Seeing Beauty Around Me

The other day around 5 a.m., I drew the blinds and sat in my favorite lazy boy. Borah, Trey's 26-pound Maine coon, practically apparated onto the arm of the chair and stared out the window. And so, as I drank my homemade peppermint mocha, Borah and I stayed there for the longest time, just watching and waiting.

The wind picked up; leaves scurried over rocks; and a fallen branch twirled, somersaulting across the driveway. That's when Borah's ears slid back with concentration. He looked from me to the edge of the yard, and as I followed his gaze, my heart stopped. The most beautiful buck I've ever seen stood clothed in moonlight, fur gently combed by the wind, and massive antlers stretching toward heaven. 

He turned toward us, studying both me and Borah as if judging our souls. Although I couldn't pull my gaze from his, I lost hold of the moment and suddenly remembered something from the past.

 

We bought our house in 2015, and on the first night, Sky and I were so excited that we popped popcorn, turned out the lights, and watched nature out the front window. We whispered with excitement and could hardly believe it when we counted 28 deer that came into our yard that night!

 

"This is the best moment of my life," Sky squealed at one point. "I'm so happy we moved to Idaho."

 

I hugged her. "Me too." So much had changed. I'd been a single mom with four young kids, and going it alone had been tough yet gratifying. Then, I ended up meeting the most wonderful man, and after dating a couple of years, we got married and moved the kids from Utah to Idaho. Looking back, sometimes I think my life really started when I moved here.

 

Anyway, as I watched the buck, I thought about my years in this house, how I'd been so grounded at first, focusing on all the right things. Then, I got my dream job, managing an entire newspaper. But somehow... between balancing spreadsheets, hiring and firing, writing, editing, and paginating, I somehow lost myself and became the Scrooge of the modern world. Life was about work and earning money, college degrees, and breaking news. I no longer had time to eat popcorn and stare out the front window, watching nature with my children... Then COVID came. The newspaper went under, and we all had to find new jobs. It was only a few months later that doctors diagnosed me with terminal cancer.

 

Everything crashed down: my expectations, self-imposed goals, and even how I saw myself. But from those ashes, something wonderful reawakened. One morning, I stayed huddled in a blanket, trying to warm my skinny body after cancer treatments. I'd been throwing up, worried I'd wake Mike or the kids. So, I stayed in the front room, trying to gather my thoughts. I opened the blinds, gazed out the window, and saw 5 deer that night. It hit me how close they walked to my bedroom. How ironic that such magic was so near every night, but I'd had no idea, too focused on menial things.

 

After that, if I hurt too badly at night or struggled emotionally, I started looking for animals. 

As months passed, I didn't just find beauty in my front yard, I saw it everywhere. And through it all, I became a better mother, wife, friend, sister, and daughter. How strange it took hardship for me to slow down and see the beauty around me. I'd been chasing so many things, trying to prove my worth to my parents and even my creator. I wanted to earn their love by writing books and getting promotions, but I'd missed the point. Life should be about relationships, building each other up, and ensuring people feel valued and loved.

 

Some days, I can get fixated on this diagnosis. It's easy to feel trapped and even scared if I think about the "what-ifs" too much. But other times—the vast majority—I've begun living: seeing the good. Even when I feel worse than normal, the kids enchant me; Mike seems like a miracle, and the deer in our yard… they're waiting at night, if I'm just willing to look for the magic around me.

 

My thoughts turned back to the present. The buck dipped his head down as if nodding with approval, then turned and bounded from our yard. I'm not sure if I've ever locked eyes with an animal that long—not ever—but it felt truly surreal. After the buck was far from sight, Borah curled up and fell asleep, probably dreaming about a huge deer hunt. As I snuggled into my perfect blue chair, I thought about how lucky I am to still be alive.

The Power of Peace

Do you ever have days when you sit and wonder, "What's the point?" It's not always like this for me; usually, I'm just so grateful to be alive that all other thoughts are shelved for another day. The inconsequential worries of yesterday no longer fill my mind, and it takes a lot to make me flustered or upset. But there are days when no one else is home, and I don't have to pretend to be "well" for anyone... When I'm all by myself, sometimes I feel like I'm in a hopeless situation with no happy ending. During those moments, I forget that my happy ending is now, making the best out of the present.

I get cancer treatments once a month—and then Zometa, an infusion for my bones, once every 3 months—and those infusions make me feel so ill for weeks upon weeks. Yet, they're the only thing keeping the cancer from growing. And without those, I wouldn't be here, typing this right now.

Anyway, I'd been having one of those down days when I got a text from Colleen Hancock. "Scott would love to see you."

So, without a second thought, I went to see my dear friend, who's become like family. The next few hours were a blur of laughter and storytelling. I even got to visit with Scott's amazing nephew (Kent) and his beautiful wife (Karrie), Gordon (the renowned artist), Colleen (the best baker in ALL of Idaho), and, of course, the legendary man of the hour, Scott Hancock!

