Wait, what was that? I was walking back inside the door near my studio this morning after a search for a few Fall-ish photos to share today, and I thought I saw a glimpse of pink. I stepped back out and nearly squealed with delight. Sure enough, the first bloom on our giant sasanqua camellia was unfurling and reaching toward the sun just at eye level. I’d already walked by it on two carpool runs this morning, and somehow it escaped my notice. One of my personal signs of fall, and just like the season, it sneaked up on me!
Today marks 10 years since my husband Mike’s death. This is one of my favorite pictures. I like to think of him with this smile and the children climbing on him, not sure if he might break out in an Elvis voice or John Wayne. For years he wasn’t able to find this smile or anything carefree. It’s taken a lot of ups and downs for my heart to move past his troubled soul and settle on this picture of him in my memories.
Today is a day that largely lives in my memory as last conversations and fears and numbness. As a conversation with my children that I know overpowered their innocence with uncertainty and grief.
I feel like I had one golden moment of wisdom before that conversation. It came from God, I guess, because I sure didn’t know how to do anything in such an overwhelming moment. Except to love, and I committed my heart to being honest with my children in all things, right from the very start. I committed to being sure our story was rooted in truth, as hard as the truth was for all of us to understand.
It started with an insomnia-induced binge of Hallmark Channel programming. Then a discussion of orthodontics at dinner. Chapter two in a book on moon symbolism I’m vetting for Maggie. Decorating with scarecrows. Somebody’s instagram post on gardening. A 13th century mystic. Psalm 34. And Fleetwood Mac.
It’s an odd collection of voices, but I’m finding when God wants to say something, He doesn’t play. Or rather, He’ll play anything and everything. On repeat. No herald is disqualified.
Grief is so weird. Of that I am sure. The trick seems to be figuring out what to hold on to and what to let go. And, for me, learning how to honor a person’s place in your life — as challenging as that place was — and giving yourself permission to move on.
I put out “the scarecrows” on our porch this weekend. They’ve been part of our fall celebrations as long as my kids have been alive, sitting right there by the window with their same disproportionate smiles. And this year, there are only four.
“Every moment of one’s existence, one is growing into more or retreating into less.” ~ Norman Mailer
I’ve been thinking about growth this week, and irony. Over the last few months in our neck of the woods, we’ve seen the whole of nature shake off the dust of a dormant winter season and sprout into new growth, spring blossoms and early summer fruit. Yet, in one of life’s inevitable ironies, it seems like much of life has been at a standstill as we enter week 15 of quarantine, shelter in place and the socially distant realities of the Coronavirus pandemic. With schools closed, travel plans cancelled, favorite activities interrupted, and time with family limited, an uncertainty-fueled fatigue threatens to lull us into merely sitting. And waiting.
In truth, God’s great earth teaches that there is no real time of stagnance. No mere status quo, no simple biding of time, no true standstill. There is only growing. And dying. Even dormant days can provide rest and regeneration that contribute to the next growing season, or they degenerate into spoil and decay. As Norman Mailer wrote, “Every moment of one’s existence, one is growing into more or retreating into less.”
Hello & welcome! I’m Haley Montgomery, and I’m the designer and owner of Small Pond Graphics. I sometimes fancy myself a frog kisser— a documentarian coaxing poignant moments from unexpected places. This blog has evolved from those moments.
The small Pond FIELD GUIDE is part diary, part sketchbook, and part wish list – an archive of ordinary wonders. For years, this space has housed my stories – creative ideas, vintage inspiration, our forays into curious places, and the simple artifacts of quiet of conscious living. Through watercolor, photography, and illustrated tales, these pages uncover the blessing of ordinary days and the wonder found in authentic places and pursuits.
I invite you to open the boxes.
Peek into the drawers.
Rustle through the pages. I’m honored to have you here.