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When I struggle with putting words
to the page,
I step outside,
breathe in fresh air,
then search
for tiny miracles.
In truth, distractions
of the extraordinary.
Yet, tiny miracles always bring me back
to the place I’m avoiding.
I, too, want to silently dive deep,
explore a daylily (or an untold story)
unnoticed,
except for the curious human
with her camera,
avoiding her writing.
But isn’t that where magic happens?
Where the best of stories
are born?
Even if fear both propels us forward
and holds us back?
And then I find myself in awe of tadpoles,
having ventured for too long
and too far from the house,
on this path of distraction.
Tadpoles, which have never much interested me,
but now do.
Which invites a flood of questions,
questions about my characters,
and this story I am compelled to write.
So I leave my critical self outside
so she can enjoy
what the world has to offer.
Perhaps, she will find solace
in the company of a frog.
Or take the time to wonder
at how beautiful
a gorilla’s feet are,
while I slip away unnoticed
before she follows me.
“Red moon,” he said,
his two-year-old hand reaching for mine
in the dark.
As urgently as my granddaughter
grabbed my arm, earlier that day.
For her, it was the return
of the hummingbirds.
She’d spotted a female
resting on a high branch,
a potential mate preening
his feathers nearby.
Our clothesline, his stage.
Then . . . a flash
of iridescent red,
high-pitched squeaks,
beating wings that
skirted our hair.
Breathlessness
as abandoned homework
danced
on a breeze.
We chased it, laughing.
If not for children
reminding us to be present,
how many miracles of life
would be overlooked?
The insect in a daylily.
Shadows in the woods.
The beauty of a half-dead
Japanese maple tree
clinging to life.
Its unfurling apple-peel like leaves
shimmering in the sun.
Do our heads always need to be down?
Our brains wired and ready
for instant response
to Facebook notifications,
e-mails, texts, twitter updates?
Look. Up.
Find beauty.
Give a child your full,
undivided attention.
And so we set aside homework
to wonder at hummingbirds.
Delayed bedtime
to gaze at a brilliant full moon,
shrouded in a milky
red-and-blue veil.
“Look, Grandma!” he said,
his small hand swallowed
in mine.
Clouds shifted; the moon disappeared.
But not the moment.
The moment of just
being.
He ran down the driveway.
“Moon is gone! GONE!”
I raced after him,
swept him into my arms,
guided his tiny arm toward the sky.
“Watch and wait,” I whispered.
Together, we silently anticipated–
not a ding or a chirp or a tweet—
but the reappearance
of an unreachable golden ball
nestled in the night sky.
A ball my grandson called “Red Moon.”
Yes, we need to be brave
in our writing,
but we must also seek the courage
to be present.
Growing up in the Devany family, I was beholden to my mother’s Look Beyond Yourself Birthday Tradition, which stemmed from her philosophy to always think about other people. On their one special day in the year, the birthday child had to buy (or make) gifts for their siblings. In my case, there were three. Grabbing anything off a shelf was not allowed, she wanted us to think about what each person would really enjoy. It was a lot of pressure, and some years we tried to outdo one another.
My second birthday without my father was yesterday. Last year’s was tough. I had no desire to celebrate. I let the phone ring without answering. I spent hours alone by a reservoir, watching birds. My gifts sat on the table unopened. Not until I saw two great egrets, one landing high in a tree while the younger one fished, did I realize the problem. I’d been waiting for something. When the elder flew off, as if confident that the younger bird would be okay on its own, I knew.
I’d been waiting for my dad to call and wish me a happy birthday.
Yesterday, I rose early to write. I wrote for four hours, my way of connecting with my father on the day I long for him the most. Then I thought about my mother’s birthday tradition. I looked beyond myself and discovered what makes a birthday joyous are simple, unexpected moments. When you find yourself cheering for others on your special day, and moments like these:
The hummingbirds returned.
A momma bird laid her final egg in a nest atop our porch fan. My seven-year-old granddaughter made a sign, warning everyone to Not Turn on the Fan because babies are sleeping.
Ava and I wandered your yard, searching for hidden beauty. Both of us with cameras. She discovered tulips, which I don’t recall planting.
An overwhelming number of people wished me a happy birthday, which meant so much to me. Truly, I can’t thank you enough.
My eldest daughter scored a 97 in her nursing exam.
My youngest daughter was invited to teach at the prestigious Gathering 2013 for Paul Mitchell as an educator.
We saved a bumblebee that was trapped in our window.
Ava’s excitement over spotting birds in our yard—cardinals, yellow finch, hawks.
Gorgeous sunrise at the start of the day.
To be captured by a child’s wonder. “Grandma! Look how blue that flower is!”