Listening to and sharing stories about hilarious things that have happened, I somehow forgot about all of my troubles. I laughed so hard about possible sasquatch encounters and a chance meeting with a gigantic otter. I smiled big when Scott told me about his adventures as a young man. "We drove to California at the drop of a hat. Then we met a woman who really pursued me," he sighed, "but I turned her down."

"First time he didn't go for it," Gordon said, chuckling when Scott gave him a "side eye." 

"But spurning that woman might've been my first mistake."

"Why?" I asked, hanging onto this story like honey butter on cornbread.

"Well, I got in trouble. My dad was furious."

"Not just Grandpa," Kent said. "Grandma. Grandma was the one who got all worked up."

"Moral of the story," I said. "Never turn down a good woman?" 

"Maybe so!" Gordon agreed and broke out laughing.

It's funny how one different choice can change so much.

I gave everyone the biggest hugs goodbye and told Scott and Colleen how much I love them. "Thank you for letting me come visit today," I told them, more grateful than they would ever know.

A sudden nostalgia overtook me as I drove home, so I pulled off by a shaded tree, parked my car, and closed my eyes. The first thing I registered was happiness—normalcy—not feeling sick or flawed—just feeling valued and not judged for my limitations. But as I closed my eyes, I suddenly remembered sitting on a rock in Southeastern Utah. I grew up in the desert and, at times, camped so much that sandstone felt like a second skin.

Anyway, that particular day—near the San Rafael Swell—was in the high 90s. We'd been camping as a family, and everyone else wanted to hang out in the shade. Instead, I'd gone to sit on a sandstone boulder where I could see all around me for miles. A hawk circled above as I played my somber violin. Lizards scurried around far beneath me, and rocks gleamed in the sun. 

And as the wind brushed through my hair, I couldn't help but grin. I was made for the desert; I could've stayed there forever because, in those rustic hills, that's where I really felt G-d...

I opened my eyes, returning to the present moment... where I'd parked my car in the shade of a beautiful Idaho tree. I chuckled softly, watching snowflakes dance with one another before changing form and coating my windshield. How strange to think of the desert while being surrounded by snow! That's when I realized what had felt so nostalgic as I drove back from visiting Scott and his friends and family. 

They'd reminded me of that day in the desert because I'd finally felt peace... pure and simple.

Sometimes, the only things we really need are love and community. No matter how hard life gets or how insurmountable challenges may seem, the companionship of good people can give us the reprieve and courage we need to keep going.

So, I wanted to thank Scott, Colleen, Kent, Karrie, and Gordon. You lifted my spirits and reminded me how powerful peace can be. As I prepare to go to my monthly treatments again, I hope I'll find someone who needs kindness; maybe I can change their day as much as you brightened mine. I appreciate you so much more than you probably realize.

Love you,
Elisa

What's in Your Garden?

"Forgiveness is something I don't align with," a friend told me.

"What does that mean?" I asked. "You've never forgiven anyone?"

"No," she said. "I don't mean that; it's just that forgiveness doesn't make sense to me."

I'd called her asking for advice about someone I can't seem to forgive, and her response shocked me.

"I've always heard that saying," I said, "'forgive doesn't mean forget.' Is that kind of what you mean?"

"No. It's more of... Who am I to forgive?" she said. "Isn't that up to the Creator? If someone wrongs me," she paused, "I just get away from them. That's it. Fool me once doesn't apply to me. If someone tries to fool me, I throw all my walls up and leave."

"I knew you were a tough person, but… I don't know what to say." And after I hung up the phone, I thought about how much I want to forgive. Instead, I keep thinking about this person from my past, and with each thought, it's as if I'm tying myself to them with invisible strings. The strings of… bitterness. 

Although my rigid friend had views that differed from mine, at least she wasn't bitter, overthinking the past, and ruining the present. 

I called another friend the next day. It'd be interesting to hear what she had to say.

 
"Elisa! How are you?" Her voice lit with such excitement that it brightened my whole morning.

"I need your advice," I said. "It's about forgiveness."

She asked for more information and listened while I told her the entire story. (I even cried at one point.) "Getting cancer treatments makes me feel so gross, and I'm honestly exhausted. I need to let this go. It's like another kind of cancer," I finally said.

"You should surround yourself with positivity and people who love you. Especially with what you're going through right now."

