A few years back, we had five couples over for dinner. One couple was new to the group, our friends from a neighboring town. A glass of wine and a few appetizers into the evening, a story about a friend of theirs came up – something about singing John Denver’s Take me home, country roads in a bar halfway around the world. Turns out, eight out of twelve counted this same man among their friends.

I was reminded of this again last night. In conversation with a couple who landed in Vermont via the upper Midwest, we found dear people and beloved places in common.

Many of us have played six degrees to Kevin Bacon (George Hosker, Kyra Sedgwick, Kevin Bacon), but I’m not sure with the larger implication in mind: that there are person-to-person Ley lines connecting us to each other – powerful, sacred, and rarely seen or appreciated. In this strange and interconnected reality, none of us are disconnected. Blind to the connections, perhaps, but never living in isolation.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: The misconception that anyone on this planet is truly unrelated.

Loving what does: The adventure of finding those person-to-person Ley lines.

Adelle’s is a funky coffee house in Dover – or it was until it was sold a couple months back. Trader Joe’s in Hyannis is one of my favorite places to shop – or it was until I moved to Vermont. Purdue is my brother Bill’s graduate school – now his alma mater for over a decade.

The Purdue logo disappeared off my mug years ago, leaving no trace that it was ever there. Nothing that fulfills its purpose over many years remains in its original condition. Yet, I still call it my Purdue mug; its history and origin have remained in my mind long past the outer signs of them.

I’m not sure this is a good thing, at least not as a general rule. Refusing to recognize the state of something as it is in favor of what it once was can be a form of reality denial. This isn’t so important when it comes to a coffee mug, but when it’s about people it becomes much more so. If I refuse to see the changes in those around me, I may not honor who they are in the present. Trying to make decisions for my twenty-something sons as if they were still children; refusing to recognize when aging relatives need help; trying to live as if I were still in my thirties rather than my late fifties. If I see what was instead of what is, I am blind to the precious gift that life offers now. Ages and stages change for all of us. Perhaps the key is to love each person in every age and stage rather than get too attached to the ages and stages themselves.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: a particular age and stage – for myself and others.

Loving what does: the person who grows in and out of ages and stages.

Most mornings, my breakfast is the same: granola with milk or yogurt, and a cup of coffee. The granola goes in one of my blue bowls. My coffee is on a three mug rotation.

The bowl is just the right size for granola – a gift from my older son. The mugs vary in size, with a different width lip on each; all three were gifts as well. When I drink my coffee, I think of the person who gave me the mug, and I am thankful for their presence in my life. I don’t need a mug to be thankful for the ones who gave them, but they are an every third day reminder of someone I love.

It’s unwise to get over-attached to breakable things that are in constant use, or to mistake the mug for the person who gave it. If all three break tomorrow, it would be the end of three mugs – not the end of the world or a loss of the people who gave them to me. I think it’s well worth the risk of breaking them to keep them in constant use. After all, what good is a mug that never makes it out of the cupboard?

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: too closely associating an object with a person.

Loving what does: thinking of the people I love, and being thankful for them.

Long before I moved into this home, someone put stickers on the windows and doors. Not the removable kind meant for windows, but the kind that you might put on binders or wire-bound notebooks. They were promotional materials for international travel programs, complete with phone numbers and website addresses. They were placed in the middle of the glass doors and side window panes, blocking an otherwise beautiful view of the Green Mountains. Once the furniture was in place and the majority of the boxes unpacked, my husband and I devoted several hours to removing them.

On the next sunny afternoon, I heard thumping on the back door and an occasional tap on the side window. It was birds. They were flying under the porch ceiling and bumping into the glass doors, doing their best to take what looked like a clear flight path through the house to the front yard. The purpose of the stickers suddenly became clear.

I replaced the stickers with origami – something applied with a piece of scotch tape and easily removed. I can change them in a few seconds whenever the mood strikes, and future residents of this home can do the same. A little obstruction in the view is a small price to pay for the beauty and safety of birds in flight.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: The particular means of caring for non-human neighbors.

Loving what does: Keeping the birds safe, and remembering that this world was made for them as much as it was for me.

You can’t see it, but the wind is whipping around, carrying snowflakes sideways before they fall to the ground. I can see them fly, accompanied by the sound of my back porch chimes. But the snapshot, accurate depiction that it is, reveals none of these things. It’s beyond the scope of my camera’s ability. A single instance in time simply can’t offer the depth of the living reality that surrounds it.

I’m not surprised that a still shot can’t give me an immersive and expansive experience of today’s snowfall. Yet, I am sometimes tempted to reduce a person to a particular act or phase – surprised that the still shot of their lives that I’ve taken with my internal camera is just as limited as the one that took the picture above.

All those snowflakes, invisible in the photo, accumulate over time. Patterned by the wind and landscape, they cover the ground and transform the wintry world. All this from tiny flakes amassed over time.

If such is true of snowflakes, could it be less true of any of us? Our moments and years, invisible to my snapshot judgement, accumulate over time. Patterned by our internal and external landscapes, they form and transform us and the world in which we live.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: The snapshot judgements I make.

Loving what does: The unique beauty of a life of accumulated experiences.