Blog - That Just Dawned on Me

Where Calmness Begins

A morning lesson from deer, danger, and one wise little dog.

Early this morning, I gently closed my eyes as I lifted the warm coffee mug to my lips. The aroma brought a smile to my face just before I opened my eyes and saw a small herd of deer gather in the grass across the road. My smile spread to my heart, then moved throughout my body.

There were five of them: two pregnant does and three yearlings. The does moved closer to me as they constantly grazed down the gradual slope toward where the grass was lusher behind a stand of bare beech trees and rhododendron along a gully.

The curiosity of the youngsters brought them down into the gully first and up onto the four feet of grass at the edge of the road.

Morning light played across their brown fur as they stepped carefully between fallen leaves and cold asphalt. Their hooves moved back and forth at the road’s edge, testing, retreating, trying again.

I felt my own body tighten as I watched.

The road was quiet, but I knew how quickly that could change. The hard surface, the curve from below, the obstructed view of the hill, the fragile bodies of those young deer—it all stirred a familiar anxiety in me.

My dog, Sugar, felt it too.

She suddenly stood at the window, alert and focused. A squirrel was helping itself to forbidden fruit on the songbird feeding platform, but Sugar ignored it completely. She had seen the deer.

Then she barked.

One strong, hearty warning.

The yearlings immediately stepped back from the road and moved toward the safety of their mothers. I exhaled, silently thanking Sugar. Just as quickly as she had leapt into action, she slipped back down onto the wooden floor at my feet and settled in for a nap.

The deer tried again.

This time, they were more cautious. The yearlings still led, practicing the survival skills they will need in this world. Their mothers followed, intent on feeding themselves and nourishing the fawns growing inside them.

I leaned forward in my chair to keep watching as they crossed onto the damp turf of my front lawn.

Then the first car rounded the hill.

The driver slowed. The deer quickened their pace.

In a few graceful seconds, they left the lush grass behind and moved toward the native hillside meadow, past the cherry laurel trees bursting with bright green leaves, and finally into the dark, cool cover of the conifer forest.

And I sat there with the lesson.

Panic had made my body tighten.

Calmness had helped me notice.

Sugar’s warning had been quick, clear, and useful. Then she let it go. The deer responded, adjusted, and moved on. No lingering drama. No wasted energy. Just awareness, action, and return.

Maybe calmness is not the absence of danger.

Maybe calmness is the ability to stay present enough to see what is actually happening—and to know when to bark, when to pause, and when to move toward safety.

A Tribute to My Dad

11 years ago today, your heart stopped beating.

Today, my heart cried out in an unexpected, wrenching way before I remembered.

You were Daddy to me, Norman to my grandmother, Papa to grandchildren, Swede to everyone else.

As I found comfort in the birds outside my window, I asked you to let me know you were near.

My attention turned to petting my dog Sugar, snoozing on my lap.

Once more, I looked out the window.

Your beloved contrails showed me how much you will always love me.

These words flowed like tears as I created a note to share with my Substack subscribers and followers while watching the contrails fade away.
But then I looked for past posts and found this.

My Dad Called Them Coinkydinks

Yes, it’s a real word.
I couldn’t believe it when I found the word ‘coinkydink’ in my Google search. I’m still laughing.

This illustrates how quickly we can move from tears to laughter when we are grieving.

And that’s okay.
It’s normal.
It’s healthy.

We Can Choose How We Remember

It’s not easy to move from a vivid memory that’s sad toward a memory that’s joyful.

But it’s possible.

It’s not easy to move from a vivid memory that’s sad toward a memory that’s joyful.
But’s it possible.
Part of my tribute to Dad is sharing this picture of him by my giant sunflowers.
It exemplifies how I think of him. He was funny. And he loved to make me laugh.
He used words I thought were made up. Or maybe he just pronounced them incorrectly, like an-ti-q’s.

