There were two colors in my 64-pack of Crayola crayons that I wouldn’t touch as a kid: raw umber and spring green. In my world of Poky Little Puppy coloring books and stained “glass” art projects, these two hues had no place in my world. Their tips would remain snub-nosed while the remaining 62 would get peeled and sharpened, peeled and sharpened, until they disappeared into the depths of the box.

As an adult, having lived through nearly 40 long New England winters, I’ve grown to love that pop of spring green that one April day just dots the tips of the trees. And then, just a few days later, when those little dots unfurl into something so vibrant, so graceful, and so celebratory—that day, that moment, is one of my absolute favorites of the entire year.

Driving home from work, there’s a stretch of conservation land where the oak trees are so mighty that they form a canopy over the street. Earlier this week, as I drove through this tunnel of oaks, the 6:15 p.m. late-April sunlight cast a hazy glow on each and every one of those unfurling buds. I heeded the glowing yellow light that had engulfed me and slowed down. Way down. Mother Nature was operating this traffic light, and the sight was too splendid to just blow straight on through.

In this world of get-it-done-and-make-it-snappy mindsets, it’s important to remember that good things take some time. Whether it’s waiting for winter to make its exit, a relationship to develop its sweet spot, hard work to pay off, or a dream to come true, a willingness to slow down and to put a little faith in the nature of things will often do the trick.

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©2013 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because that Mother Nature is one smart lady.

I’ve spent the last week with my jaw agape, my nerves jangled, and my head shaking in disbelief. Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday. The news outlets unfolding details that were so unreal—gruesome, dark, and deranged details—that I didn’t want to listen. I didn’t want to take it all in. And yet, I had to. This was my hometown that was hurting. And some 2,000 miles away, someone else’s hometown had been badly hurt, too. Act of terror or an accident, all of it so hard to accept.

Friday afternoon, after a solid eight hours of “sheltering in place” just three miles away from the manhunt in Watertown, my mind unraveled from its tight, trusting knot. “Land of the free” had always been something that I’ve taken for granted. Gratefully, not selfishly so. I know I’m fortunate to say it, but freedom is all I’ve ever known. I’ve never felt before that my life could be in danger. I thought of the women in India who had endured horrifying, torturous rapes. Women whose religion dictated their style of dress. Whose gender dictated their equal rights. I thought of the husbands and wives who boarded planes back on September 11, 2001, just going about business as usual. Who sat at their desks, checking e-mail and sipping coffee in the Twin Towers as they got their workdays started. Who cheered on friends, loved ones, and strangers alike, all along the marathon route. I thought of the injustices, I thought of the misfortune, I thought of the loss. I thought of my loved ones—and I thought of myself.

“Home of the brave.” Now more than ever. There were 10,000 people at that very moment who were singularly focused on protecting me and my fellow Bostonians. All I could do was what had been asked of us all: sit tight. But I needed to do something more.

In the safe confines of my home office, overlooking the exact same spot where I had seen a swarm of police cars and bomb-sniffing dogs earlier in the day, I unrolled my yoga mat and found shelter in an entirely different way. I meditated. I acknowledged the panic and the sadness with deep exhales and softened their jagged edges in my chest. I filled my head with thoughts of safety for the men and women whose lives were on the line at that very moment. I inhaled security. I exhaled anxiety. I inhaled trust. I exhaled doubt. I inhaled strength. I exhaled fear. And on and on it went, until all I was left with was confidence that justice would be served and freedom would triumph.

When I settled back in front of the TV—CNN on one tuner, our local FOX station on the other, boston.com’s twitter feed on my iphone—I felt much less helpless than before. Doing all that I could from inside my home, at least energetically, I lent my hand.

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©2013 Good Karma Housekeeping. Because sometimes the best thing you can do is a little mental housekeeping. (Photo by Suzanne Kreiter/Globe Staff.)