On our last day in Rennes, we head over to our favorite bistro, the Bistrot Cocagne, just outside our apartment.  We greet the waiter, Antoine, who we have come to know a little over the last few weeks, and then head upstairs to settle down in the old beat up turquiose upholstered chairs, which were taken (I’m sure) from someone’s grandma’s house.  Plants hang from the rafters and art decorates the walls.  And I feel like I’m hanging out in an old friend’s home.

 We fell in love with this place right away, its chalkboard sign outside with the day’s offerings leaning up against the yellow wall, wicker backed chairs, wooden tables, and umbrellas set up outside the restaurant and groups of people gathered together, drinking a coffee or glass of wine or eating lunch. It’s a community hangout.  We see people greet each other with the double kiss and conversations filled with laughter.  The inside is just as cozy and welcoming with old sofas and easy chairs, along with small tables for intimate conversations.  We could hear the quiet buzz and murmur of the restaurant from our apartment if we opened the windows –the perfect background noise as I read or wrote or tidied up. 

I remember our first time there when I sheepishly tried to order in French, apologizing in advance for any mistakes:  “Une galette avec oeuf e frommage s’il vous plait,” I said haltingly.  But Antoine rewards me with a smile. “Perfect,” he says.  Later I ask him the correct pronunciation for a few words and he is happy to help. He asks (in English) where we are travelling from and a few other questions and I am struck that he could so easily move back and forth between the two languages, as could most of the people we talked with.  It’s such a generous act to learn multiple languages so that you can better communicate with your fellow humans. 

The Bistrot Cocagne isn’t an anomaly though. There are neighborhood bistros all over the city, on every corner, people spilling out into outdoor tables and chairs and spending hours talking laughing, eating, just enjoying the day.  It’s clear that this sense of community is important to the people of Rennes.  Everything (except restaurants of course) closes down between 12-2 while friends and coworkers spill out of their offices and shops and homes to gather and share a meal. And then gather again when the days is done, late into the evening.

How does this sense of community make a difference? Well, from what I could see, there was a great sense of pride that priortized the care of their city. For example, there is no trash littering the streets. And while there is graffiti, I noticed that it mostly shows up on temporary structures, like plywood used at a construction site or wood that can be easily painted over – rarely on the beautiful stone buildings.   I saw very few police and yet I always felt safe walking around everywhere, even late at night. As in every city, there are homeless people, but very few. I am told that they are provided services to help them get on their feet.  Other residents talk with them and give them their change. They too are part of the community. 

This is what I love about being able to travel to new places in the world – the possibilities that emerge.  In Rennes I see a city that prioritizes community and the results of that.  I see a place where the residents take care of and inhabit their public spaces as an extension of their homes, where the harmony of the city is cherished and protected, and where people of all backgrounds are welcome– even these two Americans with their limited and halting French.  

At the end of our meal that afternoon, Antoine comes up to ask if we would like anything else.  “Coffee?” he asks,  “I will pay.” Our initial impulse is to decline such generosity, but on second thought we accept this kind gesture as the ultimate compliment.  Just as you would provide coffee for guests in your home, it is clear that we have been accepted into this small community. What a beautiful city this is. What a beautiful people. What a wonderful example of what we could be.

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Three years ago I got the keys to our Little Lavender Shop, and I can’t help but look around and reflect with profound gratitude on the path and the people that have gotten us here.  It boggles my mind that what started as a visit to a lavender farm in San Diego county one Sunday afternoon has ended up here.  Or how having a frustratingly hot, dry, south facing slope full of decomposed-granite where Mark and I planted our first lavenders started all of this.  When I think about it for a minute, however, that lavender farm visit and the hot, south-facing slope aren’t really where it all started.  It really all started with taking chances and saying yes.

