Time

To Open Doors and Late Night Talks

/ A. Ward, LPC / 1 Comment

When my feet find their way unbidden to your front door, it thrills me to my tired toes to see the welcome mat already out and the porch light on. Cheery blooms wave their hello and you always have time for a chat. I just love that. Part of me often wonders if you were expecting me, for you rarely seem surprised. Even driving home from college on impulse, you knew when I was coming.

The cool oasis of fern and flower you’ve created under the oak tree that somehow survived being mowed over repeatedly as a sapling, is now a haven on a hot summer day. Fresh iced tea in the glasses- yours always tastes the best. The smell of earth and foliage as you water and evening comes, bread crumbs tossed out for the birds, and grandchildren hanging from every limb of yet another stubborn tree.

Neighborhood children still knock on your door in the hopes that someone can come out to play. “Who’s that one?” I asked pointing up in the tree one afternoon. “I don’t know,” you smiled, content in the knowledge that your long empty nest is still a safe place to land. “I’m sure he’s a friend of somebody’s.”

For as long as I can remember there has always been room for one more at your table: whether for a friend we drug home without warning in our teens, or bonus sisters from across an ocean and our ever expanding family, or even now, for world weary grownup children who stop by unannounced when these in-the-middle-years get the best of us and we need a moment’s respite.

You in your chairs, pets stretched across laps, your warm greeting blending with the smell of supper on the stove are among the most comforting things in my memory. In winter a cheerful fire in the fireplace warming my back until it’s hot to the touch. In summer, lazy swims and long talks under the moon, watermelon by the pool.

Washing my hands I catch my reflection in the mirror- the same one that’s seen my image since I was four. I’m older now, but the plush carpet beneath my bare feet and the pictures on the walls whisper the same comfort they always have. After dinner conversations roll easy off the tongue- the day’s worries and job and kids, dreams and heartbreaks and old neighborhood news.

Hugs goodbye- the most familiar ones I know- as I head for the door. “Goodnight. Thank you for dinner. Have a great week. Drive safe. I love you.” Each word heartfelt and steeped in belonging. This sense of home goes deep into my bones and warms me as I step into the cool night air and make the drive to the home I’ve built for my own children- may they always feel it’s call.

An unplanned evening made extraordinary by the ordinariness of it all. This place you’ve made a home- the love, the time, the daily welcoming in- is a gift I’m still unwrapping. It is a blessing to my life and to my children and their children and to too many others to count.

Thank you.

The Friends That Stay

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

 At a recent conference I honed my craft and spent precious time with friends both old and new. Some I hadn’t seen in twenty years, but in the breath of “Hello,” time collapsed. It is one of life’s great blessings to have friends like that. You know the ones? The ones where it doesn’t matter that twenty years have come and gone, and picking up right where we left off is as natural as the laugh lines that now crease our faces.

We spoke of everything and nothing. Children born, life lived, friends we missed, victories won, and lessons learned. 

We laughed til we cried, talking into the wee hours of the morning as we rushed to fill the gap of years in the span of days, yet lingered over conversations poured out like wine that time might move more slowly. 

There is a sacredness here. In the celebrated and mundane. In sharing a meal and breaking bread- whether at the trendy hotel bistro between sessions or around a campfire in the Canadian Wilds when all we had was time. It shows up when we commit ourselves to community, to living up close and in the real. Somewhere in the sweating and the swearing and the striving and the praying and working towards a common goal, a gift emerges. 

Come as you are, let down your hair, pull up a chair, and stay awhile, only friendship is being served. Through reminiscence, new adventures, clinical and philosophical discussions, loud card games, and late night talks, we unfold our lives in turn. There is no hiding here. And no need for it either. They earned the right to speak truth into my life long ago, and that doesn’t fade with time. 

“We collect people,” one of them said, speaking of her own life, and where it’s taken her. This humble statement whispered, both simple and profound, catches me off guard. Collecting people, I can’t help but think, what’s more beautiful than that? As we go through this life don’t we all, if we’re wise, find a few souls to pull close and pour into? And in so emptying ourselves, are filled in return, a blessing pressed down, running over.

The Awakening

/ A. Ward, LPC / Leave a comment

Awakened.

That’s a word we hear thrown around a lot. Being in touch with our inner selves- alive and awake to the calling within us to make this dream a reality. In some ways, I feel farther away from this dream than ever- mentally, financially, physically. Still vigorous, yet slightly startled to find that the slow beat of time I marched to in my youth has picked up its tempo. Real worries and deadlines and responsibilities that keep me up at night and feelings of not quite yet where I thought I’d be make up the cadence of the drumbeat to which I trod, up, up the mountain.

And it is here- at this tenuous precipice- that I find myself daring to hope for more, praying for abundant blessing to rain down from heaven and water these dry bones, breathing fresh life into these dreams of mine. For this dream ahead of me calls louder and shines clearer than ever. So clear, in fact, that what’s here and now verses what’s yet to be flickers in and out of view. But who’s to say which is more real- that which stands in front of me or that which beats within me?

This in-the-middle-age is no joke. As the little hands that hold tight to mine grip a little looser and grow a little bigger every day, they serve as a constant reminder of the press of time as it falls faster and faster through the hour glass of my life.

Visions of what could be if I dare to pour life into this hope are a fragile lifeline to this dream of mine in my all too awakened spirit. A lifeline that I balance upon, walk like a tightrope. A trapeze artist, I fly higher and higher as I strive, only to find I must let go of my safe hold if I am to soar above my circumstance and awaken fully to my dreams.