A few weeks ago our family took a quick trip to Boston, Cape Cod, and Newport. Brett and I are both training for the Brooklyn half marathon so we both needed to do a long run one of the days we were away. Brett found a trail on Cape Cod just a few minutes from our hotel. Problem was, I’m used to a lot of scenery or people watching on my runs. I need distraction. While a Cape Cod run sounds like it would involve beautiful ocean views, this one did not. The trail was in the middle of the cape along an old railroad that has been turned into a paved trail. It was pretty, just not what I was expecting. So instead of a big loop that would lead me back to where I started or at least a run along the ocean, I would need to do four miles out and four miles back with large trees on either side of me, passing only a handful of other people over the course of an hour.
The first four miles ended up being easier than I thought. I let my mind wander and allowed the monotonous view of trees lining the trail to become bumpers of sorts for my thoughts to stay between. When I hit my turnaround point, I was feeling strong and ready for the second half.
This year has been a kind of sabbatical for me. A turn around point. With both kids in school full time I have more time to myself than at any other point in my life. I turned 38 years old, which I recently learned is the average age of Americans. I’m right in the middle. And for the first time in my life I am walking through a season without a real sense of what I want to do in it. I had some ideas and I explored them, but I kept coming up against the thought that I was just trying to recreate something I had already done before. There’s nothing wrong with that. Sometimes there’s a lot right in doing something again. But sometimes it can feel like watching perennials bloom. Tulips and daffodils are beautiful, but they’re predictable.
At some point this year I started to get scared that over the past almost decade of being a mother and letting go of my career, I lost a part of myself. Now, here at this turn around, I am realizing that I haven’t lost myself at all. Instead, I’ve become more of who I am. And maybe this bigger, more fully (but not completely) realized version of myself just doesn’t fit into the things I used to do. Maybe the reason this turn around is so hard is because I am so used to just pushing ahead. I’m used to watching the perennials bloom as I run straight ahead to the finish line. Turning around has always felt like a backstep. But maybe turning around is really just an opportunity to get back to the beginning. To start again.
Spring is a season of growth, and growing seasons have always felt loud to me. When the flowers really bloom they are vibrant and showy and transform a city or mountainside with a sense of joy and hope. When I have been in a growing season, I have wanted to share that growth, clip those offerings and arrange them in a vase for all to see. Sometimes that’s good. Sometimes offering a beautiful bouquet of how we’ve grown is exactly what the growth was intended for. But sometimes I think we clip those flowers and put them in a vase where they only live for a breath longer, when what we really needed to do was let ourselves keep growing uninterrupted.
I keep thinking about a spring day in Montana a few years ago. We were back in late May to see family, which is not our typical time of year to visit. Norah and I went on a short hike with our sweet dog, Lilly, up the canyon near my mother-in-law’s house. The photo at the top of this letter is from that hike. Norah in her white eyelet dress, wind gently blowing her curls as she stops to look at the wildflowers growing on the mountainside. I can’t stop thinking about those flowers right now. They grow every spring, popping up when they’re ready, quietly adorning the mountains with vibrant colors. Predictable, yes. But in a less formal way than those perennials.
I think at this turn around point I’d like to scatter some wildflower seeds and see what grows. I’m not sure what will come up, but I have never been disappointed to stumble upon a new-to-me flower on a hillside. I want to resist the urge to cut them off, make a bouquet to display. I want to let myself grow quietly, uninterrupted. I imagine most wildflowers will never even be seen by human eyes.
Porter’s Gate has become one of my new favorite bands. I’ve mentioned them in this letter before, but I’d like to point you to a new song of theirs. It’s called Brother Sun (Giving Glory!), and the general idea is that the sun, moon, wind, they all do what they do simply to give glory to the Maker. Here are a few of the verses:
Brother sun, sister moon, your light shines from the heavens. Giving glory, all the glory, to the Maker.
Gentle wind, welcome home, you’ve been traveling with your song, singing glory, all the glory to the Maker.
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Sweetest rain, serenade pouring down from the heavens. Bring all your blessings, every blessing from the Maker.
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All you people join in song. There is work to be done. For the glory, all the glory of the Maker.
