Denise Marotta Lopes

Seeing Beauty in all Things

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 18, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

I’m fairly sure I would have made a good editor. I look closely and I pay attention. This has served me well as a friend, a parent, and a teacher, but it also has its drawbacks. It’s easy for me to spot mistakes. I notice the overgrown gardens and the discarded trash. I pay attention to whether drivers make a full stop at the red sign, and whether pet parents pick up their pet’s poop.

I see the broken asphalt and the pot holes that dot our street. But, I also see the robin bathing in the water that gathers there after a spring rain. I see the trees once adorned in pink and white flowers now covered in green leaves. Interestingly, what I think of as beauty is often situated next to what might be regarded as decay.

It is particularly evident in the crab apple tree where some of the flowers cling to the branches while others leave gaps in the empty spaces directly next to where they once were. On the ground below the blossoms sprinkle the broken sidewalk with glitter as the tree prepares to produce fruit. It reminds me of Oz.

Many mornings I stopped at this bulb garden, admiring the tulips and daffodils. But what do I see when I look at what remains after the performance?

I ask myself if I can still observe its beauty,

It’s easy to be excited about the primrose. But can I also be excited about the daffodil, past its prime, as some would say?

There is focus on seeing the good, the lovely, the significant. But at what cost? I can’t train my eye not to see what’s broken, discarded, and dismissed. But, I can decide to see the beauty in it.

Looking Closely

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 12, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

I appreciate a planned outing. I am prepared for what I might see and anticipate the effect it may have on me. But, it’s the unexpected moments that I appreciate even more. It’s the multi-colored tulips that remain closed to the early morning chill that stop me in my tracks.

The flowering dogwood causes me to pause as its branches reach across the sidewalk; it dares me to walk past without stopping to see the blossoms of four petals spread like a cross.

Forced to the other side of the road to avoid those working on a neighbor’s roof, I ask Franklin to stop so I may observe the new growth on the pine tree, the lime green tips so young and bright.

And, while I look for those unexpected moments of hope, Ivy leads me directly to the house of someone who appreciates our passing by. We are invited to stop—Ivy for a treat, and me, for a place where I feel welcome.

There is something for everyone, if we take the time to look closely.

One Bloom at a Time

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Apr 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

I hook Franklin’s leash to his collar, open the front door, and step out. We stop on the landing before making our way down the three steps to the walkway. I take a deep breath and look around. No matter the weather, I declare that it is a beautiful day. And, with that, we begin our walk.

Each morning brings a surprise. What was tightly closed yesterday, is now vibrant in its exuberance. The magenta azalea conceals nothing today.

Franklin returns home and it’s Ivy’s turn. There is a particular house on the boulevard that is in some disrepair. Vines climb, trash collects, and yet the bulbs greet us as we wander past. I was taken with the tulips in the stage just before opening. They remain in a state of anticipation, or perhaps of potential. I want to tell them to take all the time they need.

And, there is not a day when I don’t marvel at this sycamore at the top of the street, its white trunk painting a picture against the backdrop of blue sky. I stand beneath it, Ivy waiting, and declare again that this day is beautiful.

I drove to Brandywine Park this week to see if the cherry blossoms were in bloom. They were not. But on the way home, I saw daffodils growing wildly free near the stone wall. It was evidently their time.

Springing to Life

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 12, 2026 category Gardens, Walks

The weather was especially lovely the past few days. The sun was out, the birds were active, and green was shooting up out of the remaining fallen leaves. I took Ivy for a walk, a slow stroll down a long row of houses. She sniffed until she found just the right spot, and as she prepared herself at the edge of a lawn, near the street, atop a pile of leaves, I heard a voice coming from the home. I saw a woman crouching by her open window speaking words I couldn’t quite comprehend. Stunned, I asked her what she said. She repeated, “My property is not your dog’s toilet.” I remained calm and held up the green bag indicating I would be sure to pick it up. She told me that after I did so, I should wipe my hand over the spot and see what happens.

I calmly walked on, taking another route home—one that would not pass by the grey colonial and the woman at the window. I didn’t cry, but that might have been an option. I felt her words in my body. In my heart, more directly. I wondered about her and her anger, balancing it between my hurt and moving forward.

There is often beauty that shoots up out of pain. If given enough time, it shows itself. It can’t help it. Like the primrose, the green takes precedence over its colorless surroundings. The iris, as well, defies its surroundings, and pops with hope of what’s to come.

Even my garden angel shines more brightly when the sun reflects off it.

I think of my friend, Cathy, who gifted me many of the perennials (and the angel) in my garden. I am reminded of joy and hope, of kindness and understanding. And, when the atmosphere feels harsh and even ugly, I remember the power of beauty, and of the the crocuses, which last week were a single bloom, but now take over a good portion of a neighborhood property.

A Glimmer of Hope

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Mar 2, 2026 category Furry Friends, Gardens, Walks

My recent walks have not been philanthropic. I’ve had to do it, and thus it feels like work. Joe broke his ankle, so the walking of three dogs multiple times a day has fallen to me. I’m cranky and not proud of it.

Recent snowstorms and frigid weather have kept things hidden. Though some things are unseen, they still remain. A recent thaw exposed a used coffee cup, fallen leaves, and a plethora of pine needles beneath a large tree. Things will come to the surface.

The cold weather returned today, reminding me that winter remains. As do the large snow piles that still block access to the sidewalks, causing pedestrians to enter the roadway to get by.

