Just the way the baseball crumbles!

It had only a been a few hours when my husband and two small children left for the weekend to visit his family up west to Middleboro, Maine. This will be the first time in nearly a year since I was left to my own devices. I could not wait to get outside and get my hands into some dirt. We had only been in our new home in Provincetown for less than three months so I was ready to explore my surroundings and make this old Cape house our own.

 It really was a steal having getting it at auction. Apparently, the home suffered major wind damage back in 2021 when there were wind gusts reported upwards of 50MPH. We were told by the realtor that the previous home owners were up in age, and did not have the energy or desire to invest any more money into their home – opting instead for the sunny sands of Florida to a retirement community.

I was not intimidated by the amount of work that such a home would require or its vulnerability to the powerful coastal winds that often wreak havoc on Cape Cod communities. I actually embraced the wind and find its presence the tradeoff to live in such a beautiful town boasting picturesque storefronts, quaint businesses and scenic beaches. The wind, in my opinion was like a living, breathing entity to me and would by my friend for the next three days. 

The early forecast for Provincetown was predicting gusty coastal winds for the next several days typical of this time of year, but nothing to write home about. The wind carried the fragrances from a local B&B announcing when breakfast was served on the wrap-around porch. It also carried the salty fragrances from the shore when the waves were stirred up by local fishermen.  

Today, the wind also stirred up debris from my neighbors who lived round the bend, as well as random plastic bottles from toppled over recycling bins. A piece of crumpled paper auspiciously appeared just footsteps away from me as if it fell from the sky. 

For a moment, I thought that I heard the faint sound of a nearby window close, but I could not detect where it came from. It’s quite possible that someone from one of the neighboring homes that back up to our small patio had just enough of the temperamental Cape Cod air when they decided to shut up shop for the night and close their windows.   The likely suspect came from the huge Victorian home that stood directly behind our small bungalow. It was over a hundred years old and was a semi-annual host to frequent vacationers.  I had never met the actual owners of the home having chosen to keep my privacy a bit longer. In any event, I was not going to leave any unclaimed debris in the garden. I have too much respect for Mother Earth and those beautiful natural landscapes that she entrusted to us all.

I scooped up all the newly orphaned items and placed them in my collapsible garden bin. I would properly dispose of them later and continue weeding the rose beds as the Cape winds gently kissed my skin.

I must have been about three hours before I realized that I hadn’t take a break for lunch. When you are left on your own like this, you are not triggered by little, sweet nudges from your children for their afternoon lunch or a hungry husband waiting for his Dagwood style sandwich. It was actually very liberating for a change as I embraced this much-needed TLC and self-care. 

My husband had offered to take our children for the weekend so that I could just focus on myself and set aside the painful reminders of our most recent family tragedy. Having lost my mother almost a year ago, my father was unexpectedly killed by a hit and run driver this past Fall.  I was ready to fill my cup up with some happy, new memories that didn’t reap of tragedy or loss.

As the afternoon winds picked up their speed, it also reminded me to pick up the scattered remains of trash and discarded items before they too got swept out to sea.  I scooped up the bins and my garden gloves and retreated to the mudroom to sort all of my newly found treasures. Plastic bottles and cans to be re-homed were placed in the larger bin and paper items in the recyclable store bags. 

Sitting down finally on the little bench that we use to unload our muddy shoes; I could feel the weight of my shoulders just melt away. I inhaled deep breaths of the evening air, becoming so relaxed that I practically tumbled onto the floor -- knocking over my discarded garden collectables. 

A crumpled piece of perfectly molded paper spilled out of my bag and nearly landed at the foot of my feet. At first glance, the paper looked like it was some sort of perfectly formed origami with its jade-colored paper about the size of a baseball. That crumpled piece of paper kind of intrigued me for some reason.  I carried it to my kitchen table and placed it on my placemat having decided to make it my dinner guest since I was eating alone. 

