I eavesdrop shamelessly in the strawberry fields. I listen to the casual comments called back and forth across the row.

“How ya’ doin’, Frank?”
“Pretty good. You?”
“I’m almost done over here.”

There’s a quiet rhythm to berry picking, and conversations slow down to match that pace. Words and phrases drop softly into the air, like berries into green cardboard quart containers. Stories unfold about grandchildren, septic problems, celebrations and health scares.

This morning it’s damp and foggy. I stick to my row, picking berry after berry, sliding my slowly-filling container along with me. My sweater sleeves are sodden from reaching through the plants in search of ripe berries. My jeans are plastered to my lower legs.

I don’t remember picking berries with my grandmother or mother. Still, there were always quilted glass jars, gleaming in jewel tones in the pantry. In those days they poured melted wax across the top of the jam before capping it. I remember so clearly, so viscerally, opening the jar to that wax circle. Pushing it down. Watching it crack in two and scooping up the halves to reveal the preserved jam below.

In more recent years my mother-in-law and daughters picked with me. On the first day of the season, we were always in the fields early–chatting, laughing together, picking. What did we talk about then? Was there a solitary berry picker listening to our conversations? Our hour in the fields was followed by companionable hours in the kitchen, making batch after batch of jam.

Today, I pick alone. I’m content to listen. Still, a haze of melancholy lingers even as the fog lifts, revealing blue skies and a rare glimpse of sun.

Soon, I’ll have picked my fill and will head home. I’ll clean the berries, mash them and stir them as they boil on the stove. The air will hang hot, humid, and thick with the scent of warm strawberries. Later the freshly-filled hot jars will click as they seal. Preserving all the flavors. All the memories.

sun-ripened berries
generations guide my hands
ah, the jam is sweet

©Molly Hogan

What was it I heard recently? Was it on a podcast? NPR? I suspect the latter, but I can’t remember who was being interviewed, or even the topic. I’m not even sure what day I heard it. What I do remember, vaguely, is that a man was being interviewed and he talked about expecting the positive from people. He said that he has trust in people and that for the most part, it works out. When his trust is misplaced, he regards that as the tax he pays on the luxury of having a trustful outlook on the world. (Again, I am paraphrasing madly and perhaps erroneously here. If anyone heard this interview, or something resembling it, please chime in and let me know!)

It struck me how liberating living in trust is. To expect that people tend to treat others well. That if you ask for help, you’ll receive it. It even made sense that, on occasion, you’d have to be “taxed” on that. And the toll of living otherwise struck me as well. To live in a fearful, guarded way, expecting others to take advantage, to refuse to help, to treat you badly. I suspect I fall somewhere in-between the two on that continuum, leaning toward trustful, but certainly not fully there.

These ideas lingered with me — albeit vaguely.

Then, early on Monday morning, I was at the gas pump, filling up, en route to the grocery store to buy ingredients for a family brunch. I finished fueling, got back in the car and turned the key.

Nothing.

I laughed and shook my head. Really?

I turned the key again.

Nothing.

I called Triple A and was put on hold. With the phone on speaker, I started to push the car away from the pump toward a parking spot. Which worked great. Until it didn’t.

I looked around. There was a man at the gas pump adjacent to me, just finishing up.

“Excuse me, would you mind helping me push my car over there?” I asked him, pointing to my destination.

“No problem,” he replied. “Do you need a jump?”

“Well, I’ve called Triple A, so I should be okay…” my voice trailed away doubtfully as the droning hold music continued to issue from within the car.

“If I have my jumper cables I’ll be happy to help you out,” he said.

“That would be great,” I said.

A few minutes later I had hung up on Triple A, and we had moved the car into the designated spot. He pulled up next to me, then reached into his back seat and took out a pristine pair of jumper cables. Simultaneously, the opposite back door opened and his son stepped out.

“Thank you so much!” I said to both of them, “I’m so sorry to take up part of your day.”

“No worries! We’ve got the whole day,” the man replied, smiling.

The boy walked to the front of the car. Immediately, his father began explaining.

“So, the yellow is the positive and the black is negative.” He handed the other end of the cables to me. “Make sure to hold those apart,” he said over his shoulder.

