Carolina thunderstorms. The best time to find ‘em is on a family walk after dinner. The kind where rain is still trickling through the rhododendron leaves and the frogs are singing. Still the prospect of another storm in the distance. Bright raincoats bouncing along the trail ahead. Dogs gone. Run off, nearly every time. 

And they must be terrified, the salamanders, I'm sure, to be so high above the ground and scooped so swiftly up into my 6 year old’s cupped hands. How could they know (for sure) that she would never, ever drop them? I rest easy, because I know she never would. She’s too careful. She doesn't blink when she holds them. She treasures them fully. Been watching for them since she put her soggy shoes on. Their delicate red and spotted body is certainly safe with her. I watch their fast breaths and wide eyes.

Margo holds the salamanders so tenderly, so absorbed by their beauty it’s as if she has caught a miracle. She doesn’t grasp them, just keeps her hands steady. Soaks them up. Tiny wonders.

It’s all a brief moment, she’ll let them go soon without any reminders on my part. No need to force them on our path or into a jar. Let them head back on their own way home. But before she says goodbye, she brings her beaming face even closer to theirs and adjusts her hands again to let them walk around. Eye to eye, so close she could whisper a secret (that is no secret) of how much she loves them. 

Then, just like that, her dirty trail hands and bruised-summer-kid-shins lower down onto the muddy trail to let our new friend go. And after seeing him climb on his way, she hops back up, eyes shining, and playfully dusts her hands off to tuck hers into mine. 

“This is the best, Mom.”

“Yep, it sure is.”

“Can we do this again tomorrow?”

“You bet, my love.” 

… 

(It’s good to be back on the east coast)

Since I wrote last (months ago, sorry!) we moved from Germany back to the east coast. Virginia, specifically. Which is closer to family and mountains and red efts in NC and our backyard here has a glorious amount of flowers and fireflies too. It’s all an adjustment, rich in blessings and lots of growth. We have painted rooms, visited family and hosted family, too. Joined the pool, made friends and I start work as a midwife again in a few weeks. We are all taking a big thankful breath. And I’m trying to enjoy the wonder of it all. Salamander walks always help.

More to come. 

With love from Virginia. 

I don’t know the recipe for manna

You know, that mystery bread that fell from Heaven

(So they say)

Fell to the ground

Tasted like honey

Appeared with the dew

In the middle of the Wilderness

It couldn’t be tucked away (supposedly)

No-just-in-case or back-up-plan

Just wildly hopeful, in the early morning light

Nothing to do but wait, again

Try to not let doubt get the best of you

Try sneaking out at dawn to notice the mystery

(Coffee helps)

And when you find it

Pick up the blessing and savor each bit

Let (whatever it is) be enough for today

And maybe (just once) resist the urge to figure it out

Just go looking for it, the impossible provision

And when you see it, whisper thanks

And try again tomorrow

…

I guess that’s the recipe for manna

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It’s just me and the stars and our curious dog who is thankful for company as he pees (again) on the resilient rosemary bush. I am reminded that this is the dog’s nightly pee spot whenever Margo brings me treasures of crunched, fragrant rosemary she’s plucked and cupped to her face to inhale. “It smells amazing, yes, Margo. Now go wash your hands, please.”

Each night (after lunches are packed and lights turned off) I stand by the green garden planters that have held many hopeful plants in many backyards since their purchase 7 years ago. My birthday garden, purchased by Lulu (my wonderful mom) on a visit while Galen was away. Washington, California, Rhode Island, Germany - these planters have carried a hint of home and a hope of roots.

They currently hold weary tulip bulbs. I could call them ‘dead’ tulip bulbs, because they certainly will not bloom this year, but I hold out a tiny sliver of hope anyway. I ceremoniously buried them here only a few weeks ago, after months of them quietly waiting by the backdoor. So close to the soil they needed, but at the bottom of the to do list, somehow. Even though they mattered so much to my silly heart. 3 little bags of bulbs bought way back in October with the vision of blooming this spring. Purples and pinks and bright stripes. A fun group project. The cashier had no interest in my purchase or personal goals, but I told her how excited I was (in broken German) anyway. Vielen Dank für Ihre Hilfe!

Tulips (as we know) require some pretty basic conditions for survival and success and to share their joyful blooms. Plant them in healthy soil before it gets too cold, give them a little bit of space… and at a minimum don’t let them rot in the bag for weeks on end before planting them. The dog scratches at the back door, ready to go inside.

