Sunday Notes

The sparkler goes into a small fist before anyone has thought it through. A red-hot wire, throwing off sparks, handed to a person who still puts rocks in her mouth. We have been doing this for generations, and no one has stopped to ask if it's a good idea.

It isn't. We do it anyway.

Independence Day in our town starts the night before with a professional fireworks display choreographed to music blasted from the local radio station, so even those watching from a distance can hear the whole program.

The next morning, the Fourth is welcomed with the neighborhood breakfast at the park with friends and family. Then the cookout: watermelon at its flavor peak; Gwen's potato salad — the real one, the one nobody has ever improved on; and something good sizzling on the grill, the smell filling the yard. Games for whoever wants to play, cousins and grandparents alike.

None of it is new. The potato salad recipe is older than I am. The neighborhood breakfast hasn't moved in years. The sparklers get handed down the same unwise way they always have.

John Adams wrote, in 1776, that the day ought to be "solemnized with Pomp and Parade...Bonfires and Illuminations." He was writing about independence. I think he also knew, somehow, 250 years ago, that a country gets handed down the same way a recipe does, by someone making it every single year, until the people who enjoyed it became the people who make it.

You don't have to host the biggest spread on your street. You don't have to get the fireworks right. You're allowed to be the one who hands the sparkler to the next kid, and let them run with it.

I took my lunch outside today. Not to a park. Not to a table with a cloth on it. To the front porch, with a peanut butter sandwich and a mug of cold milk. I sat there. I ate. The sun was doing what it does in June — warming everything on one side but leaving the other side in cold shade. A bird worked through something in the shrubs. I didn't know what kind. I didn't look it up.

I called it a picnic. Not out loud. Just to myself, the way you give things their right name when nobody is watching. This is a glorious picnic. Which meant it was an occasion. Which meant I was allowed to sit there and enjoy the sunshine until the mug was finished and not once think about what was waiting inside.

That’s the whole thing. The basket doesn't make it a picnic. The blanket doesn't, nor the menu. The destination doesn't. You do. You decide that the front porch or the back step or the outside courtyard at work counts. That the two minutes it took to make a sandwich counts. That a Tuesday in June with no particular reason counts. That you count.

Happy is the woman who carries her lunch outside and calls it a picnic. She is not waiting for the weekend, the weather, the right occasion, or someone to come along and tell her she's allowed. She already knows.

You can know it too. The step is right there. The mug is full. June is almost half over.

The house was a wreck the morning I made the bed anyway. Dishes in the sink. Laundry on the chair. The scent of drudgery in the air.

I made the bed. Smoothed the quilt. Shook out the pillows. Straightened the lamp. That was all I did. Then I went to the kitchen and started on the dishes, and the morning started making sense.

Gwen made her bed right as she got out of bed, before she even visited the bathroom. Every morning. It was not discussed. It was not a habit she tracked or a ritual she named. It was just the order of things. You got up. You made the bed. The room was ready for you when you came back to it.

She didn't make the bed to be productive. She made it because she was a person who deserved to come home to a made bed.

This is the difference I am still learning: Self-respect is not the same thing as productivity. The made bed is not a task crossed off a list. It is a small statement that you exist, that you matter, that the room you sleep in is worth tending.

The house was a wreck. The bed was made. That's still something.

I have moved it more times than I can count. New houses, new walls, the same small nail going into fresh drywall, a little lower or a little higher each time until it looked right. The rooms around it have changed…the paint, the floors, the children who grew up and the grandchildren who came after. The print remains the same.

It hangs in my bedroom where I see it first thing and last thing. My name in old lettering, and under it the line that was true of me before I was anything: Consecrated to God. My mother gave it to me when I was a girl. I did not earn it. It was simply given, the way a name is given, before I'd done a single thing to grow into it.

In the design world, the thing should have been gone long ago. I watched the wall behind it go through every fashion there is, and the print outlasted them all, not because it matched the rooms, but because it matched me.

In the morning, it is the first thing that tells me who I am before the day does. At night, when the day did all it could to tell me otherwise, it confirms what I know down deep.

There is one thing on your own wall like this. You know the one. It does not go with anything, and you have never once considered taking it down.

You are allowed to keep what is true to you, longer than it stays in fashion.

Grandpa Pehrson was a florist. One rule he passed down was simple: Do not plant before Mother's Day. "There's always a cold snap right before," he'd say every year.

This year I didn't listen. After watching my spindly seedlings crawl toward the window hungry for light, I caved and planted them outside. Sure enough, we had a hard freeze warning last night. I wrapped each squash, tomato, and cucumber seedling in a bath towel and hoped for the best.

This morning I woke as the sun peeked over the mountain and eagerly awaited the warmth the day would bring. As the sun rose, the rays spread over the lawn and reached the garden. I unwrapped each tender plant to find it healthy and untouched by the frost. They live!

I think sometimes we are like those tender seedlings. We give ourselves too little credit or even the wrong kind of credit. We say we're resilient like we choose it, like we heroically decided not to give up.

But sometimes life happens. And we find we had more inside than we ever thought possible. The frost comes. And in the morning there we are, still standing...a little wilted at the tips maybe, but still alive.

As I gaze out the window watching my seedlings perk up in the warm sun, I imagine Grandpa Pehrson shaking his head at my renegade planting. But he's still smiling...at me and at the tomatoes.

They live.