Category: Sunday Letters

One summer, I happened to be working from my home. From the second floor window where my office was located I could gaze out at my field, across the road from my house.

One day when I glanced up from my work, I was surprised to see an old station wagon parked on the grassy right of way that borders my field. An old fellah in a straw hat was standing about ten feet into my field, filling quart baskets with black raspberries that he was picking. The berries were abundant that year and just at their peak. I watched him fill basket after basket and tuck them in this car.

I was rather taken aback that some stranger would feel free to drive onto my property and help himself to my berry crop. How did he know the berries were there? Was he planning to sell them? Just across the state line a big home-grown produce stand sat at the highway’s edge. I was debating with myself whether to hike down to the field to confront him when he finished his picking and drove off, heading for Ohio.

I told myself no harm was done. Plenty of berries remained for the birds and I probably wasn’t going to pick them myself since another patch on the south hill was closer to my house.

But then, the next day, there he was again! And this time he had a woman with him and a little dog, and they seemed to be making a day of it, picking basket after basket of my berries. “What nerve!” I thought to myself. Not only were they trespassing, they maybe were stealing from me for their own profit. I definitely had to go see what they had to say for themselves. I was getting a bit miffed. And I don’t like to be upset.

As I pulled on my jeans and boots for my hike into the field, I happened to ask how else I could look at the situation. That’s when the miracle happened. I suddenly realized that had I known this couple, had they been my friends, I would be more than happy to have them take all the berries they wanted. The obvious solution then was to make friends with them. And I approached them with that intention, smiling and waving as I walked toward them.

It turned out they were a sweet old pair. And when they found out they weren’t in the field that belonged to their Ohio neighbor, who happened to own the field behind mine, they were absolutely mortified. They apologized over and over again while I assured them there was no need. It was a completely understandable mistake. The old man insisted I take the last two quarts of picked berries that he held in his hands, and I thanked him for the gift and told him they were welcome to take all they wanted. But so great was their embarrassment that they soon left, never to return again.

You might think that was the end of the story, my little parable about how a change of perspective can change your whole world. But wait! There’s more . . .

It was the middle of December and I had just finished hanging the last of my Christmas decorations when there was a knock on my door. It surprised me. I wasn’t expecting any guests.

When I opened the door, there was the raspberry thief, grinning, with gifts in his hands. His wife had baked a pie for me with berries from my field. The pie was spectacular, looking as if it had just sprung to life from the cover of a magazine. And then he set a bottle of homemade black raspberry wine on my kitchen counter, wishing me a Merry Christmas and thanking me for my kindness to him and his wife. And both the pie and the wine, I must say, were the finest I ever tasted.

I never saw the couple again after that. But I savor the memory, a tale of kindness returned, every Christmas when I hang my decorations and each summer when the black raspberries are ripe for picking.

Love each other, hey?

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Andrzej Rembowski from Pixabay

I sat on the porch enjoying the play of the hundred shades of green, feeling the warmth of the air, . . June. How beautifully June.

Due to a minor incident earlier in the day, I found myself thinking about the passive-aggressive spectrum I travel from time to time. I noticed that it’s a long gentle slope from the peak of my passivity to the red line where my aggression begins. It takes a lot to rile me. How sharply my aggression builds once that red line is crossed varies from situation to situation. I stay alert to the energies at play and strive to respond appropriately with as much wisdom and grace as I can muster.

Aggression is a mighty force. Bridled, it serves as a tool. Strive to be its master, so that it may serve you well, acting in accord with your truest aims and sense of direction.

It’s not easy, though, I must warn you, to develop even a modicum of skill in handling our potentially self-destructive tendencies, It’s one of those “not for sissies” games. Nevertheless, if skill is what you truly want, rest assured that life will present you with endless opportunities to practice, at whatever level you need,

When it comes to aggression–which can be expressed as everything from mild sarcasm to monstrous revenge or rage–It’s a tough course. It’s not in the nature of aggression to succumb to restraint. You have to tame it, using whatever tricks of the trade you’ve acquired over the years. Sometimes you have to invent or discover new ones. For me, it’s been a highly instructive and rather bumpy road.

But it’s been well-worth the effort. Rewards always more than compensate for the losses along the way. All exercises in self-mastery are like that, in my experience. Not only do you gain skill in controlling another aspect of self-expression, but you get added benefits along the way. Sometimes it takes a bit of living to see that, but it’s true.

