Back brace, check. Shoulder brace, check. Knee brace, check. Wrist brace, check.
I am ready to plant the flower bulbs.
Today, in an annual fall ritual, I planted bulbs for spring. Rather than surrender to the ready reasons to neglect this chore, I was determined to get the bulbs at least five inches deep, in some cases, eight. I was going to observe this ritual of hope that has lifted my spirits, twice a year -- both in fall when I bury them and spring when I watch them emerge.
There are so many of these small rituals in life that we often skate right by them, not recognizing them for what they are. Every time I drop a letter in the mail box - it is with a confidence and some hope that it will reach the person for whom it is intended. As I pack up Christmas ornaments, I always spend time imagining all of the good things that might happen during the ensuing year. A whispered prayer, a lit candle, a set table all represent hopes of different kinds and different proportions, but hope all the same.
A jar with nothing in it could hold anything; that simple thought fills me with hope.
Maybe we should place more empty jars out to catch the promise of hope delivered by the bright light of day.