Grieving Gardener

Ah, there’s nothing like the first zucchini of the season! HHH carefully plucked it from the vine with reverence, not disturbing the others. Cradled in his arms, he imagined the fresh veggie sautéed in melted butter. Pretty sure I even heard him tell it, “You’re the chosen one.” And for one fleeting, chlorophyll-scented moment, it was.

It was the first golden hour of zucchini ownership when we are still in control. With two vegetable gardens under our care, we’ll have twice the zucchini to peddle to any takers we can find. In the beginning, it’s always easy.

This zucchini, grown from a tiny little plant, was a delightful yellowish color. When sliced, the goodness oozed out in tiny beads of liquid. After melting butter, HHH worked his magic, cooking the squash until it was soft and translucent. It was the best zucchini we’ve ever eaten. But then, food fresh from the garden always is.

Leftovers here at Winterpast are something to behold. Saturday night, as we enjoyed our first garden produce, Philly Cheese steak sandwiches made with leftover filet mignon, a Parmesan-crusted pork chop split two ways, my famous Ziti, and HHH’s marvelous au gratin potatoes completed the menu. Each bite was awe-inspiring, but all that paled compared to the first zucchini of the season, which was perfect in every way.

With each bite, all the water poured into the garden box was worth it. Desert water doesn’t come cheap. After adding up the price of all the seedlings eaten by the squirrel and the price of each watering, I’d estimate the cost of this one small squash to be more than a night out on the town. But, THIS zuk was worth it.

As the fourth girl of five, my mother was done with growing zucchini during my childhood years. Although we grew everything we ate, from rabbit to artichokes, zucchini seeds never made it into the garden. Other than serving it fresh, squash is difficult to preserve. My mother must have put her foot down, refusing to find homes for the abundant harvest that would surely come in July and August.

In three short weeks, our porch will be covered with free zucchini. Anyone coming for a visit will be required to leave with at least two. Before sunrise, HHH will mutter sweet nothings to his garden plants while secreting a five-gallon bucket of oversized zucchinis to Ninja Neighbor’s porch. We’ll enjoy grilled, sautéed, pickled, and spiralized zuk’s, even disguising them in my favorite Ziti recipe.

But let’s not get too far into the summer. The first zucchini was still a miraculous, tender little promise from the garden gods that we can grow our food despite the crazy spring weather and one very hungry squirrel. Beaming with pride, we washed it under cool water while imagining our grandparents nodding with solemn approval.

Despite its inevitable descent into overabundance, the first zucchini is always special. It’s a sign that we’ve survived the frost, dodged the squash bugs, and remembered to water. It marks the true beginning of summer when dinners get simpler, gardens get wilder, and everything tastes crisp and fresh.

Honor that first zucchini. Slice it thin and lovingly sauté it in melted butter. Eat it as if it’s the only one you’ll ever have. Because next week, you’ll be Googling “Can zucchini be used as payment for our next vacation?”

In a world that often feels loud, chaotic, and out of control, prayer offers something rare and sacred. There is stillness and a quiet place of refuge when life is too much to carry alone. It doesn’t require the right words, posture, or time of day. To pray, just show up with your hope, grief, gratitude, questions, and fears.

Deeply rooted in faith, prayer is a way of speaking with God. Beyond religious boundaries, it’s the act of opening our hearts while being vulnerable as we reach beyond ourselves. In that reaching, something shifts as we connect, release and trust.

Prayer isn’t always about asking for something. Often, it’s about surrender. When we’ve done all we can and are exhausted by effort and uncertainty, prayer becomes an act of letting go. Strength comes in a moment of surrender while whispering, “I can’t do this alone,”. Through prayer, countless people have found courage to face a diagnosis, comfort in their grief, or peace in the chaos of life. It may not change the outcome, but it always changes us.

One of the most powerful aspects of prayer is its ability to anchor us in a storm. Life is unpredictable. We lose people we love. Dreams slip away. The path ahead can be uncertain. Prayer doesn’t magically remove the pain, but it reminds us we’re not alone in it. It becomes a steady rhythm in our hearts: “ I BELIEVE. I’M NOT ALONE.”

