Lately, I’ve been learning to accept the reality that it is not only important, but critical to rest. Rest is absolutely productive.
Instead, I will change the narrative to simply:
I can rest when…
While there may be 1 million things to do, at times it becomes imperative to rest so that we can recharge. When we arise, we will be rejuvenated and capable of accomplishing all that our hearts set out to do, when we are meant to do them, with joy and grace.
On the Fourth of July, my daughter was not yet five and a half weeks old. As I expected (yet not fully accepted), not much was getting done besides my one and only priority: keeping her alive. While that may sound dramatic, it’s true. I remember my grandma telling me that a first birthday party is not for the baby – rather, it’s for the parents to celebrate the accomplishment of keeping their baby alive for the first year.
We were still very much in first-time parent survival mode then (and still are now). So you can probably imagine my husband’s reaction when I told him, quite proudly, that I was going to make a cherry pie with the cherries he had just bought from the store. I had recently seen one in a marketing email from our favorite local bakery. Their beautiful, professionally crafted cherry pie was the image of summer. It had a golden brown lattice laid perfectly atop ruby red cherries, and was sprinkled with extra large sugar crystals. Exquisite. Inspiring. Enough to get me to say “I think I’ll try making my own!”
He knew this energy of mine. He had gone back to work already, but with today off, we had two sets of hands to care for our new baby. I was desperate to jump on the opportunity to go above and beyond for our little family. Before I could get very far, my husband lovingly reminded me that I hadn’t finished our little one’s birth story that I intended to write, another big task that I hadn’t (and haven’t yet) finished. Instead of running around, going to the store, buying all the ingredients we didn’t have in the house, and then spending hours in the kitchen baking a pie, I could just eat the cherries and write the birth story if I felt like being productive in honor of our family. Huh. Why didn’t I think of that? Also, did I fail to mention I don’t like warm fruit? This includes cherry pie.
I was simply after the image of perfection. When in reality, there is perfection in the simple.
Today, my cherry pie was going to the farmers market. My daughter is eight weeks old, and I was hoping we could make it to the farmers market that’s on Tuesday mornings – something I won’t be able to do when I go back to work in a few weeks. As with any newborn, we are not on a schedule. We are, however, fortunate enough at least to have a routine (though not tied to any specific times of day). I was hoping that we would make it to the farmers market before it closed at noon. By 10:30AM, I realized my fate. Between feeding and pumping and changing diapers over and over again, I still hadn’t showered. I decided that instead of going to the farmers market, I would put my effort toward first figuring out how to shower and still watch my baby. While still a difficult task, this was clearly more of the “low hanging fruit”.
I’ll be honest, this blog is a bit of cherry pie. A seemingly frivolous, daunting task, and a bit of a distraction from other necessary work (i.e. making dinner, which I’m currently putting off). I know though, if I keep up with it, it will become a masterpiece and something that I’ll be proud of one day. For now, I think I’ll just eat the cherries. 🍒
Fog horns blared from cruise ships leaving port. Seagulls squealed and squawked overhead. This business trip left only a little time for fun, and I made the most of all I had.
I explored the winding indoor hallways at Pike’s Place Market, along with the open air shops selling gorgeous flowers and fragrant soaps. The market closed at 5 p.m., but I was still able to enjoy walking through as the vendors were closing.
The first Starbucks ever had a long line down the block, so I only poked my head inside. Instead, I stopped at a cute little ice cream shop, and enjoyed a chocolate covered sprinkle cone with a scoop of cookie dough ice cream on the pier.
Afterward, I took myself to the Space Needle, the most iconic puzzle piece in the Seattle skyline. I spent two hours up there, taking it all in. The thrilling, tilted glass bench on the top level, and the daunting, rotating glass floor on the bottom. 360 degrees of marvelous views: Puget Sound at sunset, Queen Anne Hill, and of course, the city skyline (minus the star of the show, my current residence in the sky). I dreamt of outer space and what it must have felt like in 1962, with very realistic hopes of reaching the moon “before this decade is out”.
The next day, I attempted to get a famous cinnamon roll from Sea Wolf in Fremont based on a recommendation from dear friends of mine. Now, these must be good because they were sold out by the time I got there. When I asked if there was anything similar on the menu, the guy at the counter denied it saying there was “nothing quite as special”. Dejected, I made my way back to the hotel, but I couldn’t resist stopping again at the pier.
It’s as if the water was calling me. And good thing, too. I parked and walked up Pier 66, to the landing. The day before must not have been all that clear because lo and behold, there was Mount Rainier in the distance. How did I miss that before? Has anyone ever been surprised by a mountain? Perhaps only a girl from the Midwest.
“The breakfast club” I said, holding up my brown bag as a form of a toast, and took my seat next to an elderly man, my companion for the next four hours. He was eating a pungent breakfast burrito and I had an Asiago bagel with butter. Asiago was Grandma’s favorite. He offered to let me put my things on his tray while I got situated, a kind gesture met with an abrupt and unintentionally shrill “you’re good!” as in, “I got it”, or “stay in your lane, bud.” I knew I had come on too strong, and my introverted husband would have been mortified at the thought of being so social this early into a flight. Luckily, despite my loud self-introduction, we sat mostly in silence. He read his paperback, and I worked on the cream sweater I started two years ago when I first picked up crochet. A conversation starter for sure, bringing yarn work on a plane. I brought it out at our cruising altitude of 34,000 feet. He leaned over and asked in a very thick accent, “Are you making a frock?” Not sure what a frock was, I replied “a sweater.”