"I think so, too," I said. I should surround myself with people like her. "Otherwise I won't be strong enough to keep going for Mike and our children." I sighed, then told her what I'd recently learned about the word "forgive." I'd looked up the etymology, and its meaning completely surprised me. "The root of 'forgive' actually means 'to no longer punish' or 'to not enforce a penalty.'" Oddly enough, I felt like I'd been punishing myself and not the person who wronged me. They were out there skipping around, enjoying that they'd left so many people behind. Yet, instead of letting the past go, I clung tighter, like a flippin' squirrel gathering nuts for winter! Except in this analogy, the food would be rotting and useless. How ridiculous? I need to hold onto goodness and hope. I need to hold onto the people who love me, like my husband and our kids, instead of the friends who stopped talking to me right after my diagnosis.

"I should let this go," I said after picturing myself as a frantic woodland creature desperately holding onto rotting things. "Do you…" I whispered then, so fatigued. "Do you have any advice for me?"

My friend said the most wonderful thing after that. "What do you want growing in your garden?" 

"Excuse me?"

"Metaphorically." Her words held such empathy. "What do you want growing in your garden, Elisa?"

"Good things," I said. "Definitely not weeds."

"So, let me explain what works for me: Every time I think about someone who I'm having a tough time forgiving, I've promised myself to immediately wish them well. I'll even sit and pray for them if I have to. And before long, I've always felt better because it changes my thoughts."

After we hung up the phone, I already felt better. It was so intriguing to get two different views on this topic. I don't think either person is wrong; they simply do what's best for them. And it hit me that I could take a page from each of their books.

It's good to protect myself from people who might hurt me. Before, I'd stay through thick and thin and often become a doormat for people, but now I can remove myself from bad situations earlier. Fool me twice… 

But I also found such wisdom in my second friend's words.

The next time I felt sad about this person who treated me differently than I'd hoped, instead of planting seeds of rejection and maybe even bitterness in my heart, I planted something much better: goodwill. 

Sometimes, I don't know if anyone hears prayers, much less answers them. I've often thought about creation being like a gigantic clock. It was formed, and no one meddles with it. That way, sickness, and hardships aren't personal. Instead, no one steps in, so everything will be fair. It's all chance? Maybe? 

Despite that, I did decide to pray. I prayed for this friend who abandoned me. I asked for her to be healthy and happy. I begged for her to never experience what I've gone through with poor health. I asked for her to have a wonderful marriage and grateful children. And by the end of this massive prayer, peace flooded through every bit of my being, and I knew I'd weeded my garden.

That evening, as I rested in bed, I thought how ironic it is that the root of "forgive" means "to no longer punish" because the only person I'd been punishing was… myself. And as a newness bloomed in my heart, I was ready to keep fighting, so I could spend more time with the people I love.

 

S'mores in the Sky

 Not long before my grandma passed away, she started her "happiness file." It's a simple recipe box filled with index cards. There are dividers for A–Z, months, and a section for photographs. Who knew a conglomeration of plastic and paper could offer courage and hope? Who knew it could help someone have the strength to keep living? Well, apparently, my grandma had an inkling... 

She'd write down every good and happy thing she could think of: advice and words of wisdom. And whenever she felt depressed, like a burden, or even sorry for herself, she'd open the file and feel at peace once more.

She could make it through life... for her family. And her own positivity somehow showed the way.

My grandma has been gone for quite a while, but the happiness file helps me feel like she's still with me. I love seeing her handwriting and reading her words. Anything from "Let people live their own lives!" to "Who are you becoming and how does that relate to the person you want to be?"

Just last week, I read something she'd written not long before her death: "Take a second look."

I thought about her words all day, and even when I went to a potluck at our local synagogue that night, I wondered what my grandma had meant. It's just that normally, the index cards' meanings are obvious, but this one seemed different. 

At the potluck, a woman I'd never met sat next to me, and after a moment of chatting, I decided to tell her about the words my grandma had written. "What do you think she meant by 'take a second look'?" I asked. "Something about perspective?"

"I think so," she replied. "That reminds me of something I've recently started doing." The woman explained how she leaves for work around 2 a.m. "I hated it," she said. "Hated the dark. The drive. The cold. Everything. Then, one morning, I decided to look up at the stars, take a few deep breaths, and just appreciate the morning. Now, it's one of my favorite parts of the day just because I took a second look."

It was incredible how she let go of fear and accepted the moment. "Your story about living in the present," I finally said, "is so inspiring. You know, just the other day, a friend of mine said that when the sun is out, we can't appreciate the beauty of the stars. I guess a lot of his loved ones have died, but he believes that stars are their campfires in Heaven. So at night, he sees those campfires and remembers all the people looking out for him even on the other side."

She smiled so thoughtfully. "When I go to work tomorrow, I'll remember the campfires in the sky. That's beautiful."

After I drove home, I gazed at the stars and thought about my grandma, her happiness file, and the campfires in Heaven. Maybe she's up there, roasting marshmallows and thinking about the irony that her happiness file helped her so much, and now it's helping me. I'm so grateful for her wisdom and the friendships I've made because of her words. Who knew I'd go to a potluck, meet a stranger, and leave inspired by a new-found friend?