Featured

Wild Dreams

What if you realized, suddenly one day, while the snow was falling and all that you could think of was running away; that you only get one life. You only get this one chance to live to your fullest potential. You only get one chance to show your kids how to follow their hearts, and one shot to actually follow your own. One life to feel the mud beneath your feet and see the sky-bluer than blue-above your head. What if, when you realized all of this, you discovered that the place where you are is not really the place your heart and soul long for.

What would you do?

Would you change it? Would you pull up your roots and pack up your car and would you drive headlong into the wildness that seems to call to you when you sleep? Would you see the immense risk in front of you and lean into it fully and completely, not seeing the crazy difficulties, but only the great satisfaction that could come from jumping? Would you risk all of the comfort and safety and normal that you exist in and just go?

Could you do it?

What would you bring along? Who would you pray would come with you? Where would you go first? What would you miss not at all? Would you even go? Or have you crafted the place where you are into the perfect place for you and yours? Are you you where you are? Is this place where you survive the right place for your very soul? Can a place really bring about happiness?

It is in me to run. To drive the back roads till the sun sets and rises again. The cold and the darkness and the snow are weighing heavy on me this day. Perhaps once spring actually arrives I will have less desire to follow my heart out to the ocean. Won’t that be sad? When you know the cry of your own heart but don’t follow it, don’t you feel as if you’re letting yourself down a little? Even if the thing that cries from the deepest part of your soul feels impossible…isn’t being stuck more so?

Every choice we have made has led us to here. Maybe it’s time for a new choice?

Why don’t we run after what is the meaning of our life? Run from our comfort in what we have become accustomed to? I’m sitting right there today. While I see all of the difficulties and hardships and sadness’s that could accompany the big-enough-to-matter-change, I’m trying to also see that I may never feel peaceful if I stay in my relative comfort.

So what to do? Stay and be cold and sad but comfortable…or go. Go and be scared and surprised and lost to all that is normal and American-dream-worthy? I’m still not sure, comfort has a shockingly hard pull.

Email Sign-up

 

A Quiet, End-of-Day Ramble

The words come slower as the world spins fast. Even as I work and plan to not be overwhelmed by all that Advent has to offer, even in this season where so much has been taken from us, somehow even now…I find myself breathing deep to slow the minutes from rushing by. Consciously choosing to slow down and just do this next thing with grace and love.

It is not easy for me. Well, I am not fast, I live a decidedly slow life, deliberately choosing quiet, calm, rest, less, most of the time. But I do want to check the boxes and serve and meet needs and light up little faces, not just in this season, but especially so. I want to do all of the things, but I choose to just do the next thing.

Often the next thing is interupted by a child needing something or wanting me and I try so hard to remember that this, this everyday life, is the most important thing. Because so many other activities call to me it’s easy to forget. This mothering; I get to do it and I choose to do it and I have to remind myself of that when the world tells me so many other things are important.

These children, this family, my sweet husband. I am here with the purpose of serving them, raising them well, being a friend and good listener. It’s easy to think those things are not as important as serving outside my family or working or doing any of the *other* that I could be putting effort into. God has told me enough times though, I have heard Him well enough to know, that this is why I am here. To know Him, to love Him and to serve Him. I do all of this by loving my husband and my children, by serving them and knowing their hearts. I no longer doubt my place, but seek to fully live into it. The world can not sway me from this belief.

I let the interruptions come. Sometimes I still yell, sometimes I stomp my feet. More and more I am realizing that this life is not mine. I am not here to find my own deepest joy, I’m here to bring the joy of knowing Christ to the loves of my life. I trust that God will provide for my joy in His perfect time, knowing that I may wait a lifetime to see it fulfilled. He has given me a servant heart, I should use it to the fullest.

Sleep comes at the end of everyday, even though the list is still long and there is still so much to be done. Today was full of good, today we expanded our hearts and gave as we could, we didn’t rush through the gifting or the running or the offering and we were able to do more than I hoped for. As I lay my head down asking for rest, I know that in the pouring out today, I have been filled up. As I thank God for this day, I pray that the children I brought along know what good we did and that they carry the memory of it into their lives and continue with it as often as they can.