“For your husband?”
“For… someone”
I struggled sheepishly to find the words to politely describe that I was making it for myself.
“Ah” he said, perhaps knowingly, “for someone.”
“I think it will be too big for me”, I added.
He mentioned that his wife enjoys knitting and asked if I had any troubles getting through airport security on account of his wife’s knitting needles were 15 inches long and sharp. I tapped my finger on the blunt tip of my crochet hook and explained, “thankfully, this one is not that sharp.”
More silence. A pleasant flight.
We began our descent. The sky was overcast. Moody. On the ground were hundreds of pointed evergreen trees. Little houses with brown roofs were sprinkled in between. The dark navy shore could be seen nearby with choppy, warning waves. A mystical fog was hovering over the water.
We landed and my new friend asked me if I was here for work. I affirmed.
“Will you be at an office?”
“Actually, a hospital” and explained that I work in the medical device industry. We talked about his daughter who is completing her residency as a doctor in Chicago, where he had been visiting, and how his wife would be there one more day before heading home tomorrow. He asked jokingly if my company made double wide hospital beds, and followed up quickly with an apology.
“I couldn’t help myself for asking. I’m French.”
We both laughed. What a ridiculous and kooky old man. I think my crochet project and line of work reminded him of his wife and daughter, both whom which he was missing very much. There is solace in the shared human experience. As we parted, he wished me well on my journey and added warmly, “Welcome to Seattle”.
The first thing you will know about me is that I was very close with my grandma during her time on earth. She lived with my family and I, and played an important part in my upbringing. She would get me up in the morning, make breakfast, and get me ready for school. She made my lunch and dinner, and slept in a room downstairs. She was from Norwich, England and moved to the U.S. when she was 26 years old. Her name was Veronica.
My Grandma Roni
Veronica, or “Roni” as she was affectionately known, was feisty and full of character. A Scorpio (from what I hear this is a misunderstood star sign, although I don’t know much about that). She had polio as a child and surgery to remove part of her right calf muscle, making it difficult to walk (I am so grateful for modern medicine). Part of me believes it made her stronger – she had to fight harder and knew she deserved her place in the world.
Before she moved in with my family, she had a one bedroom condo down the street from us, where she lived on the third floor with my Grandpa Jay. Grandpa was a kind and gentle soul – a devout Catholic and an artist in his spare time. He passed away unexpectedly when I was seven years old, leaving behind paintings, paint sets, a keyboard, and various other forms of art. I would spend afternoons painting with watercolors at their two-person wooden table with a half moon shaped leaf, which we would prop up under the ceiling fan to let the paintings dry. I would play with my pink wooden dollhouse Grandpa made, equipped with pink spiral staircase and a gemstone on the doorknob of the front door. Grandpa’s crafts serve as a beautiful reminder:
The things we make, particularly the ones we give the utmost love and care in creating, have great power to live on long after we’re gone.
Perhaps that is why Grandma and I developed such a close bond after he passed. Not only do I resemble my Grandpa (I get told this even to this day, and I’m not sure how to feel about looking like an old man lol), but I have taken interest in many of the things he once did. I love making music – singing and playing instruments. I joined band in fifth grade, starting on the clarinet and soon after switching to saxophone. Grandma loved when I would practice or put on concerts. She came to all of my shows when I did theater. In the summers, I was rarely bored at home. She taught me so many things, including how to read and how to knit. We would walk to the library to get books, or spend hours just knitting on the back porch and making pleasant conversation. Grandma taught me the beauty of slowing down, and enjoying all that life has to offer. She worked very hard, and she also knew when and how to rest.
Lavender
When Grandma got to be older, our roles seemed to have reversed. She had always taken care of me, and now it was my chance to return the favor. I studied Bioengineering in college and was on the Pre-Med track. I became a Certified Nursing Assistant (CNA) so that I could gain experience with patients, but also I knew it would come in handy when taking care of Grandma. She needed help with some basic tasks – cooking, showering, going to the bathroom. My favorite memories of caring for her though, were when I had the chance to wash her feet. As a CNA, I was not allowed to provide nail care for patients’ feet as there is inherent risk for diabetic patients with nerve damage. Unfortunately, in my experience, I had seen many elderly patients go without proper foot care simply because we were not allowed to provide it due to liability reasons. I was able, however, to wash Grandma’s feet at home. Each time I did, we would talk about Jesus and how he washed his disciples’ feet.
Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.
John 13:14-15
I always used lavender lotion at the end, since it was her favorite. Now, any time I smell lavender, I think of her. Our sense of smell has an incredibly powerful ability to seemingly transport us through time. Meanwhile, lavender is also known to have calming properties. Put together, a vivid memory of her and strong sense of calm let me know that my grandma is at peace.
Locket
While this locket did not belong to my grandma, nor did I have it when she was alive, I use it as a reminder of all that she represents to me. A locket is a piece of jewelry worn close to the heart, and filled with something special to the wearer. I keep a little lavender bud in my tiny heart shaped locket. When I wear it, I am reminded of all the ways my grandma taught me to enjoy life and see the beauty in everyday simplicity. I am empowered to express myself and create, to travel and see the world, and to build a home and a life I love. Her memory lives on in my heart. With that, I dedicate this blog to the legacy that is my Grandma Roni.
The Lavender Locket 