Whether it’s a grandmother’s gentle prayer for her family, a child’s simple thank you before bed, or the desperate cry of someone in a hospital room, each prayer matters. Each one adds light to the darkness.

Prayer not only connects us with the divine but with each other. The phrase, “I’m praying for you,” is more than kind words. We’re joining hands in spirit and saying, “I care. I see you. I’m holding hope with you.” In this fragmented world, those moments of connection are priceless. Sometimes, the most beautiful prayers are silently given through tears spilled in the middle of a sleepless night. They carry just as much weight and love as those offered in the middle of a crowded church.

Far out on the high desert plains of northwestern Nevada, nestled among sagebrush and wind-shaped hills, a small but mighty prayer group wait without fanfare. This little group has been a lifeline for many, offering not only comfort and connection but, remarkably, a place where miracles have quietly unfolded.

Among them is the story of an 80-year-old who underwent open heart surgery over two weeks ago. Doctors were unsure if he’d survive the procedure, let alone recover. But the steadfast and faithful prayer warriors held him up in prayer. Against the odds, this gentleman is in rehab, walking, smiling, and praying for others in need. His recovery has stunned a medical team, reaffirming to the group what they’ve known all along. Prayer is the ultimate power when spoken in love and unity.

There will be seasons when prayer feels easy and seasons when it feels like shouting into the void. Both are okay. The beauty of prayer is that it meets us wherever we are and doesn’t require perfection. It only asks that we come honestly.

The power of prayer lies not in eloquence or outcome, but in the deep, invisible thread it weaves between us. In time, we may not remember all the words we prayed, but our hearts will remember the comfort, peace, and presence. There is quiet power in being heard. It teaches us to listen, hope, and love beyond what we can see.

If you’ve ever looked at your sensible home and thought, “What this place needs is Roman pillars, 58 bedrooms, and a private zoo,” then Hearst Castle was built for you. Nestled on the rolling hills of San Simeon like a celebrity hiding from the press, this historical mansion is the architectural lovechild of publishing tycoon William Randolph Hearst and architect Julia Morgan. Alone on its beautiful perch, it screams to the world, “I have more money than I know what to do with.”

Hearst Castle was built five miles past nowhere, just off California’s iconic Highway 1. The road to San Simeon winds along cliffs, through clouds, and over the collective dreams of writers like me. Beautiful and dramatic, it feels like a ride through a car commercial, minus the sleek SUV and perfect hair.

Other than cows, elephant seals, and a few zebras, there is nothing for miles along the coastline. That’s because the Hearst Corporation still runs a major cattle ranch there.

Once arriving at the interpretive center, a shuttle bus was waiting to carry us to the top of “The Enchanted Hill,” which is not metaphorical but literally enchanted. The views? Ocean on one side, hills on the other, and Aoudad occasionally photobombing like they own the place (because they kind of do). We were lucky enough to see a family of three sunning themselves on the hillside.

As soon as the bus dropped us off, we were immediately smacked in the face with opulence. Imagine if a European cathedral had a baby with a Hollywood film set, and then that baby inherited a billion-dollar trust fund and developed a taste for marble, gold, and indoor fountains. That’s the vibe.

The castle was designed by Julia Morgan, one of the first successful female architects in California. She and Mr. Hearst dreamed big for over 28 years, creating the castle on a hilltop where his family often camped in tents.

A Mediterranean village, a Moorish palace, and an art museum are all found in the same building. Each room is more exquisite than the last, with a dining hall that looks like the one at Hogwarts. The movie theater is a private screening room with a popcorn machine older than Grammie. The library contains more first editions than the US Library of Congress, while smelling like ancient wisdom and expensive wood polish.

If guests overstayed their welcome, Hearst would simply stop serving them alcohol. Bachelors stayed in one guest house, while single ladies were closely watched in the main house. Mr. Hearst was the only person who could cohabitate with his girlfriend, but then, he got to make all the rules.

