Posted on February 27, 2024 by Jenn Zatopek

Sitting in the front room, I write these words, exhaling from the stress accumulated in this body from the past several weeks. Relational challenges abound, and as I consider recent loss, I sing praises to tiny things, the scented candle on my writing desk, my makeshift altar, beloved books, paintings I’ve created, writing journals which breathe with sincerity and focus.

Sighing with relief, I look out the tall windows at the barren pin oak tree and middle school track across the street from our house. This is the school track where the middle-aged man cursed at me during the pandemic for having a Black Lives Matter sign in our front yard, the track that’s received thousands of my anxious footfalls, the one I’ve walked on during lonesome nights when I look up at the stars and send love to my dear friends. The pin oak tree, a constant companion, sits silently as she surveys the world too.

But as I carry this grief, I smile in recognition as I make tea and pour water from the electric tea kettle on the wooden buffet my friend N gifted me with, the wooden shelves my partner made, the tea box my friend T sent at Christmas awhile back. Even in heartache, love calls out to me in the sweet memories stirred from these impromptu gifts. And as I sit at the wooden table from N, with the colorful placements my friend L bought me, the birch tree candles K gave us years ago, I laugh with the pin oak outside and realize:

So much love everywhere I turn inside this ordinary house, so much joy found in looking and listening with an open, trembling heart.

Image: My writing desk