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I pluck these ripe, juicy days as if they were berries and heap them in my basket of remembrances to contemplate on cold, winter days. I’ll sit with snow drifting outside my window and recall these fields filled with bees and wildflowers and remember the steamy heat and how the sun burned my neck and nose.

I’ll remember the fragrance of it, the carrot smell of Queen Anne’s lace, the dry honey of the goldenrod. And I’ll see this golden field with its crown of Joe-Pye Weed standing tall against the deep green woods, waltzing in the breeze.

It may not entirely warm me. But it will tell me to hold on and remind me that even snow doesn’t last forever.

It was one of those summer days that the geese tucked into their memory stores to recount to one another on long, winter nights. They would remind each other how they sat on the lawn and ate their fill of the bugs that crawled between the blades of grass. On those cold, dark nights, they would remind each other of the wonderful smell of the newly mown grass and luscious white clover.

Normally, the humans filled the park. But they disappeared in the rain as if it would melt them and rain had fallen all morning long and threatened to return. So the geese had the place to themselves. And they sat on the earth amidst the waves of grass and preened themselves, and slept and dreamed, wrapped in the green luscious smell of it all, breathing it into their hearts to hold for the days when the grass slept beneath a blanket of soft, sparkling snow.

Such wise birds, these.

Because words alone cannot tell you, child, how much you mean to me, how I cherish you, how I laugh with you in your joy, how I weep with you in your sorrow, please accept this small token of my love.

May its tenderness whisper to you of the gentleness with which I hold you in my heart. May its beauty prove to you that, even in a world strewn with trials and thorns, you are not forgotten.

I, who create worlds upon worlds, know your name. I dance within your every breath. I know your every thought and each of your desires. I am with you in your suffering and in your hours of celebration.

Because words cannot contain me, I send you this token of my love. May its fragrance sing to your soul and bring you peace.

Almost everybody is entranced by flowers I suppose. I know I am. All they have to do is appear and I’m hooked. But trees are something else.

I think we take them for granted for the most part, forgetting that they are as alive as we are, and quite wondrous. We can walk right past them and give them no more heed than we do a sign post or light pole.

I’ve come to know some of them fairly well, having lived in close proximity with them for a few decades. They’re like a lot of living things in that if you give them your respectful attention, they will reveal much of their nature to you and fill you with interesting imaginings.

For the past couple of years, as winter began to give way to spring, I’ve noticed that I don’t want to say goodbye to the winter trees. It’s not that they go away or anything. But in springtime the flowers will return and I dance off with them, forgetting about the trees altogether.

They don’t mind. That’s one of the things I appreciate about them. They get pretty busy themselves for the green part of the year, and then there’s the autumn display. It’s winter when they draw my attention to them again, and they in turn reveal their gifts.

This past week I noticed hugging trees and the exposed bones of two pines who lived long, long ago. May they gift you with interesting imaginings, too.

For the second time in two weeks, I found myself in the Emergency Department of the local hospital. This time, it was because I had been running an unexplained high fever for three days.

Before I left, I had a diagnosis and with antibiotic fluids pumped into me, my fever broke, and I realized with great joy that I was actually going to live. It took a while to climb back to full strength, but every sunrise seemed a precious gift, and I reveled in the ordinary, glad for every wisp of it.

Now, here I am, delighted to be writing my Sunday Letter to you, and this on a day of double celebrations for us all. First, there’s the arrival of summer, the most luxuriant season of them all. And second, it’s Father’s Day.

My own dad holds a very special place in my heart. Remembering him fills me with an overflowing love. I hope that’s true for you, too.

I ran across a piece I wrote about fathers a few years back about the special role fathers play in our lives. It’s called, “Why Fathers Matter,” and I think it’s worth repeating on this Father’s Day…

Why Fathers Matter

Sadly, in our throw-away culture, one of the things that’s increasingly being viewed as disposable is fathers. According to a recent study, if you take a survey of people between 22 and 37—prime child-bearing ages—and you’ll find that only about half of them think kids need both a mom and dad to grow up happily. But the truth is that fathers matter. A whole bunch. Clinical psychologist Jordan Peterson says that it’s demoralizing to grow up without a father in your life. You feel cast aside, as if you don’t matter much. Without a dad the world can seem a dismal place. “The good father,” he says, “helps you to become your best self.”

What Fathers Do For Us

Fathers are the encouragers in our lives. They’re the ones who say, “Go ahead! You can do it!” even when we’re pretty sure we can’t. They believe in our potential. They teach us to take risks, to try, to be daring, even in the face of fear.

They set limits and hold up standards, teaching us self-control and responsibility. And as Peterson says, it’s bearing responsibility that gives life its meaning.

Dads hold out expectations for us. They push us to excel. Feeling a father’s pride in your accomplishments helps you strive to do and be your best.

When I was growing up, I took piano lessons. And even when I felt I had mastered a piece of music, my dad would nod and smile and say, “Keep practicing. You’ll get it yet.” In time, I became good enough to place highly in competitions. Then I would get from him the words I longed to hear: “Good job.” And that meant more than any trophy or ribbon.

Unlike mothers, who tend to talk to us in our own language levels, Dads help us expand our vocabularies by talking with a broader, more adult range of words.

It’s the rough and tumble side of dads, who tickle and wrestle with us, who teach us sports and games and skills, that teaches us how to deal with the world head-on, to be independent and to assert ourselves. We learn from their roughhousing how to be resilient in the face of defeat, and how to brush defeat aside.

They tell us stories from their worlds that show us the positive value of competition and take us to new places that we wouldn’t dare go on our own. They instill confidence in us, support us, and help us feel secure.

They’re the ones who say, “Enough is enough!” teaching us about rules and about what it means to be moral and fair. It’s no wonder that kids with fathers do better in school, are more playful, and learn to use humor to cope with setbacks.

Fathers Matter

If you are fortunate enough to have had a father in your world, take time to tell him that he matters to you, that you’re grateful for all he has taught you. And if you’re a father, a step-father, or a father-figure in someone’s life, know that your role is not only important, but irreplaceable, and take pride in that. Dads make us better people and the world a better place.

Happy Father’s Day, you Dads out there. A father’s love is fierce, and sometimes it’s not an easy job, keeping the balance between being strong and being harsh. But that fierce love gives us our strength and courage. And as Peterson says, the world would be a much more dismal place without you.

Warmly,
Susan

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