Having visited before, HHH and I chose the Upstairs Suites Tour which was a 70-minute guided experience that delved into the upper levels of Casa Grande, Hearst Castle’s main residence. We climbed approximately 367 steps to discover Doge’s Suite, the Gothic Suite, and Duplex bedrooms.

Walking through the massive castle, my mind wandered back to days of black and white movies and glimpses of the one and only Marion Davies……

My favorite rooms of the castle were the matching Celestial Suites, located in the bell towers. These two rooms offer panoramic ocean views while being illuminated by natural light filtered through the structural arches.

No Hearst Castle visit is complete without a visit to the amazing the pools. The Neptune Pool is surrounded by ancient columns imported from Europe. The Roman Pool, an indoor stunner covered in glass tiles and gold leaf, looks like someone tried to bedazzle the Sistine Chapel and accidentally invented perfection.

You can’t swim in them, but you will join others in spending a solid 10 minutes figuring out how to make one your phone wallpaper.

If all that wasn’t enough, the gardens were amazing. Oranges and lemons grown there are donated to the local food bank. Under the clouds and the sea, the roses flourish. Truly a gardener’s delight.

So whether you’re a history buff, architecture nerd, or just really into Aoudad’s and an occasional wild zebra, Hearst Castle is a must-see. Just remember: pack your sense of wonder and maybe a monocle, for the vibes.

Leaving the ocean is always bittersweet, as the waves, salt air, and stillness provide space to breathe, reflect, and hold close the ones we love. This time, saying goodbye was even harder, as we left behind two incredible women who mean the world to us. They are both full of grace, wisdom, and a special strength that leaves a lasting mark on us every time we visit. Their love, wisdom, and humor are gifts we carry home each trip.

After all, it isn’t every day that visiting with an actual Goddess is possible. The Goddess of the Central Coast (GCC) earned that title years ago. To this day, she fits her regal name, often observed floating along the ocean front roads, top down, with tresses floating behind her. Having lived in the same area for decades while creating history along the way, she remembers all the best details of the Central Coast. It’s fun listening to her stories while trying to imagine life during those years when so few lived there.

Of course, no visit would be complete without spending time with Auntie TJ. How was I so blessed to have known and loved her my entire life???? A blessing it continues to be. When the two of us meet up, the giggling and stories begin. The difference now is that HHH adds to the laughter and any observer would believe he’d been with us every step of the way.

Along with visits to our two favorites, there was time to walk along the beach. Hand in hand, we found new rocks for our aquarium that continues to thrive. We had time to discuss upcoming plans for the gardens at Winterpast. Best of all, we had time to enjoy each other’s company in one of the most beautiful places on earth.

No trip to the ocean would be complete without HHH’s signature Steak and Lobster Dinner for Father’s Day. Again, he nailed it and we both ate until we were stuffed. That boy can cook!

As vacations go, there are always some down sides. When booking an AIRBNB, don’t just rely on pictures. A delightful outdoor area was taken over by a group celebrating a graduation for five days. But, the worst was unseen.

NEVER.

NEVER.

NEVER.

Never rent a downstairs apartment. How the landlord rented it to a herd of miniature ponies suffering from ADHD, we’ll never know. There is an AIRBNB that is off our list forever. Enough said about that.

I’ve always loved visiting the ocean. From the time I was a baby, my family enjoyed the beach when summer day temps in Fresno, California were above the century mark. So many memories of surf fishing and deep sea treasures like Ling-cod and rock fish. As little’s, we wouldn’t get out of the surf until we shivered uncontrollably, lips blue from the cold. Sleep came quickly in a squeaky metal Murphy bed under heavy handmade quilts after enjoying the best home-cooked meals. The Central Coast of California will always hold a special place in my heart.

After returning, we prepared for our Grief Share group at church last night. Wednesday nights are a sacred space where no one needs to be “ just okay.” Once a week, shared sorrow brings healing while hope glimmers through the cracks of heartbreak.

It was our turn to provide a little meal. HHH and I whipped up Ziti and French bread. There’s something very healing about sharing a meal with friends. Everyone had a wonderful time, and we’re glad to be back home with our friends. Whether by the sea or among our church family, we’re surrounded by love.

