Love

Dear Love,

When the dishes, cutlery, and platters finally found their way back to their places, the island was given one last wipe to mark a clean kitchen and a job well done. 

I returned to the space to find my once pristine island now housed the bottom of a roaster. An irritating surge flowed through when Mark walked past me towards the entrance. 

I knew, within a breath, I had a choice. I could bug him about cluttering up my tidy island, or I could choose to turn to the landing, which was now clean of all the leftover Christmas drinks. He had used the roaster to bring the drinks to the fridge in the basement. 

In that one breath, I chose to feel grateful for the tidied-up drinks. Then, I put the roaster in its rightful place while Mark headed outside. 

My day fills to the brim with those kinds of choices. And I wonder if you, dear Love, are somehow involved. 

About two years ago, I was in an office with my 30-year-old daughter and a pyschologist. During the final assessment, to learn about her autism. I turned to her, feeling crummy and said, “I’m so sorry that we didn’t get this assessment earlier. You’re 30. I should have seen this back when you were 10. Then, life might have been easier for you.” 

Within a breath, she said, “Life was hard, and life was good. What matters is that you let me be me.”

Thirty plus years ago, shortly after I moved onto this farm with Mark, we visited Agnes, the mother of Mark’s finance, a relationship he had before he met me. Jacquie, Agnes’s daughter, was killed in a car accident.

Thirty years ago, and I remember this moment like it was yesterday. After Agnes parked the car, she opened her trunk, took out a wooden cradle and a doll and said, “Where’s your little Kyra?”  (3-year-old daughter, who I brought into my marriage with Mark). 

Agnes knelt down beside the cradle with Kyra by her side, “This is Jacquie’s. I thought you would like to have it.”

Agnes has visited our farm for thirty years, remembered birthdays, and bought Christmas presents. The last card I received from her, written inside, “Thank you for being in my life, Bonnie. You are a wonderful daughter-in-law and a beautiful mother to my grandchildren.”

Dear Love, I don’t exactly know how you do it. But, I do know that when we listen to what is, you have us turn towards what we ultimately need. Places to belong. Paths of forgiveness that have us let go what no longer is. You have us weave in, step through, turn towards, let go, so we find our way home.

Love, 

Bonnie