“Tell me something good,
just one good thing, just tell me
something that will get me through
the hours the days the weeks that bring
nothing of any goodness, just more
news of other things […]”
Margaret Atwood, excerpt from Paper Boat
I talk too much about the seasons, I know, but Margaret, the leaves are back. They unfolded the first week of May, like they always do, and yet it still somehow feels like a miracle. Something about how the trees sway and shimmer now, with their crowns, something about their gentle bowing, makes me feel like I’m being cared for by the universe. I imagine it’s the way a baby feels in the crib, looking up at the smiling faces of their parents.
Everything else is returning, too. The lilacs. The bridal wreath across the street. The prairie is full of alexanders, spiderwort, and sweet William. Last year’s strawberry plants have their first flower. I saw a monarch in my front yard yesterday, bright orange and wind-drunk. The milkweed isn’t blooming yet, I told them, but now, at least, they know where we are. Hopefully they’ll tell their friends.
I’ve been making things this month, Margaret. All kinds of strange, not-yet-blossomed things. Things that may never blossom—that may remain stolidly green. Shoots that may wither into compost for what comes next, which is fine. Necessary. Good, even. It’s all part of the life cycle. I want to say I love the failures and false starts and dead ends just as much as I love the successes, but that would be a lie. Even so, I appreciate them. I cherish them, in their own way. They are the result of trying, which is just another word for hope.
More Good Things
Speaking of hope, this month I read this killer quote on The Marginalian from Maria Popova’s Figuring:
‘If’ is the widest word of all, the immense alternate universe in which all of our possible lives live. Hope is what we call the bridge between this universe and that one.
I also read a really lovely, really human book this month: The Correspondent by Virginia Evans. [Heads up: it deals, in part, with the death of a child. If I’d known about that ahead of time I might not have read it, but I’m glad I did.]
In the evenings, the kids and I have been piling into bed together. They draw on post-its while I read this book aloud. It’s somehow exactly the right amount of cozy, and I’m trying not to think about how sad I’ll be when it ends.
I listened to these two absolutely wild interlinked podcast episodes (here’s the first one.). Be forewarned, the second episode discusses grooming and sexual abuse, so listen with care.
My dentist office now has an emotional support golden retriever?! I wish I’d thought to take a picture, but when I got out of my appointment he was on a walk. Next time.
On Substack
This piece by Jessica Slice featured a veritable butt-ton of wisdom and a gorgeous Mary Oliver poem that I’ve somehow never encountered before? Thank you, Jessica!
This poem/note by Meg Fatharly blew my socks off, particularly this bit:
Still, I try to feed myself,
speak gently,
call the sadness by its name.
This is not weakness.
This is weather.
And I am learning,
slowly,
how to stand in the rain
Anne Helen Petersen is probably already on your radar, but if she isn’t, she will be after this.
So many people are out there trying to spread hope and kindness. I’ll leave you with one more quote, from What to do When You Get Dumped, by Suzy Hopkins and Hallie Bateman:
Sorrow will come regardless; joy you need to create.
Have you created any joy lately? Or has joy found you? If so, please share! As always (and maybe the unofficial motto of Extra Soft Animal?), shared joy is compounded joy.