The first thing you have to do when you’re getting ready to move is de-clutter. Discard. Get rid of things. I’ve done a lot. You can actually see my attic. I’ve made a hundred trips to the Lutheran Mission here in town with clothes and household items, and I’ve donated loads of books to the local library. And still, I have more stuff than I need or will want to take to Arizona with me. Whenever that happens. I’ve had two potential sales fall through. Nevertheless, I am getting ready. It will happen. So, I’m reading a book called the life-changing magic of tidying up by a Japanese woman named Marie Kondo.

Ms. Kondo puts forth one very, very interesting idea. She asks you to pick up every item of clothing you own, every knickknack, everything you think you can’t part with, hold it in your hand, and ask yourself: “Does this spark joy?” If it does, keep it. If not, dispose of it. I tried this on one of my bookcases, one I thought I’d pared down. But when I held each book in my hand and asked the question, most of the books came down. Only my loved ones stayed. I was surprised. You see, Ms. Kondo says, this method of tidying is a dialog you have with yourself. A kind of meditation, a life-changing magic. A way to be surrounded only by things you love.

Her question was still on my mind this morning when I decided to work outside. It was sunny and warm, and after three solid days of rain, I was in heaven. After a few chores, I noticed that the roses on my fence needed trimming. I had cut them back severely in the early spring, and they put on a spectacular show that peaked  last week.                                                                  

Sitting on my back porch last week was better than being in a Chanel showroom. The perfume was more enchanting, and what a color – the palest, pale pink. Every time I looked at them, I felt a spark of joy. I didn’t know that’s what I was feeling – I was just feeling it.

Today, I noticed that the roses – past their peak now – had invaded the miniature crepe myrtle tree in front of the fence. Oh, I sighed, getting ready to get the ladder and my clippers out. And then I noticed something. The little tree and the roses had their arms around each other.

I just stood there, lost in their love. You can trim the roses when the blooms are gone, a little voice inside me said. They don’t last long. Let them stay where they are for now.

Then, it clouded up and started to rain. I sat on the back porch. I watched it fall. I listened to it pelt the tin roof. Dorian the cat was sleeping in one of the chairs. And instead of complaining, as I normally would (haven’t we had enough rain?) I noticed how beautiful and lush everything was, how verdant, and alive. And the thought came to me: Maybe God thought you should stay here and enjoy this most glorious, green spring before you go to live in the desert.

When I came to this house, there was nothing here except pine trees. I planted it all – the roses, the white hydrangeas, the wisteria, the Montauk Daises, the peonies, the crepe myrtle trees, the rings of hostas around the pines. All of it. I made a garden. Thirteen years later, it is mature. It is everything I envisioned. As I looked through the rain at it all, I felt a spark of joy.

Whether it is sorting through clothes, or knickknacks, or just trying to get through a rainy day, if you’re looking for a spark of joy, chances are you’ll find it. It may be in a beloved book, or your favorite sweater, or the garden you planted with your own hands. It is there, just behind the right question.

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Look for The Messenger: The Improbable Story of a Grieving Mother and a Spirit Guide by Helen Delaney at http://www.Amazon.com

This beautiful lady is my mother. She gave me her whole heart, and the better part of her life.

Thank you, Mama,

For sitting next to me at my son’s funeral, and never letting go of my hand. You were grieving, too, but I fainted, and you forgot everything but me. You held me up. Thank you for always, always holding me up.

At the end of your life, and in the deepest throes of Alzheimer’s, for never forgetting my name. For showing me that love is greater than any disease.

For tending me round the clock when, newly arrived from Germany, I came to you sick with pneumonia. For taking care of a six-month old baby and three active young children, while I recuperated. For climbing stairs all during the day to bring me medicine and meals. For coming into my room in the middle of the night and adding a blanket to my bed.

For taking care of my children when I went to work, too poor for child care because my husband was in law school. For when, in your sixties, you fed them, cared for them, kept them safe and loved. For never making me feel guilty.