With the suitcases put away and the dogs back at home, we’re ready for a summer of fun. In two weeks, we’ll be sitting alongside Main Street watching the Independence Day Parade pass by. There’s no place in the world we’d rather be this summer.

Here’s to honoring life. Times and places we must leave, those we return to, and the people who help us walk through each one.

We’ve been dreaming of a peaceful beach vacation! The kind with fruity drinks, no responsibilities, and maybe some light toe-in-sand existential reflection. Leaving behind two high-maintenance dogs and a garden that rivals the Amazon Rainforest takes time and thought and it takes Team Winterpast to keep things going during our absence.

Three weeks ago, HHH looked out at our backyard jungle and said, “It’ll be fine. The plants are automatically watered and Oliver and Wookie will be at the kennel. All will be fine. Don’t worry about a thing.”

Last week, we walked through our garden to assess the situation. It was like walking through a therapy session with every plant we’ve ever neglected. Everything in the garden is at a critical time in their life cycle right now. With blooming tomatoes and baby zucchini, the new irrigation system needs to be supplemented with AM and PM watering.

Realizing we’d need to hire a botanist or perform a detailed rain dance, we did the next best thing by making a detailed care schedule. Last night, we handed off the plans to Ninja Neighbor, who will happily water for us in exchange for some cherries! Win! Win! for both sides of the fence.

In an hour, I’ll be off on a two-hour tour to drop the dogs at Puppy Camp for the week. Oliver is a 30-pound Standard Wire-Haired dachshund who resembles Valcor from “A Never Ending Story”. Wookie is a miniature Aussie-Doodle who lost her miniature side sometime ago. Between the two of them, there is never-ending drama. The person who makes all this work is our wonderful friend Michelle at Puppy Palace. We only need to mention her name, and the two dogs lose their mind. Little do they know that they are only half as excited as HHH and I.

This week, packing for myself only took 45 minutes, as I carefully selected clothing for a different climate. On the other hand, HHH assures me that his packing will take 5-10 minutes on the morning we leave. I’ve seen him in action. It’s a thing a beauty when someone can remember everything they need to take and fill their suitcase with speed and grace.

While I’m gone to drop the dogs off at Puppy Palace, HHH will be meeting with a new landscaper to get an estimate for work in the front yard. It’s better that I’m not there to complicate things with extra little jobs.

While on vacation, I won’t be worried about blogging, gardening, or playing ball with Oliver and Wookie. We plan to put our feet up and relax for the entire week, as we find respite from the demands of retirement here on the high desert plains of Northwestern Nevada.

I hope your week is grand. I’ll be back to fill you in on our vacation on Thursday, June 19th. Until then, may spring sunshine and happiness fill your days.

Wire formed into words hangs over my kitchen table. My best friend, CC, is the one who gave it to me as a housewarming present six years ago. Two words. “CHOOSE HAPPINESS!” That’s something everyone in the world needs to do right now. Just sit down and be truly grateful for the blessings in life. No matter what trials we face, we all enjoy blessings, too.

You can’t buy a jar of “Happy” through Amazon. The biggest jackpot at the local casino won’t do it. Even living in the best house on the best street in the most wonderful desert town won’t do it. It sprouts from within, quietly at first.

Happiness strikes a chord in our heart when we find THE ONE THING we’re supposed to do with our lives and do it. I’m finally healed enough to go on with my journey. MY ONE THING used to be teaching. The flames of my passion were never extinguished, but instead, were dwarfed by grief, sadness, and loneliness that consumed me. Years have passed. Now, it’s time to try new gifts and talents.

No one can leave a box of happiness on your doorstep. It doesn’t appear with prideful demands or expectations. It just happens.

There’s no measure to tell you when you’ve found enough. Like painting, a small stroke transfers into a smear and smudge. Soon, friends begin to ask if you’ve been painting the hallway. You might not even notice at first. Internal happiness blooms like that, and soon, a noticeable change occurs.

