New Year’s Thoughts

"Coffee Break" by Berit Watkin

“Coffee Break” by Berit Watkin

Wow, February 6th already. Where does time go? I hope you’ll accept my (belated!) well wishes for 2017, pour a coffee, and take a minute to enjoy my thoughts on the new year, which were originally published in the Terrace Standard, January 25, 2017 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” Thanks for reading!

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Hello and happy new year! It is mind blowing to me that it’s 2017 already—that, in fact, we’re already through the first month. Mind blowing. 
 
On the 16th of January, someone close to me shared that it was Blue Monday. The term was unfamiliar to me at first. Apparently it’s a name given to a day in January (often, but not always, the third Monday of the month) that’s widely considered the most depressing day of the year because of a combination of “weather conditions, debt level (the difference between debt accumulated and our ability to pay), time since Christmas, time since failing our new year’s resolutions, low motivational levels and feeling of a need to take action.” (Thanks, Wikopedia. What would I do without you?)
 
But Blahuary isn’t getting me down this year. A sunny holiday to look forward to helped very much (and made me feel spoiled!), but an even bigger boost (reminder) came from an unexpected place—a back issue (May/Jun/Jul 2016, to be exact) of my favorite magazine, Where Women Create.   
 
In her wonderful editorial column, From My Kitchen Table, Editor-in-Chief Jo Packham reflects on the passage of time, contemplates her life, and describes herself thus:
 
“I am 65 this year, and I am having an identity crisis—please do not try to talk me out of it or off the ledge that I seem to be looking over. It is my reality and I am not the only one facing it, who has faced it, or will someday face it. Being 65 is humbling, terrifying, something worth celebrating, nostalgic, lonely . . . a list of adjectives that goes on ad infinitum. But think about it: you can use those same adjectives regardless of what age you turn this year.”
 
Those adjectives really do apply to every age, and although I’m twenty years younger than Jo, the whole article resonated with me deeply. Her insight and descriptions of the ages and stages of life—“mid-20s, 30-somethings, 40-and-counting, 50-and-wishing, 60-and-panicked, 70-and-reflective, 80-and-byond”—struck me as so . . . accurate.
 
What I took with me from the read (now these are my thoughts, not hers exactly) is that we are all dying. We should feel a sense of urgency to live better, to love truer, to forgive more generously . . . to say what we need and express how we honestly feel, to live how we want to live, to conquer our fears (or push on in the face of them!), to embrace new challenges and pursue our dreams.
 
And conversely:
 
We are all living. We should feel a sense of urgency to live better, to love truer, to forgive more generously . . . to say what we need and express how we honestly feel, to live how we want to live, to conquer our fears (or push on in the face of them!), to embrace new challenges and pursue our dreams.
 
(See what I did there? No matter what our perspective on mortality is, how far it seems or close it looms, we should be living fully now.)
 
To heck with “blue” Monday. Each day is new. Each day. We will all (I’m so sorry to say) go through bitterly hard times, but hopefully we’ll find the strength to persevere when perseverance is needed and the bravery to start anew when quitting or ending something is needed or inevitable.
 
We will have regrets, even in the future, regardless of how much we decide here and now to live without them. The trick is to not let them hold us back or keep us down. Make amends and apologize when needed (and it will be needed), but remember: Each day is new. We are dying. We are alive!
 
I wish you so much joy and energy this year—and fun, too. May you embrace life at whatever stage you find yourself and regardless of our ages, may it be true for all us: the best years are still to come.
 
Find activities that bring you pleasure or contentment and do them. Cherish the people you love and who bring you happiness and spend your time with them.
 
Warmest regards always,
Ev

Thanks. No, seriously. Thank you. 

Photo by Kitsilano Neighbourhood House

Photo by Kitsilano Neighbourhood House

My parents used to encourage me to say thank you. A lot. When I was given a gift or present, after someone helped me in a store or checkout line (regardless of whether the “help” was particularly helpful or cheerful), in the classroom to my teachers, and when someone did anything for me, cooked dinner, helped with my chores, etc. Sometimes the results of this enforced gratitude were more robotic than sincere—but nonetheless, being polite, saying thank you, became a habit.


