Timelines and Spirals

If you follow me on Instagram, you know that I’ve been mulling over a thought I first encountered in Elizabeth Strout’s Lucy by the Sea (2022). In it, the title character considers the fact that she can’t remember the last time she held her children, even though there was certainly a last time.

Some of you shared how heartbreaking “last times” are, whether we’re aware of them or not. Others took a more lighthearted approach, mentioning the good last times (last time to change a diaper!) or suggesting that we can’t live in the past.

Both approaches assume life as a series of straight lines on which we can either look forward or look back. Endings are sad because they are final.

I find more resonance in the image of a spiral or coil. Every ending is a beginning. The last time I held my daughter was the beginning of more independence for both of us. Bitter and sweet are always bumping up against each other.

In a spiral, nothing is behind you for good. You can gain some distance, but eventually you’ll circle back so that the past is nearby once again. Think of special anniversaries or moments when a memory hits you because you've re-encountered a place, a smell, or a song. Your path has circled back, not to that moment, exactly, but near enough that you could reach out to touch it. And then you keep living and it grows distant again.

Put another way, “Everything that you love, you will eventually lose. But in the end, love will return in a different form” (Susan Cain in Bittersweet, 2020). 

Hospitality

Have you ever experienced synchronicity? Those times when the universe puts something in front of you so often you can't ignore it? 

I keep bumping into conversations, books, social media posts, and podcasts around the idea of hospitality. The topic always involves a bit of tension. Introverts vs. extroverts, openness vs. boundaries, entertaining vs. providing. 

One way of thinking about hospitality is through the lens of cultural. Certain norms are expected based on cultural heritage. Southern Hospitality, for example, might conjure images of a front porch, sweet tea, and gossip. In other cultures, hospitality means hours of planning and party preparation.

As I've thought about what hospitality means for me, I've realized that my version is modeled after my maternal grandmothers.  I'm calling it Pioneer Hospitality. It's often spontaneous, and it's guided by these general rules:

1. Whatever I have, I'm happy to share. This includes my food, time, and attention.

2. If you're capable, help yourself. No one has time/energy to make a fuss.

3. If I show up at your door, same rules apply. I will bring something to share and I will not expect you to fuss over me.

No Apples

When I finished writing and editing This Year, Lord, I got a modest offer from a publishing house, and it felt like a huge victory. I pictured my book finally getting into the hands of readers. As I read through the contract, though, I was reminded of a fact I had known but forgotten. 

The author writes everything inside the book, but the publisher owns the cover. 

I called the representative who sent me the offer and asked what the process for cover design would look like and whether I could have any say in it.

“Oh, sure. We can send you a couple of stock photos and you can let us know which one you like best.”

My heart sank. The collection of prayers I’d poured my heart into were likely to be wrapped up in a sepia-toned picture of an apple on a wooden desk. The authenticity on the inside would be packaged in a cliché. 

I didn’t need to think about it and call him back. I declined the offer right then.

 You may know that for The Dutch House, Ann Patchett asked a Nashville artist to create the portrait for the cover of the book.

If it’s good enough for AP, it’s good enough for me!

I sent a message to Nashville artist and friend, Eric Peters and was thrilled when he agreed to take on my project. I sent him the manuscript, along with notes on the style, tone, and colors I was drawn to. 

And I forbid any apples or wooden desks.

Eric got it exactly right. He captured the range of feelings and circumstances that the prayers represent, from elation to lament.

I can’t wait to get the book and its beautiful cover to you later this year!

Let it Grow

Back in the spring, I cleared space for what I pictured being a flower bed. I sprinkled packets of seed mixes to grow flowers that would attract pollinators and repel pests around my garden.

 A few days and some rainfall later, I realized I had a problem. I’m not familiar with the millions of weeds that grow in Middle Tennessee. Nor am I familiar with all of the flower varieties in the seed packets. I didn’t know what to keep and what to allow to grow.

It seemed my only choice was to let it all grow. 

So I did. 

Every now and then, I’d notice a thorned nuisance and there was a lot of grass to contend with, but mostly, I let everything grow. I’m sure a Tennessee native (or maybe anyone) would have wondered why I was taking such good care of a weed patch. Fair question.

But now, I have flowers blooming! And if you stand at just the right angle, it looks like I have a flower bed.

Today’s lesson from the garden: There are times when it’s right to let things go. You don’t have to know everything, and everything doesn’t have to be perfect for beauty to show up.

Planting Perennials

I came to appreciate perennials when we bought our last house in Texas. We moved in just as summer turned to fall, so I didn’t do much with the yard or flower beds. We endured a heartbreaking winter that year, including a late-January surgery. During my recovery, I mostly stayed holed up inside.  

One day, in a burst of grief-fueled activity, I went outside and started cleaning out the beds. I was delighted to find daffodils about to bloom! The significance of its beauty hit me like a blinding light. A month later, we had tulips, followed by lilies and then irises. The previous homeowner had left a gift that would return every year. 

I decided that wherever I lived after that, I would plant perennials, beautiful reminders of resurrection.