I am standing in front of a pale yellow crocus.
The day is cool. Partly cloudy. Early morning light. The petals are still closed, holding their color inward, as if protecting something fragile. Long green shoots—grass-like leaves with a bright white stripe—push up through last year’s brown leaves and matted grass.
I am here.
Right now.
Once, when I was facilitating a journaling class, we were talking about pivot points—those moments when life shifts from one season to another. A new job. A birth. A death. A marriage. A divorce. The before and the after.
The writing prompt that day was simple:
Where are you right now?
Most of us answered it the way we tend to answer that question. We wrote about our current stage of life. On the cusp of becoming empty nesters. Settling into grandmotherhood. Adjusting to the new normal of a spouse’s illness. We described the chapter we were in.
But when it came time to share, one woman read from her notebook:
Right now, I am in this room. I am holding a black ballpoint pen in my right hand. I am writing these words in this spiral notebook.
I remember feeling something catch in my chest.
She wasn’t describing a life stage. She was describing a moment.
What an aspiration—to be so rooted in the present that you notice the pen in your hand.
As a planner, part of me is always looking ahead. And as someone who carries anxiety, part of me is always rehearsing what might go wrong. This can be a dangerous combination. I can easily slip into believing I will start living my life…once XYZ happens.
Do you ever do this?
I’ll be happy as soon as I lose ten pounds.
I’ll invite friends over once the garden is weeded.
I’ll start to exercise after this big project is finished.
Life, postponed.
A few months ago, a routine skin check led to a biopsy.
Stage 1 melanoma on the back of my right arm—where my tricep muscle would be, if I had a tricep muscle instead of a slightly flappy underarm.
The surgery went well. They caught it early. The margins were clear.
“Come back in three months,” the dermatologist instructed.
As the appointment approached, I began counting down the days. It felt as though my life was suspended. Once I saw the doctor. Once I heard the words all clear. Then I could relax. Then I could live.
Except that’s not what happened.
At the follow-up, she took another biopsy. This time on the front of my left shoulder. It came back melanoma again.
So again, surgery. Paper gown. Fluorescent lights. Being poked and prodded and cut and cauterized and stitched.
You would think I’d be more anxious.
Instead, something shifted.
“Okay,” I remember thinking. “I give up. I’m not in control. This is how things are.”
And strangely, the anxiety loosened.
There was a new willingness to live inside the day I had instead of waiting for a future day that felt safer.
Which, on this crisp March morning, is a slow walk with Lucky.
past a pale yellow crocus—
petals still closed,
green blades pushing through winter’s debris.
This was beautiful and moving ❤️