And my parents often took their say-thank-you lecture one step further. “It’s not enough to just say thank you,” they’d insist. “You have to feel thankful.” It sort of annoyed me. How the heck could I feel something I was being forced to say? But as my childhood and teen years progressed, I started to realize that speaking the words did focus me on what I was truly receiving and make me feel genuinely appreciative.

It wasn’t until I was an adult, however, that I learned of the notion of thankfulness or gratitude being a practice. Merriam Webster dictionary defines practice simply: “to do something again and again in order to become better at it: to do (something) regularly or constantly as an ordinary part of your life.”

Thinking of thankfulness as a practice made absolute sense to me. I absolutelywas more grateful when I took time to voice my appreciation to people or in prayer. And the more I acknowledged the beauty in the world and the abundance of ways I was helped and provided for, the better I got at seeing even more things to be thankful for.

I’m still growing my practice of thankfulness, of course (I suspect we never fully arrive!), and I’ve noticed other benefits of gratitude. Being thankful, and forcing myself to note and articulate things I’m grateful for, goes a long way to banish feelings of entitlement and self-pity. It’s easy to see all the things we perceive we lack, but when we flip our thinking and intentionally list the things we have and that people give us, materially or spiritually or whatever, it becomes almost impossible to not have a change in attitude. Being grateful doesn’t automatically remove hard times or change sad or terrible experiences, but it does help you cope because you see the good and the positive that coexists with the difficult. The Yang in the Yin, if you will.

So in that vein, here are just some of the things I’m incredibly grateful for: family, friends, food, health, home, books, nature. . . .

My list may seem obvious, perhaps—but sometimes it’s those “obvious” things that we forget to think on particularly and to say thank you for specifically. They can be the easiest to take for granted, and I don’t want to take anything for granted.

I regularly challenge myself to make lists of things I’m grateful for. The contents always change. Sometimes I make large sweeping generalities, like I did above. Other times I focus on the tiny details that sometimes get overlooked, so not family as a whole, but each individual person, then the unique particulars of their personalities that I so appreciate. Not nature as a massive entity, but the way frost forms crystal designs on golden leaves early the fall. Not food in one big gulp—but the first sip of coffee, perfectly creamed, when it hits your waiting tongue.

So I learned my parents were right, and I’m thankful for it. Saying thank you is important, but feeling thankful is even more so. May you always have eyes to see the good around you, and the willingness to do so, no matter how difficult it sometimes seems. And have fun! Taking the time to notice, really notice, all the things you have to appreciate is a joy-creating exercise.

p.s. To all my American friends, happy Thanksgiving in two days (and every day, of course)!
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“Thanks. No, seriously. Thank you,” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, October 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” It’s part of a theme I’m exploring this year–“Things I want my children (and future grandchildren) to know.” Any you’ve missed can be found here: 

1) What do you know? (Jan. 2016)

2) Kindness Matters (Feb. 2016)

3) Beauty in the details (Mar. 2016)

4) Seasons Change (Apr. 2016)

5) Every Day Is Mother’s Day (May 2016)

6) Have Heroes (June 2016)

7) Love Can Last (August 2016)

Babies of Mine

ev-and-hugh-july-2016Shortly after my daughter was born, I came across Chris De Burgh’s song, “For Rosanna”—or maybe I heard it years earlier, but it didn’t resonate with me until I had my own child. He totally nails it, I thought (weepily, I admit). My life is completely and forever changed, to the point that I have difficulty articulating the words for what the change even is, but he has done it for me. I promptly changed his “Rosanna” to my daughter’s name, and it became my favourite lullaby.
 
 
 
When I had my son, again the song fit so well, it was as if it had been written for him. I changed a few words when I sang, and it became his song too.
 
“This is for—, sweet [child] of mine, A song for the baby who changed my life, I’ll never forget when I saw you first, I thought that my heart would burst, With the love that I have,” sings De Burgh in the opening verse.
 
He goes on to describe watching his child sleep and expresses that he can’t believe everything he feels—and, especially, the great love that he has. Still later, he sings that as he watches her grow from “baby to child,” he shares her sense of wonder.  
 
Most poignant to me, however, was his reflection on the things his child would experience when she was older—and how deeply he wanted her to know that he would always be there for her and that she was so loved.
 
It’s a song that still has the power to make me cry because I identify so much with all its love, hope, joy, yearning, pride and awe—and tiniest hints of trepidation and worry. And it gained new meaning and refreshed poignancy recently because I became a grandma this summer!
 