“This is the true joy in life, being used for a purpose recognized by yourself as a mighty one. Being a force of nature instead of a feverish, selfish little clod of ailments and grievances, complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy. I am of the opinion that my life belongs to the whole community and as long as I live, it is my privilege to do for it what I can. I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle to me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing it on to future generations.”― George Bernard Shaw

Now, isn’t that is just the best quote ever? “Feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making you happy?” I just love that.

I intend to be thoroughly worn-out before I’m thrown into the scrap heap.

I refuse to waste another moment as a “feverish selfish little clod of ailments and grievances complaining that the world will not devote itself to making me happy”.

I choose to be a force of nature, like the wind.

What affirmations! The only person who can turn on the happy is me. It’s a choice.

A few years ago, I had the most wonderful lunch with three couples, a mom, and a daughter. Each couple carried heavy burdens. One couple would enjoy their mother on this earth only a few more days. One couple shared only three legs between them. Everyone had scars from Covid. I was the “Plus .5” that no one wants to be. Each one of us had reason to dominate the table with tales of woe. But we didn’t choose to do that.

Instead, there we sat after church, brand new friends enjoying each other’s company. For two hours, we laughed, enjoyed our meal, and got to know one another. Even the teen daughter, who had ever right to be very unhappy due to the 50 year age difference between us, added humor to the lunch, enjoying little conversations with everyone at the table.

The man that had the best attitude of all had just had his leg amputated a few months before. With an infectious attitude of kindness and gratitude, he had us all laughing with his amazing stories during this most special lunch. It was an afternoon I will remember.

So, make a choice today. If you must, “Fake it ’til you make it.” We all have our “somethings” that are unpleasant and painful. If we take inventory, we’ll see that the basket that holds our “beautifuls” overflows into a colorful puddle that can look a lot like happiness.

More tomorrow.

If you’re ever in town, plan to join us at church on the second Sunday of the month to sit a while and share some of the finest food anywhere in the state. Church members plan their dishes for week to create a buffet of deliciousness. Yesterday’s menu didn’t disappoint.

Sadly, it was very different. Last month, we lost our dear friend Miss M. We can only wonder what she’s enjoying at the Sunday Potluck in heaven. As someone that loved to cook here on earth, she always brought interesting and delicious food for us to try. She is dearly missed and will be remembered for a very long time.

Our Pastor has vacationed for the last two weeks. Enjoying a much-needed visit with family and friends in Texas, he should have returned rested and happy. Instead, he came back with the dreaded virus we’ve all been plagued with this year. It’s taken him and his sweet wife down, leaving us to enjoy another week with the visiting pastor. The meal was a nice “Thank You” for a wonderful sermon on God’s grace and mercy.

Our church family is small but mighty with a core group that make things happen every week. There are the men who open the church and put out the flags. A sweet guy makes sure the inside of the chapel shine and the fountain bubbles with fresh water. Then, there are the church gardeners who are working to make the church gardens grow. (That would be HHH and me, with help from our friend, James).

As the vegetable garden thrives, it’s hardly recognizable. Starting with dry garden boxes filled with hundreds of volunteer marigolds, the new vegetables are growing by leaps and bounds. Tomatoes are caged, while extra marigolds sprout everywhere. Some even made their way to Winterpast to triple in size. Marigolds are such happy flowers.

With summer just around the corner, yard work has been great exercise. The Meditation Garden is now starting to bloom. The red Hollyhocks make me want to sit and make the blooms into little dolls like I did so many decades ago. Day Lillie’s are coming back to life after years of struggling without water.

An old fountain from Miss M’s house will be a new bath for the church birds. Many of them probably follow us to the church, knowing we’re doing something cool. Although we haven’t found any more adorable ducks, I can report that our favorite little friend found a new home. Living with other rescue ducks, she’s now officially called Lucky Duck. All’s well that ends well.

Spring is a season of hope, growth, and new beginnings. It’s a time to give thanks to God for the wonders of creation that stir our hearts with joy and gratitude. The flowers that blossom around us fell like little bursts of happiness, reminding us that sometimes, God laughs in color.

