Author: Susan Minarik

A Good Sign

One of my friends posted a news clip on Facebook the other day that told the story of a shopkeeper who put up a billboard over her store facing the highway. In big, white block letters against a dark blue background, it simply said “You Are Enough.”

Now let me ask you something. When you read what it said on the sign, didn’t you feel a little relieved somehow? “You Are Enough.” It’s such a powerful reminder. It’s comforting and reassuring. And all of us can use some of that these days, given the perils and uncertainties of life. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by all the challenges facing us, by the daily demands, and by all the expectations, both our own and those we think that others hold up for us. It’s easy to worry that we won’t measure up.

Then here we are, cruising down life’s highway, and somebody’s put up a sign to remind us that we are enough.

I like how easy the message is to take, too. It’s not trying to flatter you into thinking that you’re some superstar or something. It’s not saying you’re the best. It’s just reminding you that you are all you need to be right now. You’re okay. The next moment that comes along might need you to be something different, and you’ll be enough for that moment too. Because that’s how versatile you are, you wonderful ordinary human being.

Once I heard somebody on the radio say, “Good enough’s the new gold standard.” The perfectionist side of me found the statement annoying. To me it smacked of “settling for,” of not doing your best, of compromising your standards. I generally lean more toward the “good enough is never good enough” side of the scale.

In real life, though, you rarely get to perfection. Few things or situations exist that couldn’t be tweaked for the better. And we have only so many resources available at any given time. So I finally came to realize that it’s wise to do the best you can from where you are with what you’ve got and then to brush your hands together in satisfaction and say, “good enough.” Sometimes I even laugh at my “good enough” stuff. It’s far from perfection, but it meets the requirements of the moment perfectly well. Just like me, “good enough” can be clumsy, or unfinished, or in need of a coat of paint. But it’s serves the needs and desires of the moment just fine, regardless.

The sign the shopkeeper put up over her store wasn’t fancy. But it got the job done. It said all it had to say. It was enough.

Accepting that you are enough, that what you’ve accomplished is enough, doesn’t mean you give up on wanting to be more, to do more, to do better. What it does do is let you is feel at home with yourself, confident that who you are, just as you are right this very moment, is okay. You are enough. In fact, if you look at the whole of you, you’d probably have to admit that you’re rather amazing all in all. But it’s okay not to admit it, or even to doubt that its true. Because you don’t have to know that you’re amazing. Right now, it’s perfectly enough to know that you are enough.

Claim that.

Wishing you a week strewn with good signs.

Warmly,
Susan

The Creek Sings Spring

This is spring. This is the lush wet green
of her, pouring from every branch, rising
from every inch of soil, gushing
into the fast-flowing waters, licking
every dancing molecule with her song.
This is exuberance set free, leaping
with life, drenching every form
in hues of jade and lime, every leaf,
every blade, the currents of water
and air. All of it Yes, uncontained,
all of it utterly spring.

Bells the Color of Sky

Bells the color of sky rise from earth’s fresh green.
waltzing in the wind, happiness wafting from their petals.
On this most magnificent day, may there be gladness.
May there be joy. May all hearts be filled
with sky-wide Yes and singing.

Birthday Present

Over the decades of birthdays past
life has grown complex. When you are young,
you think that you will reach the place
where dreams come true and live,
content and at ease, to the end from there.
Then reality happens, challenging all
you had supposed, its seasons carrying you
to places far beyond your dreams, testing
your courage, and endurance, and faith.
Life, you find, is fierce. Its lessons come
at great cost. But oh, the quiet places,
the treasures you gather along the way—
the rays of truth and wisdom, the touch
of human hands, the songs of the teachers
who sing in nature’s voice, the smiles
of children and strangers, the company
of family and friends, and always,
the infinite Yes of sky, reminding you,
despite any evidence to the contrary,
that you never truly left home
and are always wrapped in loved.
And so, arriving at this birthday present,
I celebrate sunlight spilling through lacy trees
onto fresh grass and wild violets
and give thanks for another day of waking
in this most amazing world.

Finally, Ferns

For days, it’s been raining and the hillside’s a mess.
But I went out anyway, every day, watching for the ferns.
Then, finally, today, they were everywhere, as if
some bell had rung at midnight, telling them to rise.
I confess, it took me a little while to spot them,
given the soggy tangle of decaying leaves
and the upsurge of blades and curls of new green.
But here they were, newly born, their stems
wound ‘round in protection of their baby fronds.
I counted fifteen in this one family, the bold ones tall,
and some just breaking through the soil. In summer
they will cover the hillside like waves on the sea,
billowing in the breeze. And I will watch the show
and tell them I remember the day that they were born.