My husband and I were thrilled upon hearing we were going to be grandparents, and as the nine months progressed and the big birth day grew closer and closer, our excitement grew bigger and bigger, just as quickly as our daughter’s stomach. I knew, of course, we would love little him or her. And I knew we’d be surprised by how special it was. I was even aware that we probably wouldn’t have words to fully express our joy that well.
 
But even knowing that, I was not prepared for the crazy flood of . . . you name it.
 
I think most people understand that becoming a parent is a life-changing, forever-defining (and redefining) thing. I had no idea that in so many ways so is becoming a grandparent.
 
When my daughter called me for the first time after having her little son I’d already known he was born and that everything had gone well, but somehow hearing her voice undid me. When I got off the phone, I cried and cried. I can’t really name what the emotion behind my tears was. Definitely not sadness. Something the opposite of sorrow. Joy, yes. Relief, yes. Maybe though, to say awe or a sense of surreality would be the most accurate. My first baby had a baby.
 
And then I met Sweetest Guy and . . . I was just not prepared.
 
My husband, when pressed by my daughter, described his feelings for his grandson as being like all the love he has for her (our daughter), plus this all-encompassing new love that is just for our grandson. Was that hard to follow? Exactly. Some feelings, no matter how we struggle to describe them, will always defy our abilities to explain.
 
And every time I hold my little grandson, I feel . . . awe. I see something of my beloved daughter and a lot of my much-loved son-in-law in his little features and expressions, yet at not-quite three months old, he is already uniquely himself and is even beginning to have his own sense of humor. (He finds his grandma and his giraffe hilarious, just so you know.) There is something amazing about looking into the face of someone who carries your genes and your child’s genes, who is, as De Burgh says, blood of your blood.
 
Spending time with Sweetest Guy also triggers memories of little moments with my own kids that I thought I’d forgotten, which is very special. I could literally just hold him and watch him and enjoy him for hours and hours and hours. (Don’t worry. My daughter is very assertive. She doesn’t let me drive her too crazy.)
 
And maybe, just maybe, there’s the tiniest tinge of something bitter-sweet as every aspect of loving him reminds me of how much I delighted in being a young mom with young kids—and reinforces the sometimes-fought-against truth that my season for that is over.  But the dominant feeling is an overwhelming, deep joy and gratitude. It’s a new season.
 
The chorus to Chris De Burgh’s beautiful love song says, in part, “Oh how my heart it is shining, oh how my heart it is shining through—with the love that I have.” And maybe now, as when my own children were small, that is as close as I can get to explaining how I feel. My heart is shiny. There is a new person in our world and I—honour, responsibility, great fun and huge love that is—am his grandma.
 

 

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“Babies of Mine” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard in September 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.”

Love Can Last

Photo by Yvonne Letourneau Rego

Photo by Yvonne Letourneau Rego

Originally I was going to title this “Love Can Die.” I was going to write about all the ways we destroy our romantic relationships, family bonds, and friendships through neglect, selfishness, and/or the insidious notion that the grass is greener elsewhere. I was going to talk about how, despite the fact that we have more tools, more opportunities for relationship help than ever before, we also have less resiliency, less perseverance, less hope—and we’re more fickle and more jaded—than ever before.

 
But that last word—jaded—stopped me. My brain filled with forty-plus years of memories and facts I’ve been blessed with: a marriage that just hit its twenty-five year mark (Crazy, right?), adult children who love me and seem to enjoy spending time with me, true, faithful friends . . . and I realized, no, in our day and age we are all inundated—by life experience, the media, and so many songs, stories and articles—with the knowledge that love can die, that the sincerest of promises get broken, that even the very best of intentions can fail.
 
So maybe what we need to know, to remember, to cling to in our slightly disillusioned era is that love can last. If it’s broken, it can often be fixed. If it’s weak and failing, it can often be healed. If it’s lost, it can often be found.  
 
It’s intimidating to talk about how to maintain or build love over the long haul because I’m fully aware that at least some of it comes down to luck. So please, don’t take this as advice, but as encouragement—a note about things that took me a long time to learn (and that I’m still figuring out how to practice more consistently) that have brought me a lot of joy, peace and love in my relationships with family, friends, and my husband. 
 