I’m so thankful for this knowledge, for the understanding I’ve been given of myself. Exhaustion overtakes and I close my eyes, praying for each one of you, that the needs of others that you can meet, you will. That the needs you have will be met. And that at the end of each day, rest would come to you and bring peace.

I used to sit here each morning scratching out thoughts on a page. Not looking for acceptance, but seeking to hear my own soul more clearly. I haven’t come to this place in quite some time, not that I don’t still have questions to wonder aloud over. Rather, the being simply still was too much amidst the global pandemic and fear mongering. I had thought that the writing was good for me, enabled me to get my thoughts out of my head, work through them bit by bit, and I would say that I don’t doubt that process even now.

My routine had to change though.

Much like yours did I am sure. And so I began, in the early morning hours before my children awoke I would read all of the news articles I could, trying to understand as much as I could. Looking for reassurance in the numbers or potential outcomes. As I was forced home at the end of winter with no friends to visit, no homeschool meetups, not even grocery shopping was “allowed”. My only link to friends and family was social media, something I will admit is not good for my mental health. It pulled me in with cute baby pictures, but then led me down ever-spiraling rabbit holes of conspiracy theories. I could not pick up my phone or sit down at my laptop without feeling my heart rate increase at the fear that was surely waiting on the other side of my device.

Fortunately, anxiety and I are old friends.

I recognized it and what was causing it pretty quickly. I was able to insist I leave my phone on the charger most mornings, that I not open my laptop until the children had spilled their raucous energy into our family space. I’ll admit how hard it was to not know what was going on. I wanted the information; how many people had died, how quickly the virus was spreading, I needed to know how afraid I should be. Except I really, really didn’t.

There were a few days where I had to ask my sweet husband to take my phone from me. A realization early on told me that this routine would not be sustainable. My days could not continue in this overwhelm of information and input outside of my control.

Everything was outside of my control. When I focused on those words I knew that “control” could not be where I swung the pendulum from, yet “out of control” seemed to add only more fear. “Outside” though…that was a word I could start with, and so I did.

Most of my days since mid-March have been spent outdoors. I have dug into the earth while the ground was still cold and heavy and wet and I have felt the weight the soil held deep in my own soul. I divided raspberry beds on a damp, cool, misty morning. Far too early or not nearly late enough in the year to do such a thing. As the brambles scraped my skin and the fog lay around me I knew the quiet sharpness and dense peace of the world was still here, just as it has always been. I hauled mulch and moved plants, I ensured the greenhouse stayed warm and the seedlings grew strong. I built, and rebuilt, a coldframe, and have a better plan for it for next spring.

I stayed busy.

You see, writing keeps my mind hyper-focused on my problem or my concern. That was not what I needed. I could do nothing about Covid-19. There was no real way for me to solve this problem, even for my own family. I needed to physically wade through it. So many friends tried to help, wanting me to Zoom chat or Facetime or come to other online dates. I’ll admit the thought of those interactions still fills me with dread. If that becomes the norm I will have to fail yet again at being normal, because I despise the online interactions. What helped (helps) me most was staying busy. Not as a coping mechanism, please understand. I needed to put all of the anxiety, fear, worry…more into action. I could not sit with it, write it away, it needed to be handled, dug into, moved around. Gardening was the way I have dealt with these feelings. It is, yet again, how I made it through a hard season.

There were also early Spring wanders through state parks with my littles. This walking with small people wakes me back up to what is needed. I’ve read somewhere a poem about how you can not take just anyone into the woods with you, they won’t feel it the same way and spoil it for you somehow. I believe this to be true, but taking my littles into the woods with me is a gift to my heart. They don’t often go my pace, they are sometimes rough-and-tumble when I’d prefer smooth and calm, they occasionally would rather make epic slow motion videos of themselves jumping off a half-fallen log while I could endlessly sit and watch the sun shine through fern leaves. However, the rhythm we have together is made perfect when we go wandering. I have clung to those rambles on some of my hardest days.