Dinner was an easy one tonight as I had made soup just yesterday in anticipation of my solo weekend. After the last beep of the microwave signaled the completion of my Italian Wedding soup, I poured a glass of white wine and placed a slice of crusty bread on the small dessert plate to the right of my little round friend.  

I proceeded to open the orb of paper with intention make sure not to disturb its well-orchestrated folds and creases.   

With my readers firmly resting on my nose bridge, I had finally smoothed out all of the crevices of the paper as I proceeded to read its contents.

It was a short note that was written in a very calculated and orderly manner with perfect pen strokes and attention to detail.  The message said the following, “For you are never alone or forgotten so go whale watching with dolphin fleet – these are the new memories I’m wishing you’ll keep.”

I was taken back a little by this little rhyme and pondered for a second how this cryptic message ended up at my doorsteps. I know that it sounds impossible, but it comforted me, none the less, to think that this note was handcrafted just for me. 

In any event, I was kind of tickled that my dinner guest was very poetic and decided to place my newfound poetry on our message board that was hung on the board & batten walls leading to the foyer. I tacked it right next to my daughter’s portrait of me. My daughter, Layla had painted a beautiful picture of me sitting under a rainbow with arms so long that they could almost reach the sky. It made me smile just thinking about her intent and sweetheart. 

Layla was my sensitive child and big sister to Abigail. She had just turned five this past summer and was a natural nurturer -- leaving me notes of things to remember like trying to relax and not having too much fun without her! I posted everyone one of them on our homemade bulletin board alongside my own note from my mystery admirer and poet. 

Day two of my weekend alone, I ventured outdoors with my coffee cup in hand to take in the crisp morning air. It refreshed my soul and filled me up almost as much as my dark roasted coffee beans.  I would need another cup or two to finish the weekend project that I had started. The Cape’s winds were much more forgiving today, but I haven’t given up hope that another baseball size message would come my way. In that instant of daydreaming and planning out my day, I was startled back to earth by the distinctive ring of my cell phone in my apron pocket. I knew that my tribe was checking in on me.

Gabe greeted me first with his morning brief and how delighted the girls were to find the doughnuts I had packed for their breakfast surprise! I shared how my first day came and went and that I had received an unexpected gift in the shape of a paper snowball that mysteriously appeared. I did my best to recant the lyrical poem as best that I could and reflected upon the underlying message that I believed was written for me. My husband did not seem to share the same psychic perspective of the crumbled-up note but indulged me none the less a few minutes longer.

Having said our good-byes before ending the call, I heard a familiar sound from yesterday. I sat still beneath our garden arbor that was already densely blanketed with its lilac-colored wisteria vines.  One of the many windows from the Victorian home decided to open up its eyes for the day, unable to camouflage its creaking bones. As the window was opened up ever so slightly, I could see the subtle gesture of hand pushing the sheers to one side. Suddenly, I realized that I had an admirer.

In that moment, I thought about my previous conversation with my husband and my children. I reminisced also about a chat that I had just the other day in the very same spot below that open window and how I had poured out my heart to my closest girlfriend. I had shared the pain about losing my mother and then my dad and how dark and lonely my days had become without them. I recalled how emotional I was, and how terribly loud I may have sounded.

Then it struck me. Could my secret admirer with the arm of a baseball pitcher have let the Cape Cod winds deliver me a dose of joy and hope all wrapped up in a crumpled piece of paper? I longed to know the identity of the author who penned those poetic words but was also comforted with not knowing its owner at the same time. 

My heart told me to pay it forward and to share some joy with another during my own journey to healing and finally living once again.

 I found myself back at our family message center and stood in front of our bulletin board to retrieve my gifted poem. With my gel pen in hand, I sat down at the table and crafted a prayer to whomever would be the recipient of my own paper baseball with the following words – “praying that whoever finds this would always be blessed and thank you for spreading love whenever you can.” 

Having crumbled up my ball as tight as I could, I pitched the orb toward the open window and then quickly retreated back to my garden. The ball was no longer in my court and I suddenly didn’t feel like gardening anymore. I had this spontaneous interest in whale watching today!