Then he went on explaining to his son. Step by step. “This is the battery….” ” You attach these here…”

It was such a natural teaching moment in so many ways. Superficially, he was teaching his son how to jump a stalled car. But more importantly, he was also teaching him to take the time to help others. To be kind. To be helpful. To foster trust.

I thought back to that interview and the idea of regarding people and the world through a lens of trust.

Five minutes later, my car started on the first key turn. We disengaged the cables and I set out to the auto parts store. When I left, after effusive thanks, the man and his son still had their heads bent close together, continuing to explore their car’s engine.

I pulled out of the parking lot, my breakfast plans derailed, my wallet soon to be lighter, with a big smile on my face and a light heart. And I felt myself move along that hypothetical continuum, a bit more toward the trusting side.

And it felt really good.

It’s early morning on the last Tuesday before school gets out for the summer. I’m lying in bed, unsure what woke me. Was it looming last day worries and deadlines? The vague throb of a troublesome tooth breaking through its ibuprofen buffer? Perhaps it was the owls again.

Our home is surrounded by woods, and the barred owls have been especially active recently. We both thrill to hear their song off and on throughout night. Tonight they’ve woken us again and again with their soft calls.

Once, earlier, wanting to share the moment, I’d whispered to Kurt, “Did you hear that?”.

“Yes,” he’d answered softly, and I knew we were both listening together.

Now, hours later, I listen again carefully, hopefully.

Finally, I hear the call. Not the iconic who-cooks-for-you, but a long warbling call.

Whoot.

I hear Kurt’s breathing change as he moves from sleep to listening again. We’re quiet together, waiting for the next call.

Sometimes it’s distant. Sometimes it’s closer. Usually there are only a few calls and then dark silence. I always imagine mighty wing strokes and flight.

Eventually, the owl calls one more time.

Whoot.

For long minutes afterward, I listen. Tuned to the dark.

Kurt’s breathing eases back into sleep.

I’m still wakeful. My mind wanders. My ears strain for the next call.

Later I hear it, faint and far, far away, on the edges of sleep and sound.

And then, as if comforted somehow, I drift back into sleep.

It all began with a misunderstanding. Or perhaps mistranslation is more apt.

What she said was, “You can’t dance in the cafeteria. You can dance at recess.”

What they heard, in the mysterious, marvelous alchemy of first and second grade brains, was “Dance off at recess tomorrow!”

But it didn’t end there, because the teacher, a truly wonderful creature, decided to go for it. She later mentioned the impending dance-off to a colleague, a seventh grade teacher, who announced, “I’m in!” and who then raised the stakes by adding, “And I’m doing the worm!” This, of course, guaranteed a seventh grade audience.

The next morning the aforementioned wonderful teacher stationed herself in the hallway, and as the first and second graders filed past, she proclaimed: “Remember! Dance off at recess!”

Of course, I knew none of this as we headed out to recess on Friday. I’d heard a few murmurs about dancing from students as they entered the classroom, but figured they had their own plans for recess. And they did. They just weren’t what I imagined.

When the seventh graders all filed out the door to the playground ahead of my class, I wondered about it. This was not their recess time. I shrugged it off as tired teachers in May + sunny Friday = extra recess. But they didn’t disperse in the typical seventh-grade fashion. Instead, they moved en masse to line up at the edge of the soccer field. Most of the first and second graders headed that way as well.

I tried to see over the wall of seventh grade backs.

What was going on?

I walked to the edge of the field, keeping half an eye on the kids who were on the playground. After all, I was supposed to be on recess duty.

“What’s up?” I asked another teacher.

As she turned to fill me in, music filled the air and we both turned back to the field to look. The kids, and quite a few teachers, had suddenly launched into dance moves all over the soccer field. Arms and legs were flying. Everyone was smiling. I saw some unexpected faces and realized that the resource room teachers had come out to join in the fun, bringing their students along. Teachers and students from across the school laughed and danced together. Cheering erupted as the seventh grade teacher demonstrated her surprising aptitude for “The Worm”. Not to be outdone, several younger students joined in, bucking and squirming across the tender May grass.

Some kids were marvels of coordinated movement and rhythm, and others were whirling dervishes of chaos. I watched several students, whom I knew carried heavy burdens, embrace the magic of the moment, dancing as if they didn’t have a care in the world, their faces radiant. It was all quite wonderful.

