Margaret is a dear friend who is a longtime runner. For years, she has graciously invited me on walks, because I am slow and can’t keep up with her running. I’ve treasured these times, because we also fill the hours talking about what we’ve been contemplating, reading, celebrating, and sorrowing. Inevitably, we share our worries. And she always follows up the latter such sharings with a promise to me that “[insert something I’m stressed about] has a finger.” This is because, while she is running, she uses her fingers to remember to pray for her own and for others’ intentions; assigning each person, or concern to a specific finger. A human rosary, as it were. I love this (and her) so much. When I walk by myself each morning, I have a hard time staying contemplative and prayerful. This reality further magnifies my admiration and gratitude for Margaret and her faithful habit.
When my retirement intersected with a pandemic, I found myself spending lots of time in the back yard. Never having been particularly adept at keeping green things green, I was astonished at how much pleasure I found in nurturing flowers and vegetables, and just trying to create a space that was welcoming. The acts of weeding, watering, and planting have become surprisingly comforting to me. And (hooray!) they’ve also become times during which I am more disposed to being reflective and meditative.
The latest outside project involved laying some pavers down, and this required digging up and leveling a good amount of dirt. I was surprised at the number of large rocks I found buried, and, as I pulled them out, I hatched my own “finger” project. On the face of each rock, I painted the names of our children, their partners, and our grandchildren. These are my loves; those whose well-being I want to pray for constantly.
Also in the yard, is a spot I’ve taken to calling the memorial corner. There is a little stone bench under a beautiful magnolia tree. There are wind chimes that belonged to Freddie’s dad and a St. Francis statue that was once in my Aunt Mary’s yard. There is also a rose bush (aptly named, “Paradise Found”) that Margaret gave us when my father died. I’ve added rocks to this corner with the names of all the people we wish were still here in person, but who definitely still reside in our hearts. I hope these rocks will help me to remember to be grateful for all of them, and to be intentional about the time I have with the living.
The final rock is big and is for everyone–and everything else–because I didn’t unearth enough rocks to cover all the loves I’ve been blessed to have in my life, all the gratitude there is to express, and all the need there is in the world. It is a reminder to slow down and be more like Margaret.
Let me know if you have something you need me to add to a finger.
Blessings,