I’m not naturally a yes kind of person.  In fact, for far too long, I shied away from saying yes to things that were new or different.  I must confess that I spent a good part of my early life living in fear – afraid to travel, afraid to explore, afraid to take chances, afraid to interact. I was very introverted, the proverbial wall flower with a very active internal dialogue -- but who stumbled and stuttered through any real interaction, red-faced, sweating.  But then I got a job at a local grocery store in the small desert town where I grew up, and though I was scared to death on that first day, I said yes and took that baby step forward, slowly becoming more comfortable in my skin and learning to actually talk to people.  

This slowly built my confidence enough that I said yes to a move to San Diego, where I went to college, but struggled for years to balance school and work, afraid to fully commit to school.  Then one day, I was offered a grocery management position and had to think long and hard about whether or not this was what I wanted to do with my life.  Sure, it was easy, and I was good at it.  But was that what I really wanted?  The answer to that question was no.  Instead, I decided to say yes to full time school.  I transferred to a grocery store closer to the university, finally figured out my major, and then met my sweet husband while we were working in the produce department together.  

The next few years included more yeses, including an “I do,” and a move to northern California for graduate school, and then an eventual move back to San Diego where I began my English teaching career. There I enjoyed a very comfortable part time teaching gig at a local community college while we raised our children, with all of the joys and challenges that come with it.  But then one day I was offered a full time position at a local high school and I had to contemplate another yes.  This yes led to challenges unlike anything I’d known, helping me to realize that embracing new, sometimes scary opportunities can lead to experiences that shape a life and a mindset -- like saying yes to international trips with students, saying yes to a summer teaching in South Africa, saying yes to becoming the editor of an education journal, and then finally saying yes to a move to Oregon and becoming a full time lavender farmer.   None of those experiences was easy, in fact some were downright scary, but through them I realized that I am resourceful and capable. And that there's a lesson to be learned in every experience. 

Once we moved to Oregon however, the yeses hadn’t stopped just yet.  When I was presented with the opportunity to open a little shop in this tiny space and work with three dear friends, John, Jeremi, and Zach, I said yes without even hesitating.  At this point, I knew a golden opportunity when I saw it. 

Once we had the keys though, I started to wonder if this was one of those yeses that wouldn’t work out. We got our keys on March 3, 2020 and then a few weeks later everything shut down.  However, I soon realized that this was just one more challenge to overcome, especially since I had the best shop partners a girl could ask for, so we took that time to remodel the shop and slowly open up. I was lucky enough to work with these friends for two years before they struck out on their own.  So last spring I was faced with another question that I needed to answer.  Was I capable of running this shop and the farm by myself (for the most part)? As it turns out, the answer is yes.  It’s not easy, but it’s a privilege that my days are spent working to put something beautiful out into the world, to offer a little comfort in our crazy lives, and to get to know the good people in this little lavender community, both in the shop and online.  I’ve been so touched by the kindnesses I get to witness every day – the gifts and cards you buy for each other and the care you provide for yourself.   I realize how lucky I am.  And I don’t take that for granted.  In fact, most mornings, I still wake up and pinch myself, not sure I deserve such good things. 
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So I guess in the end, what has led me here, living in small town Oregon, living the lavender dream, is the word yes. I recognize that yes isn’t always the correct answer. Sometimes no is the right choice.  And believe me, there have been times when in trying not to disappoint, I’ve said yes when the answer should have been no. However, I also believe that we sometimes say no because we are scared, forgetting that we are capable of much more than we realize.  
So here’s to saying “yes” – and hoping that there are more opportunities to say yes in the days and years ahead! Bring on the next adventure!

Have you ever gone through the Starbuck drive-thru and had the person in front of you pay for your drink? Don’t you just love when that happens?  It’s such a surprise and then creates a ripple effect, continuing on with the next car, changing the day’s trajectory, and giving everyone in that line an opportunity to do something nice for someone else.  All because of one person’s actions.
Whenever that happens to me, I’m reminded of my Grandpa Reynolds. Starbucks wasn’t around when he was, but his actions created that same ripple effect. In fact, he was a pay-it-forward legend among those who knew him, striving to make the world a little kinder.  
If you were to look at his vital statistics you might think hmmm, there’s nothing legendary about him.  Born Cyril Holcombe Reynolds in 1914, married to the Winifred King, five children, active church member, worked in a hosiery factory, then as an insurance salesman and then later, with Winnie, opened a slipcover business.  Died due to complications of Alzheimers in 1996. 82 years on this earth.