For the next twenty minutes, I semi-fulfilled my recess duty responsibilities, while watching kids and teachers, dance, dance, dance. The music, impeccably planned, stopped just when it was time to blow the whistle. As we all headed toward the building, comments floated in the air.

“Did you see my moves?”

“We should do that every day!”

“That was SO.MUCH. FUN!”

It really was fun, but it was so much more than that as well.

I may have pieced together some of the timeline and events inaccurately, and I can’t begin to tell you what music was playing, but I can tell you, I’ll never forget that moment. For twenty minutes, the sun was shining, and there was laughter and music. And within me swelled a sort of fierce joy and a burning determination to nurture and protect these shining little humans and all the good things that happen at school.

It was joyful, uplifting and, quite simply, amazing.

The morning sun spills in through aged glass to pebble the wall, highlighting the dust that’s gathered on the side table. It lingers on the lopsided ceramic dish, crafted long ago by little fingers.

Yesterday’s gift, today’s time capsule.

The light flows over an old roll of film rescued from some forgotten corner, placed there on the table where temporary spun into long-lasting. It, too, no doubt, wears a fine mantle of dust. What memories rustle within?

The light quivers, casting an aquatic feel over the scene. Submerging items. In light. In dust. In time.

Today perhaps I’ll wipe off the table, put a few candies in the empty dish. Perhaps I’ll even research where I can send film for developing.

Or maybe I’ll just let the memories lie still, and sit and watch the light play across the wall, flickering like an old movie reel.

I could easily have missed it.

I happened to glance over amidst the hubbub of snow gear removal after recess. M, a whirling dervish of a second grader, was kneeling before D, who sat in a chair. It may have been the circle of stillness around them that caught my eye. To be clear, M isn’t well-known for consistently making well-considered choices, so I definitely wanted to take a closer look.

What was going on? I wondered.

I walked across the room, watching as M’s hand reached out. He grasped the rear collar of D’s shoe and pulled it back. D simultaneously pushed to slip his foot into the shoe. D had arrived at school that day delighted with his new pair of adaptive shoes. The most recent new pair had been difficult to get on with a too-tight fit. These had laces and a velcro strap rather than zippers, and appeared much easier to manage. Apparently, M had decided to give him a hand.

It struck me that I had never really seen M and D interact much before. They certainly got along, but didn’t partner up much and certainly didn’t “hang out.” But there they were.

As I watched, M sat down on the floor, picked up D’s shoelaces, and got to work. I moved over to check in with D. about something else. We talked for a minute or two. As our conversation ended, M still sat on the floor, working intently.

Suddenly he shrugged and dropped the laces, abandoning the job. He looked up.

“I can’t really tie shoes,” he admitted to D, “that’s why I don’t have the tying kind of shoe.”

“That’s ok, “D said. “It’s nice that you tried. Thanks!”

M got up and whirled away.

It was such a small moment, but it’s lingered with me.

And to think, I could easily have missed it.

I’ve been toying around with choosing One Little Word (OLW) for a while now. As best as my speedy, somewhat superficial Google search could find, this practice was started by Ali Edwards as a creative project. She wrote, “In 2006 I began a tradition of choosing one word for myself each January—a word to focus on, to live with, to investigate, to write about, to craft with, and to reflect upon as I go about my daily life.” This is a practice that’s always intrigued me, but I’ve only joined in twice before. This year, however, without any conscious intention, I found myself contemplating potential word candidates early in December. Apparently, I was once again drawn to the idea of having a word as a sort of guide, or touchstone, to come back to again and again throughout the year.

Over the past weeks, I’ve considered a few words. At first I thought, “Hmmm….How about “Choose” for a OLW? That could be a good word.” And it could be. But then I remembered that “Choose” had been my word in 2016. Oops. I’m not sure exactly what that says about me, but my first thought was…stagnation.

Back to the drawing board.

I thought of “Grow” next. I liked the gardening connection and the idea of metaphorically tending the soil, pulling out weeds, nourishing new growth. I’d like to grow and push myself into new areas of challenge this year. Still, it felt a bit too passive and didn’t fully resonate. On multiple layers I also didn’t love the definition’s big emphasis on simply getting larger.

“Begin?” I considered that for a while. I liked the push toward starting something, toward moving forward. It felt simple but potentially powerful. Still, it didn’t feel quite right.

