It was 5:00 on a hot summer afternoon in northwest Oklahoma, and I was six years old. Unaware of the time but aware it was suddenly dark as night, I put on my pajamas, ready for bed because I was certain it was bedtime. Then I heard the sound of “the train.” My dad and brother struggled to hold onto the rope that held the heavy wooden door of the underground storm cellar in place, keeping our family safe as the tornado roared overhead. It was over almost as quickly as it appeared. The bright sun was out again, and even as a six-year-old, I felt silly for being so certain it was bedtime. It’s a funny thing to remember over the years, but that experience taught me that changes happen quickly, having a plan was important, and my certainty of the situation wasn’t accurate.

When I was a little kid, I remember thinking, “I hope I get an “A” on the spelling test!” Or when I was in high school, “I hope I get a Superior rating at the state piano competition.” And as an adult, thinking, “I hope I get that job!” Or, “I hope everything falls into place so we can move to Colorado.” Those are a few of the “hopes” I remember over the years. We can all reflect on past hopes for positive outcomes for both small, relatively inconsequential events as well as those that are life-changing.

Some people like scaring themselves to death…you know, the scary movies, zip-lining, the thrilling and heart-pounding amusement rides. Those have never been appealing to me, although I have daughters who love that type of thing. We obviously experience those activities differently. For me, those are frightening, scary times to be avoided at all costs; for them, eagerly sought experiences.

I readily admit it: Fall is my favorite time of the year. I have friends who thrive in year-round summer weather and never miss the changing seasons. But I need autumn. I find it’s an easier time, when I’m not suffocating in 105º heat or freezing in 30º below temperatures. Autumn takes little effort, and for me, it’s a time of respite and reflection…a time to catch up with myself, to be more mindful, to breathe easier.

My previous blog, Choices, addresses how we choose to respond when confronted with life’s difficult events, such as a cancer diagnosis, the end of a relationship or job, or the death of a friend or family member. The choices are to let it define us, destroy us or strengthen us. But it’s a difficult road to navigate, and it takes time.

I’ve been thinking a lot about choices lately – how we have the freedom to make a myriad of choices and how the choices we make not only have consequences for us but also affect those around us.

I sit on my deck in the mountains watching my flowers: petunias, geraniums, daisies, moss rose, dianthus, salvia, marigolds, snapdragons, begonias, pansies, and a number of dainty Colorado blossoms whose names I don’t know. I’ve spent hours observing their beauty and patterns of behavior. I’ve learned a lot about life, and myself, from being with my flowers. Here’s what I’ve learned:

I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve listened to another’s story of distress, fear, or grief. Each one shared with me that when talking to someone about what they were going through, the typical response went something like this: “Well, let me tell you about…my cancer diagnosis, my cousin’s cancer diagnosis, my ex, my dysfunctional boss, my struggle with depression, my loss, etc., etc.” While I believe friends have good intentions and are trying to be supportive and helpful, the end result is usually the opposite. The person initially sharing her experience consequently doesn’t feel supported or heard and often feels discounted, typically, by a one-upmanship response. (Your experience is obviously worse than mine, so mine doesn’t count.)

​“Mother Nature hates a vacuum,” said Lillian, an 83-year-old breast cancer patient. “What do you mean?” I replied. “Think about it,” she said. “If you don’t plant grass, shrubs, trees, flowers, and other things that you want in your lawn, Mother Nature will fill it up with weeds.”