These tulip bulbs (no fault of their own) likely won’t bloom here but they’ve been deeply loved and whispered gentle apologies to every night since finally planting them. The green planters will move again with us this summer and we will start again with fall plants. Different tulips will surely bloom next spring in Virginia. And I have learned my tiny lesson. I promise to plant this tiny garden correctly this fall. With the right soil, with a little space, before it gets too cold, higher up on the list of important things. It sure would be fun if just one bloomed this year, though. I crouch down and trace a finger in the soil to say goodnight before heading in for bed. I still have a tiny sliver of hope.

So, with that. As I went to share this tiny poem, I thought, “oh-but-also-wait" and wanted to provide context. But I won’t, really. It’s not mine to share or about me, even.

Just know that it emerged after talking with a friend about really surrendering past habits, thought patterns, past energies, past struggles. Embracing new resets. Whatever you need it to be, take it. This one almost stayed in the journal, because it didn’t fully make sense to me. But, it is not for me or mine to keep. It bubbled up after reflecting with a friend on how eventually, it is all alright. And you realize you can put things down you’ve been carrying. (Hope this helps.) (Hope the context helps.)

“I have decided I’m good”

I don’t.

Want to explain it anymore.

Any other way.

There is no more nuance.

There are no more interpretations.

No more questions.

It’s all fine.

Fine.

And I mean it.

Fine, the way fine can mean empty.

The way empty can mean nothing.

The way nothing can mean space.

The way the universe takes up as much space as she wants.

She doesn’t have to ask for boundaries.

I am letting go.

To actuallyfullyreallytruly move on.

I am free to cut cords and stop.

Stop wondering. Stop smoothing over.

I’m better than fine. And I don’t want to talk about it.

(Perhaps) It could’ve been done earlier.

But, we don’t rush Winter’s end, only Spring’s return.

(It’s not Winter’s fault.)

So, I have decided I’m good.

(I saw the sun today.)

And I’m not rushing Spring.

But Winter is really almost gone.

It’s fine.

I’m fine.

I’m good.

I’ve let go.

Because I have decided, I’m good.

Sometimes when I say “careful” I’m saying “control.”

No, I don’t mean it in a “please-just-be-safer-way.” Perhaps, the opposite, even.

Maybe keep doing the hard thing you are doing, but be really full-of-care as you go.

I mean it more as a gentle and intentional mindset, a lens for myself. A reminder to pause and approach this exact-only-moment-we-are-in with care. Slow your breath, calm your voice, be more gentle, be more loving. Hold yourself carefully. Check your tone. Feel your pulse. I don’t have to respond perfectly, I just need to be careful. Not controlling it, but giving care.

The dictionary claims the word careful can also mean something, “done with showing thought and attention.”

Careful is my word for this next year. I think these words choose us, not the other way around.

In a vulnerable skinned-knees-and-elbows-sorta-way, last year’s word was “authentic.” Embracing “authentic” eventually landed me home this past summer in North Carolina playing in creeks behind my childhood home with our kids and sleeping under familiar skylights. Sitting with dogs on the porch in the morning and dangling legs off counter tops while talking with parents in the kitchen. Precious, necessary, sacred time. A reset, a reconnect, a re-everything. Sometimes, you just need to hear yourself think. Thinking for me, is done best with cicadas and frogs and bubbling streams and muddy toes and under the canopy of trees I grew up with. Authenticity wasn’t pretty, but it was really really important. Some would say, critical.

The goal this year is to just sprinkle in more care to the authentic. To recognize needs and slow down instead of power through. Lord knows we can power through. Lord knows we need care.

It’s a way to approach running-behind-schedule-moments, tired mornings and tucked away thoughts that get louder at 3am. A reminder to be full of care when kids are speaking (again)(constantly)(always). When the plan goes out the window. A practice of being careful when something breaks or slips or spills because when has being harsh ever helped anyone, ever. A breath prayer of “Sara, be full of care.”

A way to care-full-y notice the good parts, too. Savoring the extra just-because-hug before he grins and skips off towards his 3rd grade class. Noticing the way her hair gets curlier by the day. Carefully displaying another 3 year old masterpiece on the fridge with her favorite magnet. The care required for learning new (joyful) knitting hobbies and practicing the looping through-up-wrap-around-down-and-off every time so as to make steady progress. A care-full when I make mistakes.

A carefulness to not miss the life giving things that are here for the taking. Never ever again ever skipping the chance to stand in the sun when she shows up in winter. The kids now cheer and yell for me to come chase the sun. Let everything glow pink behind our eyes as we face these bodies toward the light. An awareness of how temporary we all are and how being outside normally fixes some (most) of it. A carefulness to journal instead of overthink. Leaning in, instead of figuring it out myself.

Careful, knowing there can almost always be more room for grace and breath and reset.

Full of care, because at the end of the day it just makes it all a little bit better in a world that is drowning in its lack of care for others. Learning how to (somehow) hold care for hard moments, devastating headlines and daily challenges and still make space for post-dinner-dance-parties all at the same time.