Don’t look for—or expect perfection—in anyone, not your spouse, not your kids, not your parents, not your friends. Not yourself.
 
Manage expectations. No one person can fulfill all your needs. Don’t hold it against someone if they can’t talk about all the things you need to talk about or don’t share your passion for XYZ. Get yourself a tribe—and allow and encourage the people in your life to build other friendships too.
 
Understand that people are the way they are for a reason—and it’s most likely not to hurt you or piss you off. It’s easy to hold things against someone, to see all their negative qualities, and the ways they possibly injured you. The remedy to bitterness is to recognize that we all have struggles. Looking at my own failings always makes me less critical of others.
 
Focus on positive qualities and quirks, not perceived flaws.   
 
Watch out for the demons of regret, unfulfilled dreams, self-loathing or unresolved issues from your past that might sneak in and tempt you to put your shit on someone else.
 
Be gentle and kind. Admit, and apologize, when you screw up, are grouchy, are hurtful (and try to do better!), and pray like crazy they extend you a lot of grace. Extend a lot of grace yourself.
 
Say what you need (people aren’t mind readers!), and insist on decent treatment and respect. We all have our lines in the sand—and they’ll be different for each individual. What I find hurtful, someone else might find totally okay, but be honest and vocal or you’ll harbor resentment—a relationship killer.
 
Be loyal. Don’t backstab or trash talk people you care about.
 
Give people room to grow and change. Don’t expect them to be mini yous. Having differences isn’t threatening; it’s what makes you interesting.
 
Have fun! Seriously, people underestimate the value of doing things just because they’re fun. Good times can make up for a lot of rough ones.
 
Love can last. Healthy relationships can endure. It, and they, may take a lot of work, at times—and you may have to confront things in yourself that you really don’t like, put in strenuous effort to better yourself, or ask—and work for—forgiveness, or, even more difficult, offer forgiveness, but nothing is more worth the effort. And thankfully, it doesn’t always feel like work!
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“Love Can Last” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, August 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” It’s part of a theme I’m exploring this year–“Things I want my children (and future grandchildren) to know.” Any you’ve missed can be found here: 

1) What do you know? (Jan. 2016)

2) Kindness Matters (Feb. 2016)

3) Beauty in the details (Mar. 2016)

4) Seasons Change (Apr. 2016)

5) Every Day Is Mother’s Day (May 2016)

6) Have Heroes (June 2016)

Have Heroes

Have HeroesWhen I was very young, my brother and I used to clamor for our dad to take us to this long grassy strip beside the railway tracks in Smithers so “we” could run. What we actually wanted was for him to run, while we chased after him. We were awed by his speed and would exhaust ourselves trying and trying and trying to keep up. We thought he was literally the fastest man on earth, and told him so. He would laugh and laugh . . . and then, sort of embarrassed like, add, “I’m really, really not—and please don’t tell anybody that I am.”

His disclaimer only made us all the more convinced that he was the fastest, that he was just being modest or kind of like Clark Kent, trying to keep his super powers under wraps. And he was our hero in other, bigger, ways too.

This hero worship and pure rose-colored love applied to my mom as well. In addition to being the best cook in the known universe, she could sew anything, patch up the most gruesome injuries without a blink, and fix any toy. Plus, she was a math and science genius!

As I got older my dad’s super hero qualities—and those of my mother’s—diminished. (In fact, for a good chunk of time, they completely lost all ability to do anything remotely right or to know anything. After a few years, miraculously, they got at least some of their admirable qualities, skills and know-how back. Phew.)

But it didn’t matter that I no longer blindly worshipped them, that I realized they didn’t actually have invisible wings or magic capes, that they were, in fact, the same as me, just people trying to muddy through life the best they could. The lesson—that you can and should have people you admire, that you look to as examples of how to live and be—was set.

While I don’t think we should idolize anyone to the point that if they fall off their pedestal it completely shatters our vision of ourselves, our hope for our lives, or our world view, I do believe, regardless of our age, it’s nice—and incredibly beneficial—to have heroes.

Identifying people who are doing what we want to do, living how we desire to live, or who embody morals, character, and personality traits that we would like to have, then watching them and practicing their methods and approaches, is a great way to learn how to maneuver life yourself. Sometimes, or regarding some specific things, those people might be family members, but other times, we may need to focus beyond our immediate roots.