I admit that I haven’t looked up often-enough these days. But sometimes there’s a glimmer of hope in the dried-out grass. Today I spotted it in this crocus, so narrow, so frail, that I was unable to get a clear photo. But it was there and I felt it was just for me.

I sense a change in the air. The earlier sunrise. The tinge of yellow where forsythia will soon bloom. My neighbor digging in her garden. Glimmers of hope.

A Goodbye to a Friend

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Feb 10, 2026 category Stories

I didn’t sleep well last night. Because of that, I arrived at the screened porch in daylight. I prefer to greet the day while it is still dark. When possibilities still lie ahead. When I join the darkness as it enters the light.

No matter what is happening, the sun rises. It always does. The birds still sing and squawk. They call to one another and await a return to their greeting. This morning was not as cold as recent mornings. I didn’t need the space heater, but instead, wrapped myself in a thick blanket, sipped a hot cup of coffee, and picked up my wooden Rosary Beads.

Today, I offered my prayers for the life of my friend, Father George. He died yesterday. The world feels different without him in it. Like something very important is missing. I’ve been visiting him at the retirement home for priests and brothers for over 12 years. For pet therapy, for conversation, for storytelling, and for many laughs.

He is the priest who heard my confession after I returned to the Catholic Church after 26 years. No judgment. Only friendship. Always friendship.

Franklin and I visited him yesterday; we said our goodbyes shortly before he took his last breath here on earth. I thanked him for being such a good friend.

The sun rose today on a different world, but on a good world. A world better for him having lived in it. A world he left, for an even better one.

God-speed, my friend.

The Winter Sycamore

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Jan 9, 2026 category Uncategorized

Stripped to its bones—void of leaves and camouflaged trunk—you see what the tree is made of. With nothing left to hide behind, the sycamore stands tall and proud, despite its lack of protection.

Though harsh winds break its branches, the remaining ones reach higher and stronger. Against the blue sky, its winter white shines, and its spiky seed pods remain, ready to drop at just the right time, prepared to continue its legacy.

Follow the Light

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 30, 2025 category Uncategorized

I’ve taken to walking to Mass; it’s a half-mile from home, uphill most of the way. Joe drives up, meeting me there. He slides into the pew during the first verse of the entrance hymn. We mostly attend morning Mass, but yesterday we decided on the 5:00 pm.

It was mostly dark on my way there, but completely dark on the return home. The moon was half-full, lighting my way past darkened houses, the ones without sensor lights that catch me walking past their properties.

I was reminded of walking to Midnight Mass many years ago with my high school friend, Joanne. I stopped at her house and we walked side-by-side to Corpus Christi Church. It was cold and dark but we had each other. Gradually, almost magically, it began to snow. Not a heavy snow—one in which the flakes caught in her curls. I recall it whenever I walk on a cold, dark night and my heart is warmed.

I continued toward home, wrapping my scarf tighter about my neck, noticing the Christmas lights, the dark houses, and the accompanying moon. I turned into my back drive and found that Joe had left the side porch light on for me. I followed it up the five steps into my warm kitchen.

Author’s Note: I replaced the featured photo with a more appropriate evening shot. (12/2/25)

Yellows, Browns, and Reds

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Nov 13, 2025 category Uncategorized

There is no doubt that fall has arrived—raining leaves, chilled mornings, dry air. It takes me longer to prepare for walks as I add layers under my jacket, stuff my hair into a hat, and wrap my neck in a wool scarf. The labs require no additional care; they are energized by the crisp weather. Stella, on the other hand is bundled in what my neighbor calls her “armadillo” outfit.

When the sun rises and filters through the remaining yellow leaves, it casts a sepia tone on the neighborhood. I am comforted by that. I enjoy the crunch of leaves underfoot, yet grimace at the blare of leaf-blowers casting them into streets or onto other people’s lawns.

Tom’s fig trees are stripped of their leaves uncovering a street sign buried beneath the branches. At both dawn and dusk while darkness is present, there is light at the tops of trees. Only, one must look up to see it.

I will keep my pumpkins stacked until after Thanksgiving. I don’t want to rush through this season to get to the next. I admit it can be hard not to plan ahead, or to fix what’s broken, or to discard what’s no longer useful. But, sometimes it is prudent to sit there a while and sip on that pumpkin-caramel latte and simply breathe.

On my walks, I stop to notice the little things, the inconspicuous things. Those things often hidden in plain sight.

Yes, fall has certainly arrived, and most assuredly, will soon be gone. But I will choose to stay a while and smile at that red leaf before it, too, blows away.

Just in Case

by Denise Marotta Lopes on Oct 12, 2025 category Furry Friends, Gardens

I scrubbed the hummingbird feeder and filled it with fresh nectar over a week ago. Since that time, not one has come. I knew they wouldn’t. I knew they had left, but I did it just in case.

Years ago, when my daughter bought her own house and moved out, I continued to set the table with four dishes, at first instinctually, and then, just in case.

Last times are hard whether we know it’s goodbye, or whether we realize their loss sometime later. When was the last time I held Rockland’s hand while crossing the street? I had taken, for a while, to writing things down—just in case. But now I purpose to notice and simply enjoy the moments.

This morning, I listened to the caws of Blue Jays, sipped my cooling coffee, watched Graycie resting on a chair, and Ivy sleeping on the love seat on my screened porch.

The hummingbird feeder remains empty of visitors while the nearby zinnias continue to flourish. I could take down the feeder and bring it in for the winter, but I leave it a while longer.

Just in case.