Then, another word came to me: “Cultivate.” It’s akin to grow, but implies more deliberate, active choice.

I repeated the word out loud several times. I liked that it was a verb. I even liked the way it felt in my mouth when I said it. I looked it up. (Sometimes a word has meanings that you haven’t considered, and I wanted to cover my bases.) With cultivate, there’s the obvious definition of preparing for and growing crops, but there’s a lot of interesting nuance, too. Merriam-Webster includes these definitions: “to foster the growth of”, “to improve by labor, care, or study : refine”, and to “further or encourage.” The Cambridge Dictionary includes “to try to develop and improve something” and “to create a new condition by directed effort”.

I can think of so many things I want to cultivate within myself and within my immediate environment–relationships, curiosity, creativity, gratitude, a growth mindset, and on and on and on. It feels like a good fit. It combines aspects of choice, grow and begin in one dynamic and purposeful word.

So, there it is. I’m in. I’m tilling the soil and planting the fertilizer. My OLW for 2023: Cultivate.

It was cold. Really cold. Like single digit cold. Still, I was itchy to get out and photograph a sunrise. I was overdue for a weekend photo foray. Friday’s snow still clung to the trees, and it was sure to be a beautiful morning, even if the sunrise was muted. I bundled up and set out, heading south to a beach I rarely visit.

I arrived at the beach about 15 minutes before sunrise. A few rocks rose above the surf, drawing my eye. I watched the waves lift and swell around them. The interwoven patterns left on the sand by the receding tide picked up the early light, glowing. Small depressions of frozen salt water crackled with geometric shapes and crunched beneath my boots. The clouds clung low to the horizon, like a steel grey mountain range. Walking the shore, watching the colors shift in the sky, I felt myself relax into the rhythm of the morning.

As the day slowly lightened, I noticed wisps of sea smoke forming above the water. Even though my toes were going numb, I started grinning. Sea smoke is one of the most amazing gifts of winter. It forms when very cold air flows over relatively warmer seawater. Less dense than typical fog, it disperses easily with the slightest breeze. Today was calm enough and certainly cold enough. I prepared for the show. Sure enough, as the sun crept above the banks of clouds, I could see more and more sea smoke tendrilling above the water.

Then, as day broke, the air and waves gradually transformed to molten gold.

I stood, transfixed, for moment after moment after moment. Thankful. Reverent.

Experiences like this move me deeply. They ripple through me and lift me. I both lose and find myself, saturated in wonder.

After a long while, reality intruded. The deep growing ache in my fingers and toes sent me heading reluctantly back in the direction of the car. Even though I was hurting, I still struggled to pull myself away from the ever changing scene.

“Just one more picture,” I thought, again and again.

Eventually, I made it back to my car. The pain in my feet had become insistent at this point. I turned up the heat, blasting my boots with warmth, then drove along slowly, still lost in the glory of the morning.

Before too long, driving past a local land trust, I noticed the gleam and glow of snow and the silhouette of a favorite tree. Making a snap decision, I pulled into a convenient driveway, turned around, and headed back to the small parking lot.

“Molly, you are crazy,” I thought, as my toes throbbed in rebuke. “You’re going to permanently damage your feet.”

“It’s okay,” I reassured myself. “I’ll just take a photo or two.”

Parking quickly, I stepped out of the warm car into the freezing cold morning once again.

Walking through the snow, trying to get better lighting for my photo, I glanced down at the glimmering weeds and stopped in my tracks. What!? My mouth dropped. I crouched low to the ground, forgetting my aching toes for the moment. All along the snow, miniature forests of frost rose.

“Hoar frost!” I whispered.

It was as if I’d discovered a treasure chest of sparkling jewels. The moist air, combined with the bitter cold, had created an amazing winter wonderland. Everywhere I looked was enchantment. I moved giddily from branch to weed to berry, wondering at the intricate beauty all around me. Bedazzled and bewitched and beyond grateful. Again, I felt that lift. That buoyancy of spirit.

When I finally got back in the car, I was soaked through and my feet throbbed mercilessly. Still, I remained slightly stunned and totally awestruck. I kept thinking I might have missed all of this. I could have stayed home. I could have driven by. But I didn’t, and there was magic to be found.

Such mornings are the closest I come to euphoria.