One of the prizes I got for working to shape and direct aggression, for instance, is a far greater amount of patience than I had before. And patience is a beautiful reward. It gives you a place to rest for a while, to breathe easily and take in a wider view. It lets you return to your center again, to a welcoming acceptance of what is.

You can design your own self-mastery practice, by the way. All you have to do is notice some part of yourself that causes you more pain than pleasure and decide to work with it. That means paying attention to it so you can learn what triggers it, then noticing when that negative part of you is being triggered, then noticing that you can actually chose not to respond in your usual way.

One trick that helps is to play”The If-Then Game” with yourself. Before the next triggering event comes along, ask yourself, “What if such and such happens? What could I do instead of my habitual response?” Then imagine some alternatives. Do a little brain-storming, letting yourself come up with all the ideas your mind can create, even silly or outrageous ones. Dismiss no alternative; your conscience will sort out possibilities that are within the bounds of your principles. Your goal is just open the door to a whole, big bunch of possible alternatives. So let your imagination soar. Play out the alternatives you come up with in your mind.

Next week, I think I’ll retell the story of the black raspberry thief. It’s a great example of the way unexpected rewards show up when you put a good alternative into action.

Meanwhile, I’ll wish you a week where you suddenly notice places where you’re sliding into the mud of habitual negativity. “Oh, look! I was going there!” See what simply noticing does.

Smiling at you. Big-time.

Warmly,
Susan

_{Image by Josch13 from Pixabay}

Back in the middle of the last century, writings about the amazing powers of the subconscious mind were all the rage. It was, as I understood it, this vast, shapeless, inner world that held more or less clear impressions of everything you ever experienced or learned. Not only that, but it somehow filed everything in organized, wholly cross-referenced files. And that gave it the power to find–or lead you to find–the answers to any questions or puzzles you presented to it. That’s what made it amazing.

But the part of the subconscious that holds all your personal experiences was only one layer of it. There was another, deeper layer below it that held the experiences of everybody everywhere who ever lived, back through eons of time. At their edges, the personal subconscious and the collective subconscious intermingled, and you could, with proper discipline, guidance and effort, travel into the depths of the collective to access even more data. Some people were able to dive even deeper than the collective. But that’s another story, for another time.

What got me to thinking about this was a simple question a friend asked me this morning. “Have you started on your Sunday Letter yet?” I told him I hadn’t, but that I could tell that the Boys in the Back Room were kicking around an idea. I depend on them. And they never disappoint, although I sometimes have to knock pretty loudly on their door before they slip their notions to me.

The Boys in the Back Room is a compartment I built in my personal subconscious. Up until I realized I could do that, I thought of the subconscious mind as a vast, maybe bottomless, ever-swirling bowl of soup. “The Cosmic Soup,” I called it. When you wanted to know something, you’d bait a line with your question, drop it into the soup and wait until something tugged on your line. That process was called “Fishing in the Cosmic Soup.”

Then one day I was walking by local trout stream and it dawned on me that different bodies of water held different kinds of fish. Maybe the Cosmic Soup was the same way. So I swam around in it for a while and found this sun-dappled pool that was bubbling with ideas. It was surrounded by some kind of transparent energy field, and I knocked on its outer edges and a laughing young fellow appeared, opening a kind of door. Behind him was a big, bright room filled with school desks and a riotous, laughing crew of boys and girls, maybe in their late teens, early 20’s, turning somersaults and throwing balls of crumpled paper at each other.

The guy at the door told me they were my Creatives. They fabricated my ideas and dreams. I could call them, he said, the Boys in the Back Room—“boys,” in this case, being a word like “guys” that referred in a casual, friendly kind of way to both genders. They were right next door to the Research Clan, he said, who aided them immensely in their creations. (The Research Clan, by the way, is the group that helps you figure out where you left your car keys, among other things. They travel freely through the huge data bases of the entire subconscious in search of answers and report to many other inner pools besides that of the Boys in the Back Room. But that, too, is another story.)