Awash in Emerald Green

I understand the benevolence of the sky,
a single cloud of tarnished silver floating
from horizon to horizon. It’s gift, the dimming
of the light, and the way the rain diffuses it
so that the woods is veiled, as if in mist.
Here, the hillside is awash in emerald green
so intense that you could hardly stand
to look at it, so suddenly appearing,
if it were drenched in sunlight. it’s enough,
just as it is, to make you draw your breath,
inhaling its hue and the taste of a cold May rain.

Welcoming the May Queen

On this first day of May, a gentle rain fell
and the lilies-of-the-valley rang their white bells
to join in the rain’s gentle song. Beneath
the lilies’ jade leaves, spring fairies danced
in a cloud of the flowers’ perfume,
the signature scent of the May Queen,
angel of mid-spring blossoms and of all
the newly born. And the day was filled
with their welcome and with the joy
of their delicate song.

Farewell to April

One thing about April, she lived up to her legend.
She brought in the rains for the flowers of May,
and scattered bouquets of her own, rainbows
of blossoms and myriads of leaves that painted
lacy patterns against her cloud-swept skies.
She teased us with warm breezes and swept
away the last vestiges of winter’s snow.
She whispered life into the earth’s frozen veins
and sang sweet songs of waking to us all.
And now, beneath soft clouds of pearl,
she slips away, carrying with her our thanks,
our heartfelt joys, our dewy-eyed farewells.

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye to April is like watching the petals fall from the garden’s last tulip. It’s such a sad-sweet feeling. In case I haven’t told you, I am in love with springtime. It holds meaning for me on more levels than I could ever hope to tell.

This particular last day of April holds special meaning. For one thing, it begins the week when I will mark my 77th birthday, which feels, I must say, like a significant landmark. Someday I’ll share with you some of the rewards you reap for getting this far. One of them is an awareness of the preciousness of life.

When spring began this year, I made a commitment to myself to savor every day of it. One day, as I was stepping out into a soft, dewy morning, I remembered the line, “See every day as if it is your first, or your last.” It struck me, and I thought to myself that this could be the last April I will ever see. (You never know.) And how I have reveled in her days!

Each one brought new life, new warmth, new color, the songs of returning birds, the start of the parade of flowers. It was as though the Great Yes itself was sending a visible supply of fresh hope into the world. Every single day. And how swiftly they have passed! Even the cold and rainy ones, despite my wish that each one held three times its allotted hours.

Perhaps it sounds silly that someone could grieve the passing of a month’s worth of days. But that’s how it feels, and I’ve known my share of grief. I heard a story once where a woman caught her husband deeply sobbing one day. When she asked what was wrong, the man told her that he just learned he’d lost one of his best friends. The woman told him she was sorry he was feeling such terrible sorrow. And he wiped his eyes and told her his tears weren’t tears of sorrow, but of happiness. “Happiness!” she said, surprised. He smiled at her and told her that only now did he realize how much he and his friend had loved each other, and what a joy their friendship had been.

My grieving over April’s going is like that. I’m so full of the joy that April gave me that I’m moved to tears.

I think that when we lose loved ones – or even cherished possessions or circumstances – after the initial shock and adjustments have passed, the grief that remains is deeply colored by memories and images of the things we appreciated and so enjoyed, as if we were storing them away for safe-keeping.

One of the most comforting things anyone said to me when, decades ago, I lost a son was, “You never get over the pain, but it finds a special place in your heart to dwell.” The pain, after all, is focused on ourselves, on our loss of the physical experience of someone or something in our lives. We hold onto it because it’s all we have left. But inside it, like a thousand-petaled blossom, are all the memories of that precious experience and of all the adventures and secrets and dreams it brought into our lives.

So I say farewell to April with a heart full of gratitude for her loveliness, and a tear in my eye at her passing.

And tomorrow morning, it will be May.

Wishing you days touched with tender beauty.

Warmly,
Susan

A Cure for What Ails You

Back in the old days, people knew
how to recognize medicine on sight.
When a child brought tiny blue flowers
to her mother, the mother would say,
“Oh! Speedwells! Aren’t they sweet?
And did you know they make delicious tea
and that they will cure what ails you?”

And the child would lead the mother
to the patch where the speedwell grew,
and they would dig little clumps of it
with delight, the mother telling
all the ailments it was known to cure:
cough, rough breathing, hurting skin,
rheumatism, tummy aches and more.

And at home, they would brew some tea,
smiling as they slowly sipped it,
and some would go in a labeled bottle,
an elixir to soothe you and restore
you to health. And they would place
some of the little plants the child brought
in the garden, where the sight of them alone
was enough to brighten your day.