I share this today as a reminder to myself, I was not in a good mental place this past spring. I worked through it in a fairly healthy way though. The digging in the earth has sustained me through some of my darkest days. The wandering in the woods has carried me through some of the darkest thoughts. Knowing how I did it “then” helps me know that I will be able to do it again, and I will need to do it again.

Again, I am sharing this because, yes, the days get hard dear ones, but you are still loved, and I am still here for you. We are going to make it to the other side, to see what is out there beyond this muck, together.

Most of you thought I’d disappeared

Let’s be honest please. Most of you didn’t even realize that I was gone. I like to pretend that I told each of you that I was turning it off, shutting down my world to fewer than seven people. Or I did pretend that. It’s got to a point that it doesn’t matter anymore how few people have checked in or touched base. I’m at peace with this small world I’m occupying.

It is hard to be the one who makes sure everyone is okay, when you’re not okay yourself. I live in this world most winters so I had an idea of how this quarantine would go. It is okay, I do understand, you have to take care of your own family, your own mental health, there isn’t much left over at the end of the day for anyone else. Especially if you feel like everyone else is doing at least as good as you are.

Something struck me this morning as I boiled water though, this thought that as I have dropped off the societal map, no one seemed to notice. Is what I have done in my circle unimportant? Does it matter even to one person? I will acknowledge my close friends have stayed close and a couple of good friends have tried. I will further acknowledge that I did tell a small handful of friends that I was shutting off my platforms for digital socializing as they were causing my anxiety to peak in ways that I couldn’t get a handle on.

It makes a person feel insignificant. When you have spent several years bringing people in and caring for them, even in small ways. Helping them to feel they belong, giving them a place to just be, pulling others around them to shelter them and lift them up and give them a home in friendship….and no one calls or sends a text.

Why do we do this as a group? Why can’t we care for our extended circles when we are not in physical contact with them? Why do so many people fall so easily off of our radar and out of our good intentions? I’ll admit it likely seems that I have chosen to ignore most of the people I associate with. I know my why and I know that many of you have something similar that you’re dealing with, or something harder.

This ramble was written in April of this year. At a point where my anxiety was being managed by “duct taped and chicken wire” and I needed to get out the thoughts but not actually share them because they were too harsh for a hurting world, too personal for my closest friends. I am doing better now, managing in healthier ways, finding the balance between isolation and a previous normal. But I know not everyone is doing better, and I can understand why.

Looking back I see how we all really are doing our best. No one can be everything they want to be all of the time. Something has to give and our own immediate circle must come first.

This post was never finished, never edited carefully, never really meant for your eyes, I leave it here for those who need it now, still, again. I’m sharing these thoughts today in case you’re feeling alone where you are. Under the normal crush of winter and fears of global pandemic. Know you are loved. Trust that I am praying over you, yes you.

Late Digging

I dug in the dirt on November 28th, 2020. That makes this a good year in my book. Yep, that’s really all it takes for me to see the good. Warm days late in November where the soil is not yet a block if ice, where I can peek under the fallen leaves and still find green herbs. I moved some raspberry plants and dug some peony roots in anticipation, took down some chicken wire fence to be used again elsewhere.

This was a good day.

At one point I sat, near the compost pile, in the sunshine, wrapping twine to save for another use, another day. The dog came and lay in the fresh earth beside me for awhile. It felt all too perfect for this world we live in, like I was just a little too blessed or fortunate to live this life. I want to remember that feeling on the days where my trust is lacking, my faith is faltering, my hope for the good dwindling.

There is good. And, for me at least, it is usually found in the dirt.

The Third of the Series

Last night my teensy asked her daddy for the big box in the garage. She’s been waiting for it for quite awhile, but this was the day of his “yes”. She was ready. She had a plan. She was making a boat.