It was this whole experience that showed me why Positive Affirmative Questions work. And that’s really what the Boys suggested that I write about today. Here it is in a nutshell, since I’ve rambled for quite a while already: Instead of using affirmations to reprogram a behavior or install a different one, you turn the affirmation into a question. For instance, instead of saying, “I am eating healthy, nutritious foods now,” you ask yourself, “Why am I so drawn to eating healthy, nutritious foods now?” Then the Researches go to collect data and collaborate with the Boys in the Back Room who fabricate ways for you to discover that you are, amazingly, drawn to nutritious foods.

While they’re searching, the negative part of you that knows you’re still stuffing Oreos in there might say something nasty to you, like “You’re not eating good stuff, fool.” Just tell it that it’s not up to speed on things and trust that the Boys will be back any second now with reams of ways to nudge you into hankering for a crisp, juicy apple or a maybe a piece of salmon, fresh off the grill.

Instead of saying “I no longer spend money impulsively,” you ask yourself, “Why am I managing my money so wisely now?” Then see what happens the next time you’re out shopping or leafing through an inviting catalog that came in the mail.

That’s the gist of it. “Why am I feeling so motivated today?” Why am I getting so many good ideas about this thing I want to do?” “Why am I feeling so peaceful today?” Play with it.

Wishing you a week of happy discoveries.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay.com

I was reminded again, after watching the events the past week brought us, of one of the most valuable teachings I ever learned. I’ve shared it with you before, but this seems like a good time to remind you about it, too. It’s this counsel from Tara Brach about what to do when you find that you’re in distress. Say this to yourself, she says:

This is suffering.
Everybody suffers.
May I be kind.

I’m always comforted by it. It lets me put a name to what I’m feeling: suffering. Then it reminds me that I’m not alone, that suffering is something every human being everywhere experiences. That’s kind of a deep thing to realize. None of us escapes pain—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually. Life here isn’t for sissies. It puts all of us to the test.

Knowing that, the only worthwhile response is to be kind. Accept that at one time or another, life is painful. Reality here has a brutal streak. And in the face of it, kindness is a healing balm. It washes over the scene with a gentle warmth. It ever so subtly brings a soft light to things, allowing us to feel a spaciousness wide enough to see beyond our pain, to sense the love around us, too. Let yourself remember a moment of kindness you experienced and notice how it lifts you just to think of it.

The first place to focus your kindness when you’re in distress is on yourself. Imagine giving yourself a gentle, compassionate hug, one that conveys that it deeply understands what you’re feeling. You’re human. Pain comes with the territory. Let it be what it is; it will pass.

Then, once you open yourself to being accepting and kind towards yourself, however slightly, let it flow out to everybody. You never know what’s going on inside somebody else’s skin. It could be that the person right next to you needs a friendly smile as much as you do. Let your kindness touch the entire situation you’re in—everything and everyone involved.

A friend of mine sometimes says, “Love isn’t a feeling; it’s an action.” I think of that when I think about what kindness is. Just because you aren’t feeling especially generous toward someone doesn’t mean you can’t treat them with respect and consideration. Kindness means you look past your own troubles to try to help lift the load for somebody else.

And the beautiful thing is that kindness generates a kind sort of feedback loop. It’s like instant karma, returning to you the love that you give, multiplied.

I know I often encourage you to “tuck this one in your pocket,” that I hope you’ll adopt a quote or an exercise as part of your own tool chest. But I especially hope you’ll gift yourself with this one. You have your own way to store things in your mind. Maybe you make a written note of it, Maybe you just practice chanting it until you feel it embedding itself in your memory. Whatever means you use, use it with this one: “This is suffering. Everybody suffers. May I be kind.” Its benefits are real, and healing, and strong.

Wishing you a week of peace and ease.

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Gerd Altmann from Pixabay

I’ve noticed that we all seem to be a bit tense these days. That’s a shame. We miss a lot when we’re all tight, and life is such a big and fascinating show. So I thought I’d share with you two of my favorite ways to release stress, and one for getting more out of whatever is going on. Their effects are temporary, meant to give you a little break and a broadened perspective.

The first one is good for emergency use as well as providing a quick mental refresh any ol’ time. The second one is an easy little exercise that’s almost as good as a nap.

1. Renewed Composure

Take a deep breath. A deep one!
When your lungs are full, close your eyes.
Breath out gently, slowly, as you whisper to yourself

Relax . . .
Let my muscles relax; let them soften.
Let me feel the flow of my breath. (Breathe in whenever you want to.)
Let me straighten my posture and open my eyes.