His Memory Lives in Me

Just yesterday, as I was wiping down the counter in my church’s fellowship hall, someone I didn’t know, commented, “You always have such a lovely smile!”
I laughed and replied, “Thank you! You know, they’re free.”
She and I laughed out loud together.

Sometimes it Easy

In that circumstance, it was easy for me to smile. I’d just finished a lovely conversation with a friend and there were eager families nearby waiting for the teenagers to hide Easter eggs.

But When it’s Not Easy…

In that moment, I find myself closing my eyes or dropping my gaze and taking a deep, slow breath. This simple action often resets me enough to enter a state of calmness.
I invite you to open your heart to the love I’m sending you right now. No matter how difficult life seems, there are always opportunities to reset.
May you find your level of peace today.

Things Weren’t in the Right Place

Before I took this photo, there was a lot of clutter on this desk. Things that I thought were more important than writing.

I removed them.

I moved them to my former writing desk.

Now, I can appreciate each item that belongs.

The Significance of Each

Nature Connections – Daffodils – Today, I went up the hill in my backyard and picked the first daffodils in my landscape. They represent my paternal grandmother’s love of gardening and birds. She picked the daffodil as an affectionate name for me. I think it was one way for her to preserve her happy memories from the Wisconsin farm of her youth in contrast to her Florida reality.

God Connections – The Bible scripture, Romans 5:3-5, reminds me why I write, and the two different translations reminds me of the importance of my personal connection to God in contrast to the interpretations of others.

My small candle serves three purposes; cementing my connection to God, my sister, who gifted it, and how long I turned away from truth by storing it away in a box marked ‘Other Stuff’.

Parental Connections – There are two reminders of my father; the Damascus Steel letter opener he crafted for me and the mug with his nickname, “Swede”, in gold letters.

The antique German coaster reminds me of my mother’s heritage along with the white cedar chest at the foot of my bed, under the comforter.

Colorado Connections – Three items stand out; the mug scene of elk against the backdrop of the San Luis Valley and Sangre de Cristo mountains, the box from Rare Things in Creede, CO, and the items I bought at Rare Things – my rhodochrosite pendant and earrings. When I place the pendant around my neck, my second husband, Pablo, whispers in my ear, “Don’t forget that you saw my face when you first felt the cold, pink stone.” [He reminded me of his likeness, forever etched in the pink stone.]

North Carolina Connections – The gold rimmed mug with colorful pens, reminds me of my best friends, Sam and Nolan, who stand with me, watch over me and lend a helping hand.

Pinecone – The seeds of the Slash Pine remind me of the potential that lies within my words. Pinecone seeds have two main functions; food for animals and the potential of future generations dispersed by the protective conical structure, which releases the seeds when conditions are just right.

Plants – The orchid spray peeking out reminds me of my Florida roots. Next, zygocactus, aka ‘Christmas Cactus’ reminds me of my neighbors who brought the white one as a housewarming gift while the more distant pink zygocactus, a gift to myself reminds me of the importance of self-care.

Antiques – A few pieces made the move with me from Florida. The tall chest houses memories of days gone by with costume jewelry from the 1940s, my parents’ wedding bands, dulled from six decades of use, and a pink brooch in the shape of a starfish worn by my maternal grandmother.

The three-legged table is the first piece I bought. My lifelong friend, Marilyn, taught me about antiques. While visiting her in north Florida, we shopped at her favorite haunts. This piece was stacked on top of slightly larger tables like a grown-up toy display. Together, we carefully moved it down to the shop’s grey concrete floor. Gently pressing the latch just below the smooth top surface, I gazed into an unexpected cubby hole. A faded cloth created soft interior surfaces where my imagination conjures all the treasures previous owners kept there.

As My Gaze Moves Inward

Next, seeing my dog Sugar, always brings me back to why I’m sitting here at my desk.

My past is intertwined with my now.

The heartache of loss, although always present, is balanced by the sweetness of memories, the softness of Sugar’s fur, and the smiles of friends and family.

Thank you, for smiling today, friend.