Pink-Blossomed Succulents and Blueberry Crisp Cookies

I can think of nothing more wonderful than pink blossoms on succulents. Deep, bright, vibrant star-shaped flowers with layers of petals. Tiny and profuse. Tucked deep in a small succulent garden given to me by a friend. It's one of the best gifts I've been given recently. I enjoy my friend's magical garden behind and surrounding the house she grew up in and lives in once again, and I miss having one myself since letting go of my house during the divorce. Strangely, I've been gifted two gardens filled with desert plants in the last few months.

I've become a different kind of gardener. 

It's funny how the gifts we receive can begin to define us if we let them. 

I've just let that hang for a minute on the screen in front of me. It's an interesting thought. Allowing ourselves to be defined by the gifts we receive - I wonder if there is a crazy kind of wisdom there. In the mix are gratitude, belovedness, and the kind of effort that considers many things. When we offer a gift, we think about the person to whom the gift is being given, we offer it with love and with gratitude for their presence in our lives. We want to show them they are beloved. That we value them. That we want them to be surrounded by beautiful things. There is probably so much more to this, but for now, I'm simply enjoying the original thought.

It's funny how the gifts we receive can begin to define us if we let them.

I left my last congregation three months ago. We were still in the more restrictive part of the pandemic gathering guidelines, so the usual celebrations were not able to happen. Instead, we had a "drive in" farewell. About 20 people came and went, the right people. Most brought gifts. I had a bag full of cards with beautiful notes of thanks and a pile of beautifully wrapped gifts. Thoughtful expressions from people who came to know me for a time and who appreciated what I brought during our brief time together. Three years - longer than most because of the pandemic, which added a year. 

There was Mother's Day, and a wonderful day and meal out with my son at a French restaurant in a city that was just beginning to open up again. Time, conversation, a meal shared.

The kitschy, dollar store, cactus-handled glasses from my daughter to celebrate our first time together since Christmas 2019, the last time we saw each other before the pandemic. They'll always remind me of that time we spent together - three whole days of each other's undivided attention.

Some beautiful heirlooms my mother sent home with me the other day.

Words from people in the church where I now preach about grace within the sermon I offered that transformed sadness and other hard feelings within. Movements of the human heart. 

So often when we think about the things that define us, we think about our job, our marital status, our address, our net worth, and other items we complete when we're filling out forms. We think about our successes and failures. We think too much about the things we've messed up and less about the things we've done well or the things we've created or the people who love us. 

I like to think about myself as a gardener of desert plants, as a lovely and witty meal companion, a fun travel partner, beloved daughter, mover of human hearts. 

A Hundred Days of Happiness is a daily writing practice that opens a landscape of discovery into my own human experience.

Katherine Cartwright has been blogging since 2012, and every year brings new wonder. She asks big questions of the small things in life.