Note the increase in your composure, and carry on.

Once the part about relaxing your muscles, feeling your breath, and straightening up becomes automatic, you can just say “Relax, 1, 2, 3” if you like.

Repeat as needed/desired.

2. The Ragdoll

Bend forward from the waist (just as far as is comfy) dangling your arms and head toward the floor. Imagine you’re a soft, worn rag doll and let your arms gently swing. When you want, s-l-o-w-l-y stand up, visualizing or feeling how you’re stacking your vertebrae one atop the other until you’re standing straight and tall.
(Sometimes I like to do #1 right after this one.)

Enjoying the Show

This is a trick I discovered a few years back when co-workers often strolled into my office to dump their momentary frustrations and complaints. One of them particularly irritated me. She was nice enough and I liked her, but she was one heck of a chatterer with a thin, high-pitched voice, going on breathlessly while her hands flew through the air, her long, glossy fingernails flashing in the fluorescent light. But she needed a listener, and I got the role.

One day, while she was jabbering away, I asked myself how else I could see her so I could pay attention better. All of a sudden she transformed into a cartoon, like from “The Simpsons” maybe. The room itself looked like a cartoon in my mind. It was all I could do not to laugh. But it brightened my attitude and I found I could listen to her as if I were watching a movie,

I still use that technique to this day. I pretend I’m watching a sit-com or a movie, captivated by what everyone (including me) is saying and doing. I study the other characters’ faces and expressions and empathize with their stories, whether of suffering or joy. I let myself appreciate the drama of the situation, its tragedy, its comedy, its ordinariness, its beauty. Seeing it that way, I’m a step removed from it and get a wider view.

I don’t know if that will work for you. You’ll have to try it. Imagine you’re watching life on a really big screen, with the finest sound and lighting. See what happens. It’s all an experiment you know.

Make yourself a bag of popcorn. Then relax, and enjoy the show.

Wishing you serenity, all the week through. 

Warmly,
Susan

Image by Pablo Jimeno from Pixabay

[First, some notes from my Joy Warrior’s Journal, as background.

What To Do In The Middle Of A Treacherous War That Surprisingly Few Realize Is Even Going On: An Inner Conversation

Voice: Is it at your doorstep?
Me: It’s deeper in my pocketbook at every turn. So I’d say its inching its way up with what seems to be quickly increasing speed.

Voice: Are you in imminent danger?
Me: Only if I don’t pay attention to my driving. And here’s my corner. Oh! Look! It’s Gorgeous!

Voice: Well, of course.]

I pulled in to the curb right across from the school. Its campus borders one edge of the park, an oasis of joy tucked between the “projects” and the small private college up the street. I end up here in the middle of May every year . (You can read the story about that here. Pics there, too.) It’s an aged, clean, working class neighborhood that tells a lot of history as you drive down its streets. I like the area’s giant sycamores and maples, and the way the yards are neat and host flowering trees and beds of blooms, now that it’s finally spring.

Despite my excitement over finding myself at this delightful park once again, I was in a slightly sober mood. I spend my mornings, as I’ve mentioned, watching news you usually don’t get from the main stream media. And I can only conclude that we’re heading into some extraordinary times. Events truly seem to be heading quickly toward a decisive moment. But my resolution as a somewhat errant joy warrior is to be present with the moment’s goodness, and beauty, and truth. So I am here, at the park, and as I exit my car, I look at the scene before me and, breathing it in, find a little smile edging onto my face.

Then I see it. The whole sidewalk is covered with chalk drawings. I approach them a bit warily, hoping they won’t mar the beauty of the scene. But no! Look! They’re love notes! See the pink and blue heart?

I walk down the edge of the sidewalk taking photos of them, feeling as if I’ve stepped into an enchanted little world of some sort. A grinning blue face looks up at me, wearing the word “Happiness” in big letters beneath his chin. And look at this fish! See? Above the surface of the water, storm clouds drop rain. But straight ahead the sun shines through the water, and the little fish has his eye set on that. Must be a joy fish. See what he says? “Look to the bright side.”

I glance up at the colors the park’s trees are wearing, and they call me. But I am stopped in my tracks by the sidewalk’s next square. It’s a quote from a sonnet by Shakespeare, no less! “Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou are more lovely and more temperate.” It could have been written to this very day itself. And then comes a simple blue smile, and its message, “You matter.”