Over the years, I’ve looked to a myriad of people for guidance, affirmation and inspiration—as a mother, a homemaker, a writer, in my career, but also just as a traveller on the road of life. It can be a treacherous, terrifying road with bad slippery spots and tough terrain at times. Looking for clues on how to manage and thrive from those with more experience just makes good sense.

We should all seek heroes—unique to our personal bents and aspirations, hopes and dreams. And we should never worry about whether anyone else is similarly inspired by our notion of what makes someone “heroic.” It’s a uniquely personal thing. And should our heroes need to change their outfit, fly with another cape or be supplanted or joined by someone else because we’ve grown all we can under their influence—well, we should feel no guilt in looking to someone new. Heroes understand.

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“Have Heroes” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, June 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” It’s part of a theme I’m exploring this year–“Things I want my children (and future grandchildren) to know.” Any you’ve missed can be found here: 

1) What do you know? (Jan. 2016)
2) Kindness Matters (Feb. 2016)
3) Beauty in the details (Mar. 2016)
4) Seasons Change (Apr. 2016)
5) Every Day Is Mother’s Day (May 2016)

 

Every Day Is Mother’s Day

Photo by Jinterwas on Flickr. Click the photo to visit the artist's page.

Photo by Jinterwas on Flickr. Click to visit the artist’s page.

I was always fascinated by my mom’s purse, a treasure trove of comfort and necessity. She had a preference for large leather handbags. The size seldom varied, nor the contents, nor the lovely minty scent.

Perusing the bag was a favourite treat. It always contained, at minimum:

 

  • At least one tube of some bright berry-red lipstick, worn to an extremely sharp edge—a fact that still fascinates me as I always grind mine to a smooth, flat surface. My mom’s way seemed much more sophisticated!
  • Rolls of chalk-white, green centered mints. (Hence the calming aroma.)
  • Mini packages of tissue papers
  • Individually wrapped lemony wet wipes
  • Cough candies (hideously strong ones)
  • Assorted pens
  • A spiral notepad
  • Band-Aids (multiple sizes)
  • Aspirin (in a tiny white, yellow and brown tin with a sliding lid)
  • Tampons
  • A Hot Wheels car or two

To me, her purse was the epitome of femininity and motherhood. I considered it glamorous (even though it was usually squat and grey) and practical, and I vowed that if I was ever a mother, I would have just as fascinating and soothing a purse to help me attend to my needs, the needs of my children and those of any other random kids who happened to fall down in my proximity, needed to jot a note, or just had really bad breath.

And then I had kids.

My failure to ever carry a bag remotely as well-stocked as my mom’s, let alone one with an entrancing minty scent, symbolizes the theme of most lessons I learned about motherhood: things rarely go as imagined or planned, and often we’re not the moms we envisioned being—for both better and worse.

And it was the kindest instance of that repeated lesson. We’ve all done it. Vowed we’d never do such and such like our mother. Promised we’d never say X, Y, Z, or do . . . blah, blah, blah. Hopefully, we can also identify tangible ways our mothers showed their love, see characteristics we want to emulate.

It wasn’t until I had my children that I realized how young you are (regardless of your age!) when you have kids and become responsible for someone else, how inept and ill equipped for the task you feel. It’s not just their physical wellbeing and nourishing you need to worry about—in fact, that’s the least of it. You have a tender soul to raise, who will feel each one of your mistakes—and each of life’s random happenings, which you are completely powerless against—so keenly it makes you bleed inside. You will, like it or not, shape the adult another person grows to be. There is so much love and awe and fun—and yet so much absolute terror and mind-paralyzing insecurity.

Kids view the world through their mother’s eyes, her introduction to it. And all the time I was young, I thought there was some magic adult age (that somehow coincided with a child bursting forth from your uterus) where you Know (capital K) all things—thus any mistakes, follies, or perceived injuries had to be intentional.

If you’re a parent, you’re shaking your head because you know full well that the only thing that “bursts forth” with your firstborn is a powerful new awareness: that forever you will love someone more than yourself and never be more powerless, or at least feel more powerless, to be all the things you want to be for them, to protect them how you need to, to give them all they’ll require to endure and thrive—and you have to do it from whatever place you’re at in your life at whatever moment, with all the lack of answers, sketchy finances, unresolved gunk, relationship problems, grief, illness, etc., etc.

