Finding Magic in the Ordinary
A couple of weeks ago, I began to resonate with signs from my grandfather from the Blue Jay bird. And boy did I get a message from the other side tonight. I went to one of my sacred places on earth after work today to soak up the last sunshine rays of summer. And what I found was magic. Not just any magic—it was pure magic.
As some of you that read my regular work already know, I listen to signs. I see signs, I feel signs, I hear signs. Today, I saw one as clear as day.
I normally park in a certain spot, but was told to park in a different one. So I did. And when I looked down the hill, I saw an apple tree. The apples looked almost red enough to eat, so I decided that me and boys would run into the garden to see what we could find. As we unloaded the car for the evening, I decided we'd take a look at the apple tree first. As soon as we walked upon the first garden step, a Blue Jay landed on the steps in front of us, then fleeted up into the tree above us. It was too sudden to even take a breath between it's movements, but there it was, a sign from Heaven.
As a contemplated the synchronicity on my drive home, I tried to stop myself from humanizing the event—well, the entire evening, that is. The Blue Jay—a sign from my grandfather—also signified my lost voice which had returned this year. My writing became a beautiful, therapeutic tool in gaining my voice back. When I wasn't strong enough to say the words, my hands were strong enough to type them.
And as I continue on the path to publishing and uncovering my sacred voice, I also find myself looking back at what I've gained over the last year of editing. First of all, I understand grammar. Not all of it, but a good portion of what I shouldn't be doing. I've grown exponentially. I call people, who should be called out, a lot less. I care less of what really doesn't matter. I take walks at toddler-speed, and appreciate how long it takes a four-year-old to lick an entire two-tiered ice-cream cone. I visit more. (Perhaps due to to the after effects of Covid.) I think more deeply, I appreciate more freely, and I accept myself for who I am in the time I am. I lean into the things that matter—porch visits, coffee dates, and hugs.
That darn blue bird brought a lot of peace into my life this past year. But most of all, that bird brought perspective. I decided it was okay to live past the shackle of shame I once was confined to. I decided it was okay to be present with the fact that I am not perfect—I am actually flawed and fabulous. (P.S. If you need to read more on this, I have this awesome little nugget of a book coming out soon. Same title, same great content.)
Most of all, I learned that if life doesn't give you hearts, or show you hearts when you're looking for them, you can make them. And that comes with perspective. Life will throw you hard balls, life will throw you phone calls you wish not yet to receive. But when life's a beach, you have the choice to see the "heart" in the situation. For me, I now know I can make a heart in the darkest of hours or in the lightest of days, like today.
Until next time,