I am astonished by the whole experience, and truly moved. As I leave the sidewalk to take in the park, I tuck one of the sidewalk’s messages into my heart-pocket, a reminder: “Don’t worry. Be happy.” That’s always good advice.

Go into this week knowing that you are loved.

Warmly,
Susan

The hardest part is deciding what to prepare. Once I’ve got that, the whole game plan appears. I wash my hands and assemble the ingredients, bowls, cutting board, knives, various utensils. Then I begin.

I take the skinless, boneless chicken thigh in my hand and place it on the cutting board. With my sharp, thin knife, I remove the bits of excess fat and cut the meat into cubes. I think about Holly’s wonderful chickens, roaming free in their big, fenced yard. The thigh I’m cutting probably came from some poor critter raised in a crowded cage, never feeling the slightest touch of human love, Silently, I thank it for its life and for feeding me. It sizzles and I turn the pieces to sear them on all sides to hold in their juices.

For a moment, the news about the proliferating bird flu and about the rash of fires at food processing plants flashes through my mind. But I catch myself and turn my attention back to the meat happily cooking in my pan and to my gratitude that it has arrived in my kitchen and will make a fine contribution to my meal. That’s what a joy warrior does when thoughts of the world’s darkness threaten to eclipse the light of a heart full of thanksgiving.

I think about all the people involved in getting this little chicken thigh to me–the producers, the packers, the makers of the packaging, the truckers who transported it, the buyers and sellers and handlers along the way, the machines involved and all those who designed, built and operated them–the list could go on and on. I send a little wave of thanks to all who made it possible, a cast, no doubt, of millions if you trace it all out. “Every door leads to an infinite world,” I say to myself, laughing. Everything’s connected and intermingled.

The shrimp come next, small, cleaned, tailless ones. I like the slightly salty smell of them as I stir them into the chicken. It brings images of the ocean and fishing boats and fishermen. And for a moment, I am sailing in Boston Harbor, feeling the rush of the wind as it pushes us through the water. Maybe, far below me, shrimp crawl. I remember eating lobster once fresh from the boat that docked at the restaurant’s lower door, somewhere on the coast of Maine. The shrimp in my present dinner probably came from a farm. Almost everything’s a step removed from nature these days. But at least it wasn’t made in a lab. Thank you, little pink shrimp, for being real and for the gift of your energy.

I open the bag of frozen stir-fry veggies—broccoli, mushrooms, strips of sweet red pepper and carrots, sweet pea pods, cauliflower, water chestnuts, corn—and add a couple handfuls to the pan. The colors brighten the whole dish as I gently toss them. I imagine vast fields of vegetables from a half dozen states and maybe beyond the nation’s boundaries–and again, I thank all who labored to bring them to me.

I sprinkle in a pinch of pink Himalayan salt—What a wonder!—and a twist or two of freshly ground mixed peppercorns and just a dash of ground coriander. Then I let it simmer a bit, aware that days are coming soon when such bounty as this will be available no more. I pray for those who go hungry right now, and I am more grateful for this beautiful meal than words could ever say.

I ladle big spoonfuls of it onto a clear glass plate, breathing in its fragrance, and sit to savor its flavors. When I finish, I am satisfied, and filled, body and soul.

Wishing you a week of beautifully mindful meals.

Warmly,
Susan

I was at the park this week on one of the month’s rare sunny days and happened across two little girls playing at the edge of the creek. They were putting little pieces of driftwood on the water to watch it float downstream and giggling as they sang “Row, row, row your boat, gently down the stream . . . “

I hadn’t heard that little ditty in years and soon I was humming it as I walked along. “Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily; Life is but a dream.”

It got me thinking about one of the phrases I keep in my back pocket to get me through stressful times or to reassure myself when I’m taking on a challenge. I’ve shared it with you before. Maybe you remember: “How easy can I let this be?”

Now and then I repeat it to a friend of mine who unfailingly repeats it as “How easy can I make this?” I tell him it’s not “make this,” but “let this.” There’s a difference.