Mothering helped me understand my mom better and showed me that forgiving her for any perceived wrongs was critical to my emotional growth and to choosing how I wanted to live and be and parent. Focusing on her strengths and successes, the things she taught me and how she’d inspired me, allowed me to take personal responsibility and grow into someone separate and distinct from her—yet to feel an increasing connection to her—exactly, I believe, as she always wanted for me.

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Every Day Is Mother’s Day” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, May 25, 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” It’s part of a theme I’m exploring this year–“Things I want my children (and future grandchildren) to know.” Missed the first four? Find them here:

1) What do you know? (Jan. 2016)
2) Kindness Matters (Feb. 2016)
3) Beauty in the details (Mar. 2016)
4) Seasons Change (Apr. 2016)

Seasons Change

DSC04398In a memory so clear I can practically taste the dust I kicked up, inhale the sweet scent of cottonwood pollen, and feel the heat of the packed earth—and the occasional sharp bite of gravel—against the winter-tender soles of my feet, a moment from a school day over thirty years ago has always stayed with me.

I was in grade five, the final bell had rung and we’d been dismissed. I’d been held back after class for something, however, and by the time I was outside (feeling hard done by and blue) and ready to walk home, there wasn’t another kid in sight. It had been cold and wet when I left for school that morning, so I was wearing boots and a heavy jacket—but it was late March or early April, meaning the weather could go from snow to beach-ready seemingly overnight, or in this case, over the seven or so hours I’d been inside. As I left the school grounds and started my trek past the then neglected, vacant lots, something pulled me from my sadness: the realization that it was warm.

I peeled off my coat. Stopped to admire dandelions. Noticed buds on a bush that had been tightly closed earlier now revealed tiny green leaves. The birds were noisy. The air was delicious. My feet sweated. I considered the well-worn dirt path snaking through the unkempt bright green grass and made a decision. Tying my coat sleeves around my waist, I bent down, tugged off my boots, ripped off my socks and stuffed them inside said boots. Then gripping my footwear in one hand, feeling weirdly proud, I walked the rest of the way home barefoot, sure that each passing car was envious of me and my unconfined toes.

That evening, when my mom asked how my day was, I answered, “Great.” And I wasn’t lying or forgetting. It had just . . . changed.

Over the years, that memory, so tiny and seemingly insignificant, grew to have . . . significance. It was, in my young brain, vivid evidence that moods and circumstances—and nature/life itself—changes. Of course, in terms of what life would throw at me, what I’d go on to endure, a bad day in elementary school was a walk in the park, but it remained a tangible encouragement, regardless.

For almost as far back as I can remember, I’ve been deeply affected by the seasons. I’m at my height of happiness and peace (I bloom so to speak!) in the hottest heat of summer. I turn to inward things, literally and metaphorically, in autumn as everything around us dies or settles into dormancy. While I’m not unappreciative of the beauty of snow and ice, winter is my hardest season. I feel a bit frozen too, and if I’m going to have gloomy thoughts, they’ll hit hardest in November and then again in January and February.

Spring, however, ahhh—although not my favourite season (because remember summer, guys, summer!)—always feels like a gift because it reminds me of deep truths I intuited all those years ago walking home from school: Hard times (winters) eventually end and easier times come again. Things that appear dead can rejuvenate, come back to life, bigger, stronger, and more resilient than ever. Root systems, the supports for growth and health, are often invisible, yet they exist.

There have been times in my life—and unfortunately, there will be more, I’m sure—when it seems like a particularly difficult season (grief, heartbreak, loneliness, financial hardship, a crisis of faith, you name it . . .) will never end. Yet just like spring always eventually comes, those heavy, hard to deal with things inevitably lighten.

Spending time in nature (throughout the year and every kind of weather) helps me take heart and remember: seasons change and so do we.

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“Seasons Change” by me, Ev Bishop, was originally published in the Terrace Standard, April 27, 2016 as my monthly column “Just a Thought.” It’s part of a theme I’m exploring this year–“Things I want my children (and future grandchildren) to know”–and feels very apropos as I’ve been spending every minute I can outside in my garden, watching things grow. 🙂 Missed the first three? Find them here:

1) What do you know? (Jan. 2016)
2) Kindness Matters (Feb. 2016)
3) Beauty in the details (Mar. 2016)