Turning around can feel scary. I don’t know if wildflowers will grow from the seed I scatter. I don’t know if they’ll ever be curated into a bouquet for others to see. But maybe that’s not the point. The point is not to put anything on display. Maybe it’s just for the hillside. Just for the new discoveries. Just for the glory of the Maker.
So this spring, I’d like to bring the quiet of winter along with me. I’d like to learn how to grow like the wildflowers. The second half of that run on Cape Cod was even better than the first. I was no longer afraid of boredom with the lack of distraction. I was looking forward to more time with my own thoughts. I have my legs beneath me now. I’ve found my stride. I remember the potholes to look out for and I get to see the trail from a different perspective. I made it back to the start with energy to spare, and I get to begin again.
So friend, what kind of spring are you in? Are you starting again or in the middle? Or a little bit of both? Are you in a season of growing loudly, curating what you’re learning to share with others? Or are you being pulled to a more quiet growing season?
I’ll tiptoe back into your inbox in the middle of summer, but don’t hesitate to reach out in the meantime,
Jodie
P.S. A programming note:
I started this newsletter a little over a year ago with the intention of exploring the idea of finding stillness in the transition between seasons. I have loved keeping the conversation going with you when you hit reply and tell me what you’re thinking about. I have been encouraged by your kind words and especially when you share these stories with other friends, inviting them to come along. This newsletter has become my favorite place to share my words. I’ve noticed I have shared less on Instagram and my blog in the past year in favor of weaving stories together here. And even though I have only sent eight newsletters in the first year, I still find myself wanting to say less and listen more. So I will only be sending four letters this year. One in the middle of each season. Turns out, I’m learning to practice stillness in the middle too, not just in between.
If you’re new and you’d like to read any of the newsletters you missed, you can find the full archive here.
P.P.S. Here are a few things I was reading and listening to in the transition from Winter to Spring.
Brother Sun (Giving Glory!) by Porter’s Gate
But in the meantime, my dear, you are growing. You are tired and might be scared, and you may have lost too much. But you are not finished yet. Not today. // Sarah Bessey’s newsletter was written by Kate Bowler a few months ago. And well, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of either of their words.
And so I choose to be more than a mother. I choose the expansive, bigger, more inconvenient life. Because I believe it makes me a better person. Which in turn, helps me become the kind of mother I want to be: joyful, present, loving, but most of all: alive. // Jillian Stacia wrote this gorgeous essay titled I Am Not an Octopus for Coffee + Crumbs
I Was Wrong and I’m Sorry: Some liberating lines I am learning to add to regular conversations // I am nodding along to almost everything Lore Ferguson Wilbert has been writing lately, but this was one of my favorites.
I also picked up the book Prayer: Forty Days of Practice by Justin McRoberts & Scott Erickson. Each prayer is just one line with an image next to it. These simple prayers have been some of the best meditations and reflections I’ve read in a really long time. The one I read yesterday was particularly timely – “May I never grow tired of starting over or helping others do the same. My hope is always in renewal and resurrection.”
And finally, for those interested, Norah and I are still enjoying our two person book club. Here are the titles we’ve read since the last newsletter was sent out:
Tristan Strong Punches a Hole in the Sky by Kwame Mbalia
When You Reach Me by Rebecca Stead
Rules by Cynthia Lord
One Crazy Summer by Rita Williams-Garcia
When I’m not reading books for upper grade school kids, here are a few of the adult books I’ve read recently in case you’re looking for something new.
I Hope You Stay by Courtney Peppernell (A delightful collection of poetry and short prose.)
The Body: A Guide for Occupants by Bill Bryon (I learned so much and walked away feeling that every human body is both miraculously beautiful and kind of gross. Every single one. Isn’t that kind of comforting?)
Why Are All the Black Kids Sitting Together in the Cafeteria? By Beverly Daniel Tatum (Written 20 years ago, Tatum included an updated introduction that shows how relevant this book still is. It was on my to-read list for a long time and I wish I would have picked it up years ago.)
A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini (So incredibly written. I realize I am very late to the party here but this story will stay with me for a long time. This is one I listened to and I was completely enraptured.)
Still: Notes on a Mid-Faith Crisis by Lauren Winner (I wanted to underline almost the entire book. It earned a permanent spot on my nightstand so I can pick it up over and over.)