Maybe my friend, an engineer, thinks that making things easy means finding an efficient way to go about whatever needs to be done. But to me, that interpretation puts the onus on you to invent an efficient way. It becomes an added thing that you have to do. I’m all for efficiency. And I suppose if I were the engineering type, “making things easy” might sound like an engaging task. I might find it lifts my spirits to look at things that way, If that’s how it sounds to you, great!

But the point of asking yourself to let the challenge before you be easy means that you’re giving yourself permission to relax into it. You’re asking yourself how much you’re willing to allow yourself to be at ease. Things are only difficult or trying for us because we frame them that way, after all. Almost anything can be done with ease if we take it one small step at a time. What’s the old saying? “Inch by inch, anything’s a cinch.”

Giving yourself permission to step into a task gently and with ease is especially helpful when what you’re facing seems unpleasant, or even repulsive or painful. Allowing yourself to let go of the tension of resistance tunes you in to your capabilities. Asking “How easy can I let this be?” turns “I don’t want to” into “I can do this.”

What’s more, it lets you glide into action with a grace that can build momentum for you, and even make the task feel rewarding and satisfying, or if you’re really lucky, fun. There you are, just rowing your boat, one stroke of the oars after another. And sooner or later, you arrive where you wanted to be. The challenge that loomed so large is behind you, now nothing more than a memory, a dream.

Let me invite you to tuck the phrase in your pocket—“How easy can I let this be?”— and to pull it out the next time you find yourself resisting a challenge. Maybe attach the tune to “Row Your Boat” to it just to give it a bit of flavor. Give it a try. You never know.

Wishing you a week of merrily bubbling streams.

Warmly,
Susan

My neighbor and I were watching the cardinals and jays enjoying breakfast at The Flat Rock Cafe. That’s what I call the corner of the retaining wall where I sprinkle a thick layer of sunflower seeds for my bird pals every morning. I take out the seeds and sing, “Good Morning, little friends. Here’s your breakfast!” I repeat it three times. They know the song now and as soon as I’m half way back to the house, they come zooming in from all directions.

Now that spring has finally sprung, my chipmunk buddies have begun to return to the cafe, too. And today was one of those days. They stuffed their little cheeks for a while, and then, when more jays came, they raced away, chasing each other in circles in the yard. My old neighbor friend laughed at the sight of them. I told him they were celebrating the arrival of spring. “Aren’t we all!” he said, holding up his coffee cup to make a toast.

Winters here seem to take up half the year, so the arrival of spring is indeed a cause for celebration. Personally, I’ve vowed to treasure every single day of it, even the dreary, rainy ones.

I looked up the word “celebrate” in my thesaurus to see what it had to say. It’s a word that holds a lot of connotations in my mind and I wondered if the thesaurus would reflect some of them. Among the first tier of words that were similar, it listed “honor,” “observe,” “praise,” and “revere.”

I liked them; they captured it well. They highlighted the different aspects of celebration–not only the jubilation of it, but the quieter, deeper parts of it, too. For me, celebration is an act of joy, the act of taking time to observe and honor the richness a moment holds, to feel the meaning of it. Sometimes, when you do that, your heart fills with a joy so brilliant that it could only find voice in praise. Sometimes, if the moment is a somber one, you find yourself feeling a profound respect for all the vagaries of life, for the mystery of it, and your heart quiets and is wrapped in reverence.

Isn’t it interesting that a single word can capture such a range of emotion? And isn’t it something that we can feel that whole range as something special, to be noticed and experienced in its fullness?

I mean, there I was, sipping coffee with Bob, watching the critters, and all of a sudden the antics of the chipmunks, and Bob’s laughter, and the observation of springtime, and the honoring of it with a toast all mixed altogether with a recognition that this was a moment of true celebration.

It was just an ordinary moment. Looked at from just the right angle, ordinary moments are the best causes for celebration. They capture us just as we are, being our true selves, living our true lives. And whatever we’re being or doing is beautiful and sacred somehow.

Seeing the cause for celebration in an ordinary moment isn’t something that happens all the time. That’s probably a good thing. We’d get little done if we walked around astonished by the wonder of life all the time. But you can cultivate such moments. You can teach yourself to stop and ask if the present moment deserves your celebration. We get what we look for, after all. And moments of celebration are so plush that it’s worth the effort to see if you’re in the midst of one this very minute. Could be. You never know.

Wishing you bushels of heartfelt celebrations.

Warmly,
Susan