February Days

So much snow. So. Much. We had more this morning. More is coming. It's just going to be one of those Februarys, I guess. And I show you snow and the short-lived sunshine and eggs (so. many. eggs.) and what you don't see here are the conversations that begin at breakfast, that are sustained throughout the day, threads of which are picked up and wrapped with a variety of topics. You don't see the laughing or the yelling, because there's that, too, or the frustration or the fourth or fifth drafts of important letters written, the worry for friends, the tears that spring when we realize we're down to one guinea pig who has been receiving lots of extra devotion, or the cats who follow us, hoping we'll sit and cuddle with them for a spell. You won't see how wishes become concrete plans in a single photo, or even in words because my children's lives are their own. Our days are still as rich, full, intense, and hands-on as parents to two older teens as they were when our children were small. There's a self-reliance about our teens, though, that is different from when they were toddlers, of course. Our teens make meals, tend to the feeding and caring of animals, embark on projects, immerse themselves in media, books, music, and art. They extend themselves to friends. They make profound discoveries about themselves, realize inner truths. And they initiate plans that will take them years and miles beyond our kitchen table. And it's all astoundingly right and good.

Where The Lovelight Gleams : Yuletide : Day Ten

Santa Eve. Readying for tomorrow, tidying corners, making things beautiful. We wrap, as we do every year until the wee hours, hoping that the treasures collected months or weeks ago still speak to our children, let them know they are understood, cherished, and adored. Alex and I recall other years, how funny things strike us after midnight, how much we grumble about this ritual but secretly love the squirreling away of items and folding them into gorgeous paper, tying bows, all with the knowledge about how ephemeral it all is. That in a handful of hours, the paper will be torn, the bows will be cut. That our children grow before our eyes and these years are precious and things will change. We know this. We know these rituals are important and more than being about material possessions and surprise. We know it to be about nurturing spirits, honoring the individual, loving on them just a moment longer. This is home. This is family. This is where the lovelight gleams.

Rituals Are Active Caring

As tall as Alex at 6-feet 2-inches, Adam, with his pleasing deep voice and generous nurturing nature, is all about giving hugs and "I love you-s" out on his fifteenth birthday. Just as he is on every day, really. He greets me every morning with a big hug, and as is his custom, apologizes for sleeping in so late, again, at which point I remind him, again that he's growing and he's a night owl, no one either expected him nor needed him to be up at dawn or even several hours after that.

Still, as grown as Adam is, we hung fifteen balloons the night before, put up the birthday banner, put flowers in a vase, wrapped each gift in carefully chosen paper and ribbon, set the table and baked a cake. As Alex and I prepped for Adam's day, Alex noted that rituals speak to a parent's reliability. Predictability isn't easily had, even in our own homes, sometimes, so rituals are an excellent way to keep the measure of our days and years. Rituals inform our children that we are to be counted on, that we are consistent, observant, and caring. More, rituals tell them that they are worth our effort, are worth celebrating, and are worth joy. We show our children, through rituals, how to love others, and how to be loved. There's comfort and symbolism that belongs to them. Rituals are active caring.

Happy 15th Birthday, Adam, our sweet, caring, creative, son!

Celebrating Sensibilities At Forty-Three

After what turned out to be a rather anxious and frustrating week (hey folks, this sandwich generation stuff is totally not for the faint of heart!) there was a distinct possibility that I was going to feel my 43rd birthday in a major way. Turns out yes, I did feel it, but not in a morose way. Like, not at all moody. Not even a smidge. If anything, I feel the most content and happy with myself and my relationships with my husband and children and with my place in the world, than ever.

But you can't expect me to not burst into tears when you bestow precious, enormously, thoughtful, generous things upon me. It's just not going to happen. My husband, Alex, knows me. He gets all my quirks and my sensory needs. As do my children. So everything they gave me tapped into some sensual side of myself, my need for beautiful sights and sounds, my need to observe and chronicle, my need for adventure and escape. Every gift was deeply personal and so, well, tears. Sobbing, really. I think at one point I wailed, "why are you doing this to me?"

Alex and the teens made a delicious brunch and the sun was shining, which was extra nice. And then I tore through gorgeous paper and Washi tape and the tears came. I was loved. Am loved. I am being loved, adored and cherished. More than that, they see me. And that, by far, is the best gift anyone could have.

Easter Symbols, Indeed

We did it. We survived, maybe even thrived. Winter is done with, at least the vernal equinox says so. Yes, the landscape is still white, there's still inches and inches of ice on the pond and mud season is in full-swing. But winter itself is officially over.



This winter was full of adjustments, growing pains, and truthfully, anxiety about how and if this transition to the farm is working out. But we kept planning, kept working, made lists, ordered seeds and trees, ordered chicks, and suddenly it is truly and actually spring. We feel as committed and passionate about our goals here, as ever, maybe more, after slugging through the highs and lows of the coldest season. Winter outside, here on the farm, is stunning. No complaints there, I'm still a fan of winter. Inside, with the house often in various stages of renovation, with two teens, an 80-year old, and two 40-somethings, one of which works from home full-time, well, it's no wonder we skidded across some black ice.

As we celebrated Easter, today, we had a heightened sense of rebirth and renewal. The colors seemed more saturated. The usually utilitarian kitchen felt pretty and even elegant. We ate deviled eggs and the cake the teens decided to make in the afternoon, and we listened to the March wind send slush crashing off the roof.

And we exhaled.

























We were comforted in the rituals of Spring, in the abundant cheerfulness of our collected things, and in our gifts of sweetness to each other. Winter is good and done and Spring holds immense promise.

The Return

I'm easing back into this space, snatching little chunks, reclaiming time to put my thoughts down and to do what is so dear to me, photographing and capturing how we spend our days. This transition to the farm has been a doozy in so many ways, both heartbreaking and heartwarming at turns, and I haven't always felt the desire or ability to write, here. To say our days are full is trite, but nonetheless, they are. And as just about everyone in the U.S. knows, this winter has been rough weather-wise, and rough on five people learning to live together in this new old place, this one filled with ghosts and haunts, some cold with longing and rigid with bitterness, at that.

I miss, too, the scent of our other home, our Mermaid House, the familiar corners and light, where spaces are now empty, shelves hold no books, and nails stick out from plaster as accusatory reminders of our abandonment.







That's what I think and feel on the hardest days. A homesickness so deep it draws great sobs up and bursting out of me until I am doubled over with...change. It's not loss, truly, it's only change. Change that we asked for and sought and work so very hard for. And it is wickedly wicked, some days.

Then there are moments, hours, days, where this change seems easy and natural. When order is created out of chaos, when photos and art find homes here on these farmhouse walls, when meals are eaten together, cooked in this kitchen, when new skills are acquired, when we spend hours rebuilding this place, and when we explore our greater community and extend ourselves.





























In these moments, I know that home is us, not the house. I clutch that knowledge, cling to it, letting it settle in my bones. Home is us. Not the house. And winter is almost done.