I was emotional and feeling very weighed down as I tried to turn leftover rice and veggies into something my people would eat without complaint. You know part of it; the govenor in my state just outlawed gathering together with anyone, anywhere for the next four weeks. That is A LOT for me to try to wrap my heart around. There was more that was hard for me personally, but that’s for another day.

As I blinked back hot, stupid tears, I looked past my kitchen and saw my teensy, blankets and books pulled into the box with her. She had made her boat. For just one moment it was perfect. She was quiet and content in her boat on her imagined sea. I smiled and snapped this picture. I didn’t want to disturb her, didn’t ask her to turn and smile for me. I just let her be there, rocking gently on the waves.

As I went back to stirring I was thankful that she was able to escape all of my “no’s” and “not right now’s” in this simple and effective way. While I may wish for an actual boat on an actual ocean to take me away from my highly emotional days, I was reminded that I don’t actually need to run away. Just find the quiet that is here and accept it as it is.

I know that I’m not the only one struggling in these strange days. Please know that you are not alone. If I can help, I will. I am here with and for you. I miss you, and I am praying for the good and the gathering and the grace to return.

Second in the Series of Feelings

Climbing days are simply better than book-school days. We kinda forgot this close to us place was here, but now have been back and forth to enjoy it several times in the last couple weeks of hanging on fall. I’ve trusted in the benefits of risky play for my kids for a lot of years now, but sometimes my breath still catches as they climb, the shout to be cautious falling silent just as it is about to be shouted out.

Not that book school isn’t important, but my kids sure do learn a lot on these rocks, as well as in open fields and along riverbanks and up in tall pine trees on the back corner of our in town lot. I need my kids to have literacy and numeracy and I mostly use books and games to teach them those things, but most of the truly important stuff is taught while climbing something.

Trusting yourself is harder to learn from a book. Listening to the cues in your body and from the world around you is more difficult when staring at a screen. Building confidence in your own abilities is just not the same when you weigh math facts against knowing where to put your foot so you don’t slip down a rock wall.

So often I hear people state how learning can only happen in a classroom or can only come from a teacher. Others say that learning can happen in structured activities outdoors, but the child will need to be led or the activity facilitated. I want to just stop with this; Learning happens. It does not depend on me, or you, or us. It simply happens. There is no more needed in that sentence.

I write this down as a reflection for the days when kids need naps more than fractions or snowball fights more than sign language. The days when I doubt what I’m doing here, I will look back and remember that my kids are learning. That they are learning exactly what they need for their lives at this moment and for who they will grow into.

Look at me trusting myself a teensy bit. I must’ve learned that up on that rock pile with my babies.

A Series of Feelings

This may be the last mudpie…and not only for this season. A second Summer in November and an injured ankle gave me the pause and grace to notice this moment for what it is. My baby is six, there may be more mudpies, but this is one of the last for her. I’m thankful that I was able stand on the deck quietly, letting her be little for a little while longer. I wish for her a long life of muddy knees and dirt under her fingernails. Tangled hair and lack of care over it. Mostly, that the joy remains all the days of her life.

A Sunrise of Sorts

Lake Superior was kind enough to remind me this morning. We’ve been vacationing for nearly two weeks now, every morning my children have allowed later and later sleeping. It has been so wonderful. Even though I’ve still been up in the night with the teensy I have felt much more rested. Probably more so than I’ve been in years.

But I needed the sunrise.

Even though I get a very small piece of the suns rising through my view at home, I still see it more mornings than not and I suppose I missed the familiarity of it, the comfort in it.

When I told my family I’d be up before the sun today they all agreed there was no way they’d be joining me and I was rather pleased to know I’d get this hour or so to myself. When I was re-tucking the tiny into her camper bed at four AM I peeked out the skylight and smiled quietly to myself to see a sky full of stars and the prospect of the sun rising over Superior.

Well, as I am so frequently reminded…you can’t do anything once and assume it will be perfect.