The day ended with a wonderful Italian dinner out with my family. I returned home with my husband to find colored pencils strewn across our living room table, and a picture, Ava had made. Perhaps she knew what I’d wished for earlier that day when she picked up a dandelion. My greatest treasures are handmade by small hands with the purest of love.
“Grandma, do you know this is a wishing flower?” she had whispered, as if she held magic in her hands.
“It is?”
“Yes,” she said, holding it to my lips. “Make a birthday wish.”
Sometimes, wishes do come true.
By: Betsy Devany,
on 8/6/2011
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Though I am eager to start my third day in Chautauqua, I wonder how Monday can match Sunday’s experience. Not only is Send in the Clowns stuck in my head (and I can’t stop singing the song), for last night’s supper, we were treated to the best barbecued chicken I have ever eaten. And then, there were those chocolate frosted brownies next to an invisible sign with my name on it that said, “These special writer’s brownies are meant to be eaten in multiple portions. Do not eat just one!” I think everyone had an invisible sign with his or her name, because I was not the only one going for seconds—and thirds, and then, halfway to the bus, I turned around, yelling to Nanci. “I can’t help it. Save me a seat. Do you want another brownie?”
Prior to being served dinner, we were encouraged to walk the lovely grounds at Westfield and to pick our own blueberries to eat—one of my favorite fruits. I was so smitten with photographing the blueberries that I realized–too late–that I had nothing to collect the blueberries in. I did the next best thing: I ate one after another, until a gentleman offered me his full cup of blueberries. (I savored them for days.) Thank you, kind sir!
My belly full of blueberries, I listened to the birds sing, studied insects on leaves, and then discovered The Land of Dinosaurs Versus Trucks, which is where I was when the call of “Chicken being served,” resounded through the fields.
After everyone had eaten, we settled in our seats, where we quickly fell under Joy Cowley’s spell. If I had attended the Highlights Foundation Writers Workshop in 2010, I would have missed Joy. And I can’t imagine missing the opportunity to connect with her. Joy returned this year after a three-year absence, and she is an absolute joy!
- Joy Cowley
Joy speaks from the heart and from years of experience, and with such love for others, you feel as if you are a child, alone in a room with her, listening to stories. I would have sat there all night if I could. She stresse
By: Betsy Devany,
on 7/7/2011
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The summer has presented me with challenges–one after another–and some, which I had hoped to avoid. Having an ill parent with few options for an acceptable living environment is something I would wish on no one. It is my worst nightmare, and to avoid feeling physically sick over the situation, I try to find small moments each day to see beauty in the world, and to appreciate the wonder of others.
My five-year-old granddaughter is a blessing, particularly now when my family faces some of the hardest decisions of our lives. Ava makes me stop, forget about the barrage of depressing phone calls, and take a moment to live life in an idealist way.
In our large front yard, I am free—even for just thirty minutes—to laugh, chase Ava through the grass with our dog Merlin, and wonder at the miracles of the tiniest of creatures. We remain like statures when the hummingbirds zoom above us. We watch the bees on my Echinacea, revel in the sight of a butterfly, and kneel on the cool ground to peer into a daylily to marvel at fascinating insects, which appear to be from outer space. They are smaller than ants in actuality.
A frog leaps before us and Ava is off, chasing the tiny amphibian, catching it . . . losing it . . . and then catching again. Her hands tightly clasped, she tells me, “Grandma, the frog is berry thirsty. And he needs a home to live in.”
Just like my father, I think. Why is it that we cannot find suitable housing for the elderly where they can be respected and loved and treated with dignity? I brush the thought aside and head indoors for a small bowl. Ava follows, and my eyes stay fixed on what is contained within her grasp. “Don’t let that frog loose in the house,” I say. The cats would have a field day.
I fill a small, short container with water, and we go back outside. With great care, Ava places the frog in the bowl. It swims happily, and then leaps for freedom.
“Uh-oh,” she says, leaning over to trap the frog once again. “I think he wants some food.” With great precision, she keeps
I have satisfied my need for distraction by reading these lovely words and admiring these gorgeous photos, and now I am getting back to work. :)
Thank you, Kristin!
Now get back to work, and I mean the “writing kind of work.”
I will do the same.
B
As I finally opened my laptop having put it off as much as possible today – to spend time with my grandsons and to fend off the work that needs done – I see in my ‘inbox’ this beautiful passage. Thank you Betsy!
Your photos are amazing, Betsy, and often times, it’s those distractions which feed our stories :D
Thank you, Kim!
I hope you enjoyed your grandsons.
Betsy
Yes, indeed, Donna!
There have been many distractions that have fed my stories in the very best way.