With care,

Sara

It’s unclear to me if we are tucking her in, or if they just want her to know we are ending our day here. Our voices fly across the Atlantic all the way to Atlanta without anyone noticing how impossible that is. When I picked them up from the bus stop earlier today, my 8 year old had clearly been waiting all day to ask if she had died. “We can maybe call back today,” I offer. He smiles a tiny and uneasy smile.

My grandmother is fading.

Fading quickly in her last season of life (as I know it), more noticeably from day to day, hour to hour.

She’s fading from this to what is next. Which, as sure as one can be in their own very-sure-beliefs (or un-beliefs), one will only know fully upon arrival at that very-next-moment what happens at that very-next-moment. That moment after the fading. Somewhere after final breaths inhale and exhale from our physical forms.

As a midwife, I bear witness to first breaths, not often final breaths (thankfully). I imagine my role as someone who can help carve out a sacred and safe space for this little form to arrive. Hopefully empowering families in the process and ideally without turning on all the brightest lights in the room. To facilitate the transition so fully that they can be present.. and see those first moments … while I quietly manage all the logistics that come alongside miracles and science.

But my grandmother is fading out, not fading in. (And yet, even as I write that assumption, I question myself. Is she fading in? Who am I to know).

Either way, she breathes more shallow breaths now, is hopefully in less pain, is briefly lucid and smiling, but mostly resting.

Smiling when she hears old familiar songs from her childhood. Old gospel songs like “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” which I always thought was “swing-whoa-sweet-cherry-eyes,” and I’m not sure anyone ever corrected me. (Southern accents always blur the edges of everything. In the most peculiar ways). Today, my littlest and I swayed in the kitchen to those old gospel songs, wishing our humming had a chance at also making it across the Atlantic.

… “Swing low, sweet chariot…Coming for to carry me home…. A band of angels coming after me, coming for to carry me home”…

My grandmother’s face changes when she feels my father’s hand in hers. He held her the other day, all 82 pounds of her as they moved her to a new hospital bed in her room. Her own children, (my aunts and uncles) circled around with my cousins and a guitar in her cozy bedroom with light blue walls. In a house that hasn’t changed in the slightest in the last 2 decades, perfectly put together. A gallery of her life. Our lives. Framed artwork and photos of grandkids and family reunions at Camp Merrie Woode. Plenty of fragile favorite things tucked up on shelves just above a great grandkid’s reach.

But I’m not there circled close. I’m far away and sad and full of what ifs and quietly replaying voicemails.

Replaying, “Say-rah, this is BBs…” as if anyone else could ever say my name the way she does… did.

And she’s called BBs because we couldn’t say BG… And she’s named BG for Beautiful Grandmother after she earned the title over 40 years ago. She was too beautiful then to be “just a grandmother,” so she was and will always be BG. There are 10 grandchildren and 18 great grandchildren now who still call her this.

As we pulled our three kids close to talk about how BG was fading more today, I noticed their precious wet hair post bath, fresh fuzzy pjs and tired big eyes after a full day… and I recognized (for the millionth time) that my own children are also continuously fading. Always emerging into new and gorgeous forms. I guess I am, too.

It struck me that BG is fading forward, but in the same way we all are. Her fading is more apparent, jarring even. Causing my tired puffy eyes to cry off and on all day. Wishing we could pause the fading, go back and un-pause there. (The same way I talk about my own kids or previous seasons).

And if I’m not watching, I’ll miss these fadings, too. For example, my 5 year old now enjoys making her own bed and singing loudly. Ezra now reads chapter books before bed, negotiating bedtimes and wanting to discuss his favorite characters. The littlest is working on her dance moves and how to hold a colored pencil.

I’m constantly aware of the fading. The slipping into the next moment, the missed opportunities or lack of recognition of the last significant tiniest thing. It can be its own trap; a constant obsession with slowing the continuous fading that prevents you from fully enjoying the only moment you are safely tucked in.

One night, this past summer in North Carolina, my dad and I sat on the front porch, top step, with a big dog leaned against my side. We later learned that as we listened to the cicadas and looked at the stars, a member of the community faded gently and fully into the next. Took his last breaths.

Faded forward, most fully.

We were even quieter and more still after learning this and yet the hum of the woods continued. Stars flickered above (with years between their existence and ours).

Final breaths fading out.

And somewhere else, first breaths fading in.

All with our woods still singing with the cicadas…

All at the very same time.

All fading, in their own ways.

And what I’d give to listen to the cicadas sing from the top steps on our porch when BGs’ chariot starts “‘comin’ for to carry her home...”

Fade gently, BG.

We are right there too.

Somewhere next to the band of angels. All fading with you.

