An almost-healed ankle sprain has me walking a bit slower than usual, and taking advantage of the many benches Manchester’s downtown offers. That’s how I ended up in this spot on Saturday, seated on one stone bench and facing another – a pause between the bookstore and the woodworkers’ shop. What has hindered my activities for weeks has also opened spaces in going from one item on my to-do list (Easter cards) to the next one (box for organizing). Had I not needed to stop, I wouldn’t have noticed the beautiful curve of the walkway I was soon to take.

The curve itself is an example of functional beauty, but it also offers something in its curvature: a change of perspective for anyone who walks it. What a lovely way to be reminded of the world that lies between point A and point B – and what a grace it is to spend time in the in-between part of the journey.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: The frustration of moving slower than usual.

Loving what does: The beauty that a slower pace and curved path offer.

There’s no telling where they might crop up. One day there’s nothing but last year’s brown grass, the next day delicate beauty in miniature appears with a few green grass blades on the side.

I had nothing to do with their planting or placement, and they don’t seem to be on any particular blooming schedule. But every Spring, they are the first flowers to adorn the yard.

They move me almost to tears every time they arrive, asking nothing of me but awareness and appreciation – and they would be beautiful without those. But my time on this earth would be so much the poorer if I didn’t see them at my feet. So I look for them, and I’m careful where I step. I don’t want to crush underfoot one of the wonders of the world.

I’m doing my best to do the same for the Spirit’s presence.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: Assuming that beauty and holiness will be where I expect it.

Loving what does: The serendipitous.

I agree with Emily Dickinson – hope is a thing with feathers.

But not always.

Sometimes hope is a thing with fronds.

I believe the saying – hope springs eternal.

I’d also add: Spring is a sure sign of eternal hope.

I don’t know what’s coming up in front of Gringo Jack’s, not that it matters much. I do know what’s poking out of the snowy bed at the rectory – not that knowing matters much. The hope of new life is a gift, whether I can put a name to it or not.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: Knowing exactly what that budding life is.

Loving what does: Life renewing itself.

The church voted to sell the current rectory a couple of weeks back. This isn’t because there’s something terribly wrong with it – the view is spectacular, the lot almost three acres, and the home a spacious four bedroom built in the 1990’s. But it just doesn’t quite match up with the current needs of the community or the age and stage that most Episcopal clergy are in – including my husband and me. Such a large home and property will be a wonderful place for a family with young children, pets, and all the activities and possessions that come along with them.

The home inspector came today to take a good look at the house from roof to basement floor and all around the property. He took many pictures and will write a report of the home’s condition so that prospective buyers know what they are getting into with this place. Good wiring. A roof that’s at the end of its lifespan. A few outlets without faceplates, and a functioning dishwasher. The church is selling this house in good faith, and an inspection is part of that.

Taking a good look at things and how they work is something every individual and community should do every so often. It’s a way to recognize and honor the changes that the years bring, and to adjust accordingly – it’s part of living intentionally in the present rather than continuing a pattern that may have been appropriate in the past but may need adjusting.

Leaving Massachusetts for Vermont wouldn’t have happened without just that kind of life inspection, a recognition of the new possibilities that a changing life stage offered. It might have been easier to stay in the same place and pattern, but it wouldn’t have been as much of an adventure…

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: Old patterns that are no longer necessary or helpful.

Loving what does: The gifts and challenges a new life adventure brings.

The wellness class activity was going online comparison shopping for the dinner-for-four ingredients, trying to reduce the cost of the meal by thirty percent. Next was advanced conditioning in the school weight room. A quick climb up the stairs to supervise an independent work period followed; then it was time for meal planning, round two. That was my first day. My second day was stepping into a couple of different rooms so that teachers could do critical assessment paperwork and Zoom meetings. I answered a few questions, helped learners complete their assignments, and did my best to offer assistance where and when it was needed. I didn’t plan any of the activities, I didn’t know any of the learners, and I had to ask for help finding the rooms. None of it was what I went to school for, or what I’ve done in the past in any professional role. Day three as a substitute high school teacher will likely be the same: going with whatever comes along, asking for directions when necessary, and honoring the time and needs of leaders and learners.

Substitute teaching feels a lot like life. Lots of things are out of my control, and where my help and skills are needed are in things I did not devise or expect. I’m not in charge in more than a temporary sense, and it may not turn out as advertised or expected. But I got to meet some wonderful young people; I met caring men and women who show up to foster the lives of others in many different disciplines and with widely different approaches. Patience was needed, and a willingness to ask for help from whomever happened to be around when I needed it.

It’s not what I expected to be doing at this point, and it wouldn’t have been my first choice. But much of what has been holiest and most meaningful came out of the plans and needs of others. That seems to be the beginning of what grows into something I choose – or that chooses me.

Letting go of what doesn’t matter: My limited view on what I think I’m supposed to do at the moment.

Loving what does: Serving God and neighbor where I can in this time and place.

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.