While all of us were working with this and that, the food began to arrive. Kentucky Fried Chicken and Port-Of-Subs topped off our meal. From tri-tip sandwiches to tiny cherry cheesecakes, the menu was delicious. Visitors enjoyed the meal with us, taking “To-Go” boxes, along with warm wishes for their safe travels and return.

After the meal was over, it was time to clean up. Many hands made the work light. In a very short time, everything was clean and back in order.

Our Pastor did stop by to get a box of food to go for he and his wife. Our prayers are with them for a speedy recovery and return back to health. As we all know, returning from a trip, sick with a virus isn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

Whatever you do this week, if you don’t have a church, think about finding one. There, you will find your very own group of new friends. HHH and I attend one of the nicest churches in the country. A true blessing in this crazy world.

More tomorrow.

During the winter of 2024-2025, mice established themselves in our very clean garage where they found warmth and some food in the empty beehive. As we trapped and trapped and trapped some more, it became a war. It was them or us. With opposable thumbs, in the end, we would win.

Being young enough to battle the vermin, HHH and I are quick to identify signs mice are around. If you know of elderly shut-ins, check to make sure they aren’t living with a silent killer. Mice can chew through wires, contaminate food, and spread dangerous diseases, including Hantavirus Pulmonary Syndrome (HPS). This deadly virus is transmitted through rodent droppings, urine, or saliva. If you suspect a mouse infestation , cleaning it up quickly and safely is critical.

HPS is a rare but serious respiratory disease that humans can contract when they inhale particles contaminated with the virus. It killed Gene Hackman’s wife, while also killing three people in Mammoth Lakes, Ca. We’ve had several people become sick with this illness just 40 minutes to the west. HPS is very serious.

The virus can become airborne when contaminated materials like droppings, urine, or nesting materials are disturbed. Common exposure scenarios include when:

• Cleaning out barns, sheds, attics, or garages
• Opening cabins that have been closed for the winter
• Sweeping up rodent droppings

Symptoms usually appear 1–8 weeks after exposure. They can include:

• Fever, muscle aches, and fatigue
• Headaches, dizziness, chills
• Nausea, vomiting, and abdominal pain
• Shortness of breath (as the lungs fill with fluid in later stages)

There is no specific cure or vaccine for hantavirus, and the condition can be fatal. That’s why prevention and proper cleaning is critical.

Before you clean up, confirm if you’re dealing with an active or past infestation. Common signs include:

• Droppings (small, dark pellets)
• Sightings
• Gnawed food packages or wires
• Nesting materials like shredded paper or fabric
• Musty odors
• Scratching or squeaking sounds, especially at night

If you are experiencing a problem with mice, ventilate the area. Open windows and doors for at least 30 minutes before you begin. Leave the area during this time to let fresh air circulate.

Wear protective gear. Protect your hands with rubber or latex gloves. Protect your lungs with an N95 respirator mask and wear safety goggles.

Spray all droppings with a commercial disinfectant or a solution of 1 part bleach to 10 parts water. Saturate all droppings, urine stains, and nesting materials. Let it soak for at least 5 minutes.

Use paper towels to collect the waste. Place all contaminated materials in a plastic bag. Dispose of it with your outdoor trash.

Wipe down all affected surfaces with disinfectant. Wash hands thoroughly with soap and warm water after removing gloves.

If your health is impaired, ask someone else to come and do the cleaning.

For large infestations or heavily contaminated areas (like insulation), consider contacting professional pest control or biohazard cleanup services. Disturbing large amounts of contaminated materials can significantly increase the risk of airborne exposure.

To keep mice from coming back, seal entry points, eliminate their food source, and reduce nesting areas. After the initial cleanup, check for signs of return in the form of dropping, gnaw marks, or sounds. Set traps if needed.

Mice infestations aren’t just inconvenient, but a serious health hazard. With hantavirus a real risk, especially in rural or dusty environments, it’s crucial to clean thoroughly and carefully.

Always prioritize safety by wearing protective gear, using disinfectants, and never stirring up dust or droppings by sweeping or vacuuming. When in doubt, don’t hesitate to contact professionals.

Stay safe—and rodent-free!

June 3rd, 2025 — High Desert Plains of Northwestern Nevada.