(And you will be dearly, dearly, missed).

As I turned the car around, moving back into the darkness and fog (away from making dinner, our warm house, my promise of letting the dog out, and idea of getting 3 tired kids ready for bed) I reflected on just how out of my norm this was. Because, perhaps surprisingly, I am not the rule-bending “chill” parent in our family. 

“Kind but firm,” is kinda my goal. Out numbered consistently, I try to keep the crew in line and counters clean…sometimes to a fault. 

Though I didn’t actually say it, my reasons for buckle-in-please-and-sorry-tonight-just-doesn’t-work had the tone of ‘because I said so.’ Which is maybe worse than just saying it. 

There was no fighting, no big scene. All three kids buckled in and Dad kissed them goodbye to head back to the office for something urgent. But after almost 10 minutes of listening to gentle sobs and intermittent protests from the backseat, something shifted as I looked in the rearview mirror. Staring out her dark window into the German countryside, she was biting her lower lip, her curving eyes filled to the brim with 5 year old tears. (Tears are actually bigger when you are 5, I’m sure of it).  

As I watched one of the tears make its way silently down her cheek, I suddenly remembered that Margo had been counting down for this. 

This. 

This tiny inconvenient hope and dream that I could no longer rationalize away. 

She had been counting down for two weeks since I had scribbled it on the messy fridge calendar and mentioned offhand that Santa would be at the Christmas event. And just as planned, we had attended the annual Christmas tree lighting, counted down from 10, listened to long welcome speeches and swayed while singing songs and holding hot chocolate. Ezra chased 8 year old friends in the crowd and the big kids caught candy thrown from Army vehicles typically used for anything other than a Christmas parade. It had been dark for over an hour already, and we had just successfully checked another event off my list. Lyle was cold despite being huddled in her father’s arms. It was time to go. 

We had done everything except actually meet Santa. Everything except for the most magical part.

Driving faster now, three little voices started to cheer as I explained our new plan to find Santa. I tried to control our rising hope. We all know disappointment is a hard thing to recover from. Yet as we drove, I silently prayed the line was shorter, Santa was still there, and this wasn’t going to be a monumental waste of time for an already tired heart. 

Parking back in the once full lot, there was no longer a line of giggling kids waiting for Santa. There was no Santa. Anywhere. Tents were all packed up and lights were switching off. Soldiers carried boxes and the sensible families were long gone. I hopped out of the car and ran to the nearest soldier, asking like a lunatic if he had seen Santa. 

Feeling equal parts dumb and hopeful, I stammered that we had driven halfway home, the long lines, cold kids, but that my daughter had desperately hoped for Santa. We came back to try again. 

Without hesitation, he dropped his box and took off running toward the fire trucks, worried Santa was seconds from heading out. This man must also be a father, because he then paused and looked over his shoulder and called out, "What's her name, Ma’am?” before nodding and continuing to run across the lot toward an old man in a red suit.

Hearing his own magical name, Santa slowly turned back toward him, then us, and they both waived. Waived at us, motioning for us to come. We had made it just in time. 

Tiny hopes now erupted into squeals.

We piled out of the car, pulling on jackets. Margo was now crying for entirely different (joyful) reasons. Ezra, 8 years old, was now no longer a skeptic and was fully invested in this “Santa” thing. It was for his sister, so it mattered. 

I felt tiny tears fill in my own eyes, making sparkling Christmas tree lights and fire trucks brighter. 

Carrying a shoeless Lyle on my hip, the two big kids raced ahead and I heard Santa (in his perfect-Santa-voice) bellow, “Well hello Margo! I was waiting for you!” 

When Santa offered a gentle hug, she fully embraced him and buried her little tired face in his beard. He had knelt down, coming to her level for the last bit of magic of the evening. His last encounter. She just wanted to be in his presence.

I mouthed a silent, “thank you” to the solider who stood beaming a few feet away. Mission complete. Christmas lights were hard to see by now, for me, as tears filled fuller, but I thought I noticed them in his eyes too. 

“I was hoping to see you ALL, tonight!” Santa smiled as he stood and stretched and we said a final goodbye. 

Santa now peered through his round glasses at me directly, and slowly nodded, as if to say I had done something right. As if he knew that bedtime could wait (just tonight), dinner would get eaten, that the dog was fine. That this mattered most. 

As if he fully understood that we all need a little more irrational hope. And sometimes, we have to risk big disappointment to find it. And, that sometimes when you’re really really lucky, hope was waiting there all along for you to turn around and see it. To run toward it and embrace it with your tear stained face.

Right on cue, Margo squeezed my hand as she half-skipped back to the car, eyes shining up at me. 

 “Thanks Mom. That was even more than I had hoped for.” 

“Me too, Margo. Me too.”