What you don’t see on paper, however, is the lasting impact he had on those around him.  

For example every day he did at least one good deed, whether it be something small like holding a door or picking up a piece of trash, or something bigger like driving someone to a doctor’s appointment or helping a neighbor with a project.  Those good deeds had an effect, not just on the recipient but also on the observer.  Some of my favorite days as a child were those spent with my grandpa running an errand or two and watching as he opened a door for someone and then announcing to me “Well I did my good deed for the day!” (Though I suspect that he never stopped with just one).  That example has stayed so fresh in my mind, that even today I try to do at least one good deed every day.  He treated those around him with such love and care.  He couldn’t do much to affect the larger world, but he sure worked hard to take care of those in his own backyard. And I like to think that those small deeds eventually reached out into the larger world. 

He gave joyfully and he also lived joyfully. You couldn’t help but smile when he was around. His contagious laugh could turn the grumpiest person into a giggling mess.  We kids used to love sitting with him as he watched one of his favorite TV shows, HeeHaw.  We certainly didn’t get the jokes, but when he started laughing, we all started laughing. Another great memory is car rides with him. He used to love to take us up the mountain in his giant station wagon, where he accelerated around curves and over hills in the road, his laugh accompanying every curve, every hill.  Something so small, but he found such delight in that small activity, along with such things as playing harmonica accompanied by Pepe his dog, long walks after dinner, working in his garden (and then giving us a tour every time we visited), or jiggling our chins as we tried to stammer out our names.  All of these simple pleasures he delighted in.  Life was certainly not easy at times; he had some pretty difficult challenges in his lifetime, but he lived with joy, seeking out those things that made him happy and paying that happiness forward. 

Grandpa has been gone now for 27 years, a lifetime.  But the ripple effect of his joyful life continues on with his children, his grandchildren – and beyond. 

Sometimes when I’m feeling a bit overwhelmed by the big problems of our world, I think about my grandpa – and then I go to Starbucks and start the pay-it-forward line.  It’s such a small action, I know, but it’s a start and maybe it will ripple. And it reminds me that there is a lot of good out there, a lot of people trying to make the world a little better, a little kinder, a little more joyful. One good deed at a time. 

I ran across my mom’s obituary the other day. Her birthday is coming up and I’ve found myself really missing her lately, so I’ve been looking at old photos and memorabilia.  As I reread what I had written for her obituary, I was reminded of what a truly remarkable woman she was: her many accomplishments, her generous spirit, her love of life, and her love for her friends and family.  But I was also struck by the fact that I had left out one of her most defining characteristics.  Thankfully, the Daily Independent newspaper’s editor, who was also a great friend of my mom’s, added her own comment at the end and filled in what I had missed.  She said:  “While we join her many loved ones in mourning her loss, we are grateful for the indelible mark of kindness she left on virtually everyone who was fortunate enough to know her. —Ed.”

An “indelible mark of kindness.”  What a perfect summation of how my mom lived her life and the impact she had on those around her.  Kindness was her superpower.  She responded to almost every situation with kindness, love, and humor.  She was the first person to volunteer to bring meals or lend an ear to an ailing friend. She elevated, encouraged, and celebrated those in her life.  And she could diffuse the most tense situation just by being kind.  Here’s a small example of that: One time when we were camping on Lake Isabella, a rowdy group of campers was keeping us awake into the wee hours.  Finally, my mom had enough and decided to go over and put a stop to it.  But she didn’t go over in anger as I might have.  Rather she walked over with a smile on her face and kindness in her pocket, introduced herself to the group, joined in their fun for a minute or two and then with her characteristic good humor asked that they tone it down a bit since we were all trying to sleep.  And that was all it took.  Her kindness was disarming. And it was transformative, and indelible. She always saw the good in people and worked under the assumption that people really wanted to do what was right. 