Though I am sure the sun did rise, as it has done so every morning from the beginning, it did not shine over the lake and burn off the fog as I had so hoped. No, at some predawn point the clouds rolled in heavy and lay on the lake as a blanket of grey cotton. The waves crashed in, angry to be awake so early I can only presume.

Still, time outdoors is rarely wasted. I found a sheltered rock, back from the lake a bit, sat with my coffee and the quiet. Not even the dog had been willing to venture out with me. I watched the waves for a long while, tried to comprehend how they had been shaping the rock on this shore since before I can imagine. The waterbirds came and went; a pair of Loons, a family of Grebes, I wondered over their ability to overcome the cold sloshing of the lake.

While I was reminded that I can not expect a beautiful sunrise on the random morning I decide to wake up for it, I also remember that the good is in the seeing. Though the day dawns grey, the beauty was still out here, if not in the way I thought it would be. The quiet hour I sat by Lake Superior was worth the wind and the clouds and the cold of August morning this far North. Was even worth an alarm clock ringing while on vacation.

Mushrooms by AJ

Go outside dear friends, it is better out here.

Mushrooms and other fungi are always interesting to me, recently my AJ picked up this curiosity of mine. He will now grab my phone and snap pictures of all the mushrooms on all of our walks. He is fascinated with both the taking of pictures and the way mushrooms hide in all of the best places. I leave this note here as a reminder that the curiosity of childhood will follow a child far, if we will just let it, not spoil it, or force it, or lock it into a room.

Go outside dear friends, it is better out here.

Falling

A couple of days ago now, I fell in the Mississippi River. Thankfully there is no photographic evidence of this event. It was a hard fall on rocks that bruised my shins and knees and ankles. It hurt. I wanted to sit down and cry, mostly from the physical pain, but also just to release all of the emotion that I’ve been regulating inside my body for so many days. I didn’t cry though, instead I walked up and down the river with my three littles, letting the cool Summer water ease the ache I could feel forming in my body.

I’m writing this not because I want you to feel bad for me, but because I’ve been writing a lot about how quickly my littles are growing and how much I’m trying to not skip over any of the days with them. Which maybe makes you think my life is easy and always fun. Hear me when I say that I would’ve skipped this fall had I known it was coming, but I would’ve missed a lot of good had I done that. Like tiny arms hugging me as I stumbled up and out of the water, childrens voices asking if I was okay and what help did I need.

I fell because a small girl was holding both of my hands and when she slipped I righted her at the expense of my own balance. I am glad that she didn’t fall, it would’ve been harder for her to have a good day if she were banged up and frightened, but it was difficult for me not to blame her, to not be upset that I was sopping wet and hurt. This is a part of my mothering as well, not just recognizing that they won’t be small forever and joining them in their everyday, but sacrificing myself over and over again to improve their experience, their lives. In big ways and small.

My fall was a small sacrifice for sure, but it was a big reminder to me that there will be harder days to come. Not everyday will find the beauty in the legos and leaves scattered on the living room floor. (Check out my Facebook page if you missed that photo.)


When we got back home the dog drug her leash across the front of my ankle, giving me a rope burn. It didn’t really hurt, but I cried. Big gasping tears, so much that I had to go inside and calm down. This morning my teensy said; “Momma, that was the first time I saw you cry big…”, this is untrue, I have let tears slip down my cheeks in front of my kids more times than I can count, but I am glad that she saw this time, and that she was aware of the hurt behind the tears. So that she would know it’s always okay to cry, and that it’s often good to keep enjoying the day, even though you are hurting.

In the days since I fell I have been sore. My shin is bruised deep and throbs when I take even gentle steps. It has slowed me down even more than my already leisurely pace. The teensy said something like; “you prob’ly shouldn’t do any work for a few days momma…”. Yes tinygirl. Yes, you’re right, of course. Though the work still needs doing. The littles still need caring for, raising up… Yesterday I snuggled into our camper bed with a sleeping tiny, we rested hard and long, listening to the wind outside in the oaks. It was enough, just what was needed and nothing more.