The bees are humming.
The skies are blue.
The coffee’s hot.
The page is blank.
And so is my brain.

It’s the fifth day of June, and Winterpast is looking like she was handcrafted by a benevolent God in a particularly generous mood. The high desert plains of northwestern Nevada are glowing under a brilliantly blue sky begging to be written about. Poets would weep. Photographers would swoon. Yet, here I sit, fingers poised over the keyboard, mentally Googling “how to get struck by inspiration without also getting struck by lightning.”

Today there is nothing to write about. Which means, of course, it’s time to write about that.

Leaning into the emptiness like a literary chaise lounge, I’ll describe the void while making it dramatic. Make readers question their own productivity and whether maybe, just maybe, “not writing” is actually a high art form.

When you’re stuck, it helps to get poetic about your surroundings. Take Winterpast, for instance. The windchimes are creating a Zen-like experience imitating the ten Solfeggio frequencies. The bees are out there humming like tiny, winged jazz musicians. Somewhere, a lizard does a push-up while our mother Robin comes in with another beak full of worms for her babies. I wonder if the bees ever suffer through days in which nothing new is going on.

Thinking about it, “nothing to write about” is its own strange kind of abundance. Because even in the absence of narrative, there is still the presence of a day well-lived. A day where the wind hums, the sky sparkles, and the only pressing plot point is whether I should make another cup of coffee.

Some days are meant for breaking news. Others are meant for quiet skies, a blooming garden, and lazy bees.

Today is the latter.

And you know what? That’s enough.

Dear reader, if you find yourself with absolutely nothing to write about — congratulations. You are now in the exclusive club of creative people whose brains have momentarily checked out to admire the view. Take a breath. Watch the bees. Name a cloud. Write about writing nothing.

Because sometimes, that is the story.

And it’s a pretty good one, too.

A quiet kind of grief comes with sorting through someone’s belongings after they’ve gone. Though heavy, it’s not the kind that overwhelms with tears in the moment. This slow and steady sadness hums under the skin while echoing in the creak of a floorboard or faded certificates on the wall.

This past week, a few of us have gathered to clean out the home of our friend, Miss M. On a Saturday evening, she was enjoying a brand new porch swing with friends. Two days after being rushed to ICU, she was gone. Just like that.

Born in Kansas, SHE’d lived a simple life, full of love and laughter reflected in her things such as mismatched mugs with stories behind each one, clothing she always claimed was “on sale,” and books filled with thoughts she never got to share. Her house was humble, but her warmth hid in in every corner.

We didn’t rush the process. We touched each item, paused over photographs, passed around trinkets and memories like communion. It was heavy, as grief always is, but also strangely beautiful. There’s something deeply human about handling the pieces of a life that meant so much, even in the ordinary.

Some things went to family. Others to friends. A great deal was donated to the little house behind the church. We all agreed this would make HER very, very happy. Quiet and thoughtful, there was also a dark and funny being that lurked below the surface. We all agree she is up in heaven playing the most beautiful golf courses, something SHE hadn’t been able to do for years.

Packing things from the cupboard while carefully arranging them, I thought about how Miss M’s life extended past her death. The belongings she no longer needed would now help someone who still very much did. It was one of those small, quiet acts of grace that reminded me that we don’t stop giving just because we’re gone.

There’s so much talk these days about legacy or how we’ll be remembered or what we’ll leave behind. Most of us won’t be remembered in history books or quoted in speeches. We’ll be remembered when someone holds a mug and thinks of us or as we’re shielded from the cold by HER warm jacket. In those ways, kindness will carry on through ordinary objects that once filled HER life.

As we finished, I looked back at HER little house waiting to be filled with someone else’s life. My thoughts then turned to belongings that will help the people she never met. Although she’s gone, HER kindness remains. Not the stuff, but the love that lingers within. The care. The intention. The quiet legacy of a life well-lived.”

May we all be so lucky to leave behind something we once called ours that still has the power to comfort, nourish, and warm. Thank you, Miss M, for wisdom and friendship. Now, go get that hole-in-one just around the bend.