But she was no pushover.  Yes, kindness was her superpower, but her strong sense of justice, or what she called logical consequences, was her sidekick.  If we kids make a bad decision, we got to reap “the consequences of our actions,” though those consequences were always paired with a hug and a conversation. How fortunate we were to grow up with that combination of kindness and justice. 

So there are two questions I’m pondering today regarding her kindness.  The first is why.  This was a woman who was abused by her father as a child, whose mother abandoned her family and who lived in foster care with a few horrible foster parents.  And that was just the first few years. At a young age, she saw the worst of humanity.  And yet...and yet she was the kindest person I’ve ever met.  How did that happen?  I can’t help but assume that so much of her kindness emanated from her great faith.  I’m reminded of the verse:  “He has told you, O man, what is good; and what does the Lord require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with your God?” (Micah 6:8).  I have to believe that this must have been one of her favorite verses because that is how she lived her life.  She didn’t pontificate or wear the trappings of Christianity or do anything that would create a barrier to anyone she met.  Rather, she lived that verse, providing the world a genuine example of God’s love -- and leaving an “indelible mark of kindness” in her wake.


My second question is: what she would think of these times where so many are being so unkind. How would she respond?  I’m sure her poor heart would be breaking to see the discord so prevalent in our country today.  I’m sure she would be dismayed by the unkindness of some of our elected officials and their followers. But I also know that her response would be to redouble her efforts to love as many people as she could and disarm them with her kindness. And at the same time, she would demand justice.  I’m quite certain that she would be out there marching and writing letters and talking to her neighbors, and imploring us to look inward and reconnect with the goodness we each possess.  And she would demand consequences for those whose actions warranted it.   

​My mom continues to inspire me, even after almost five years since she left us.  Her example encourages me to both be more kind and to be more courageous as we head into another year.  That is her legacy. And that’s how we change the world. 

When we moved to Escondido 25 years ago, our house came with a dining room table — a giant, heavy, slightly beat-up dining room table.  The owners were moving to Hawaii and didn’t want to lug the table with them across the ocean, so they left it for us. Now, 25 years later, that giant, much more beat-up table sits in our dining room in Oregon.  

Sometimes I wonder why I haven’t gotten a new one.  This one is kind of a wreck. I know that farmhouse rustic is in, but this table goes just a bit beyond that.  I've tried to make it look presentable, but I can’t seem to clean off the red and white paint marks that were added when Lauren made Christmas ornaments one year.  And I’ve tried to chip away at the spots that look like food but are actually glue from the glue gun that Noah used when he was working on his robot -- but when I chip away at it, the varnish comes off too. And then there’s a gouge at one end where Joshua was working on some project with Jesse that involved an axe.  And the varnish in the grooves is pretty much gone from when Mark used a steak knife to get the food particles out. Also, one of the legs has teeth marks from when Jake was a puppy and used the table leg as a chew toy. Thankfully you can’t really see that unless you look down.  And every morning as I’m eating my breakfast, I have to push in the end of the table since it hangs down a little, maybe from all of the elbows-on-the-table conversations we have had over the years. 

Yeah...it’s kind of a wreck.  Maybe I should get a new one. Thanksgiving is coming and I want everything to be nice.  

But I can see our family dinners and our kids doing their homework at this table.  And I can see my mom sitting at the table setting up her appetizers for our "March birthday" get togethers.  I see the large holiday dinners where everyone could fit (thanks to two also-very-heavy leafs that made a giant table even bigger), and the smaller dinners with our Japanese exchange student or guests from England or friends or co-workers. I can see the long conversations Mark and I had about the kids, or about his company closing or about us moving to Oregon.  A lot of life happened at this table. And it shows. How could I possibly replace it? 

So in a few weeks, my family will gather around the table, eat lots of good food, drink lots of good wine, laugh ourselves silly, and continue to make memories.  And they won’t care about the paint and the glue and the gouges. They will just be glad that we are sitting around a table together. And we will count our blessings — one of which will be that 25 years ago, this beat-up old table was left behind.