For, when I got divorced, never saying, “I told you so.” For never judging me. For showing me how to let someone make their own mistakes, and learn from them.

For marching me down to the Philadelphia Board of Education and demanding that I be admitted to a high school that was known for its high academic standards.

For defying the principal of my junior high school when he tried to convince you that it would “damage” me to send me to school with more privileged, better educated children. For saying, “We’ll take the risk.” For teaching me to be brave, and to never listen to anyone who tells me I cannot fight for my dreams.

For scrimping and saving for piano lessons. For giving me a love of music. For teaching me that money, or the lack of it, cannot keep you from feeding your soul.

For never successfully teaching me – no matter how hard I tried – to make your fried chicken. For teaching me that some things can’t be duplicated.

For ignoring my anger when you made me wear leggings to school on cold, snowy mornings. For making me eat a hot breakfast every morning. Yes, and for making me swallow castor oil! For teaching me that sometimes somebody knows better than we do.

For making a fire in the furnace before I got up every morning. For washing my clothes in the tub. For walking me to school on icy mornings. For teaching me that sometimes loving somebody is hard, daily work.

For never criticizing me. Ever. For knowing how harmful that can be to a person’s soul.

For how your hand felt on my brow when I was sick. For teaching me that love is healing.

For going to work when I was in high school. For bringing your paycheck home in bags for me so that I’d dress as well as the more affluent girls, the girls whose fathers were doctors and lawyers. For always making me feel proud of my father, who was a policeman. For that enormously expensive graduation dress. For teaching me to study hard, that how I presented myself to the world was important, and to never, ever apologize for who I was.

For never doubting that I would go to college. For forgiving me when I dropped out to get married. For cheering me on when I went back.

For giving up your career as a teacher to be my mother twenty-four hours a day. For never looking back. For teaching me that when the choice is yours, not to resent it.

For knowing that love is the great healer of every scraped knee, every broken heart, every disappointment, and every failure.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mama.

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Thank you, dear friends, for the lovely comments about The Messenger. There is a chapter in it about my mother and a special gift she gave me. I hope you will enjoy it. By the way, her name was – is – Precious.

Look for The Messenger by Helen Delaney on Amazon.com

Dear Readers:

Those of you who have been following this blog know that I have been waiting to announce the release of my book, The Messenger. With a very grateful heart, I thank all who waited with me with love and encouragement. It is now available on Amazon.com. (The link is below, or you can get there by inserting my name.) Following is the back cover text:

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Helen Delaney is in a railway book store, inconsolable and suicidal after the death of her son. A book at eye level catches her attention. She touches it, and it falls off the shelf, into her hand. It is a set of instructions on how to connect with a spirit guide. Thus begins The Messenger, the true, intimate story of a grieving mother, a gifted medium, and the spirit guide, Lukhamen, who keeps her alive by recounting the story of his life.

It is 214 AD, and the Egyptian city of Luxor is ruled by Rome. The last vestiges of Egypt’s glorious past are discernible in the deteriorating temple dedicated to the god Amon, and its high priest, Lukhamen’s father. A Roman centurion, hopelessly in love with the wife of the high priest, becomes governor. A sadistic Roman underling seeks to survive in this unprecedented account of the end of an era. Above it all, and against the tide of history, Lukhamen, nine years old when the story begins, is expected to be the next high priest, and a light unto his people.

The author duly records Lukhamen’s memories, barely noticing that a healing has begun. By chance, she is sent to Cairo on business. From there, it is a short trip to Luxor, where an internal, unerring compass leads her to the places Lukhamen has imprinted upon her consciousness: the river road, the temple of Amon, a garden two thousand years old, and a Christian church, hidden by time. There, in the ancient city of Luxor, flooded with memories and emotion, one thing becomes clear: she has been there before.

http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_sb_noss?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=Helen+Delaney

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