On Beauty

“The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me, because the LORD has anointed me to proclaim good news…to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of joy instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.”

-a portion of Isaiah 61:1-3

God’s word is absolutely overflowing with stories of redemption and recovery. I’ve been reading Genesis as part of my mission to make my way slowly through the Bible with no time agenda (this is my public rejection of the One Year Bible trend). And let me tell you, if God was not a God of redemption, the story of humanity would have ended reeeeal early. The excerpt I included above is just one example of God sending forth his eternal mission statement: I will take your dead things, your worthless things, the things you have ruined or that have been ruined for you and I will redeem. Because that is who I am.

Way back in the fall, I experienced a pretty devastating loss. I had found a job that I thought would be long term. It looked like a complete restructuring for me, a sharp turn from everything on my current resume to something new. It didn’t make complete sense but I thought I knew what was going on. I thought I knew God’s plan. Funny what usually happens when you think you have Him figured out.

The reality that would play out in my four months of that job was so divergent from my personal fantasy that I think I am still catching up in the process of absorbing and accepting the accompanying trauma. In the end, I had no choice but to leave. Four months. And suddenly, that job was done and I had a new job and I wasn’t quite sure what it all meant.

That brings us to yesterday.

Yesterday, we went on a family mission. I really wanted to catch the daffodils blooming at the botanical garden. If you time your visit right, their Daffodil Hill is a sight to behold. All week long I had been stressing about missing them. I stressed and fretted and examined every flower I passed in our neighborhood for signs that we were going to arrive too late.

Meanwhile, I was expecting a call. See, when I stumbled, grief-stricken out of my fourth-month-job and into another, the new job felt very temporary. However, it was a gift. It filled a gap that needed filling and I discovered as I settled in that I was surrounded by loving and kind people who cared about me. And in that moment, that was exactly what I needed. But it wasn’t a career. I wondered about my next steps. If I’m being honest, I wondered about them every day. That’s just the way my brain works.

But God was faithfully working even when I wasn’t sure what He had up His sleeve. I actually never lost faith even when I couldn’t see the path forward. Maybe it is the benefit of being 35 and having at this point lived through plenty of ups and downs. I have seen my ashes switched out for beauty enough. In my own limited human way, I know how God rolls. So while I wondered, I trusted. Trusted, wondered. Wondered, trusted. Endless cycle.

Standing in the garden, patiently winding our way through the paths that lead to Daffodil Hill, I received the call. It was from HR at my current workplace. It was a contract offer. An offer for a job that was so perfect it is still blinding me with the gleam of its wonder. It is a perfect fit for my resume and the things I love to do. I can draw a line from each piece of the job description to a piece of work experience in my past. My mind is already buzzing with dozens of things that I can’t wait to do. It feels meant to be. And out of the ashes of the pain of a job that didn’t work out even when I wanted to force it to, it feels like beauty.

The call went well. Things were in order. The contract would be in my inbox in the next few days. Details were wrapped and goodbyes said. I pocketed my phone. And then we rounded the corner.

On the hill, yellow and white and green exploded, the fireworks of spring. Bulbs giving up their secrets to a world undeserving.

I wandered into them, breathed in their sent. Months ago, I had researched projections for bloom dates and marked my calendar for this very moment because seeing them mattered that much to me. I didn’t know this date would align with another important moment. And I am so thankful. The hill has always been special to me. It has always held wonder. But now the the beauty runs a little deeper because it is intertwined with the victory I carried in my chest as I crested the hill and took it all in. Ashes and beauty and normal and anything but…all intersecting. Right here.

On Wandering

There is something to be said for wandering. In a world that has tuned us to the normalcy of plans-plans-plans, there is value in stepping out of our carefully maintained schedules and into the unknown.

Our family found ourselves with a free day last week thanks to a winter break at school. We had originally planned an excursion into New York, but we were all fighting back sniffles and decided to scale back. But we still wanted to do soooomething.

It was at this point that I remembered a one-hundred year old house built on six acres of property near where I used to work. The house and its grounds functioned as a non profit, and I had given them funds through my company’s charitable arm. I had toured the house and surrounding gardens and never quite forgot how magical they seemed, tucked into a bustling town as they were. I brought it up Jim and of course (this is Jim, after all), he was instantly interested and on board. So we loaded into the car and went.

The extent of our planning was grabbing a bag of pretzels and some Valentines chocolate from the kitchen for snacking, and downloading a good audio book for the drive.

Wandering. What happens when we allow ourselves to wander down the dusty trails or old memories or the curiosity of an untraveled path? What power lies in the moment of discovery (or just as delicious, rediscovery)?

For us, exploring on that particular day was exactly what we all needed. The house was locked up, but we peered into every last window, imagining and storytelling along the way. Jim and I strolled through the resting gardens that come with winter, letting the kids run ahead of us on their quest for bird and chipmunk sightings. We stumbled into a greenhouse and the farmer watering the plants within. We chatted with him and learned why our lettuce seedlings have been growing leggy.

There was a little library with books to take tucked deep into the property, and I discovered a beautiful edition of 100 Years of Solitude. The gnarled branches of a wisteria wrapped around the pillars of the mansion fascinated us endlessly and we swore our plans to return when it blooms.

When it was all done and we were back home, defrosting and ready to nestle under blankets on the couch, I considered all the worth that had come from our wanderings. All the little discoveries. All the deep breaths of cold air and joy in simplicity.

May you find room to wander soon. I will. Again and again.

On Winter Hikes

There is something for you in the winter woods. Maybe you’ve missed it. Maybe the cold or snow or ice have kept you away and so the secrets are still there. Waiting.

See, a winter hike is an invitation to something rare. The cold drives everyone else inside. You rarely see anyone else on these walks. And if you do, you exchange a nod and know you are cut from the same cloth. The silence is golden and so little interaction is required. A winter hike is an isolation that is welcome, a solitude that fills you up slowly and sweetly.

And the sounds. If you can, hike near water. The sounds of the ice shifting and changing are ancient. So foreign to our summer-tuned ears. On this hike, the one we took last weekend and that I photographed sparingly, our kids marveled at the odd croaks and groans that stretched over the lake. We could have stood still all day, captured in the desire to hear more, new, different.

A view of the woods in winter. Through a line of bare trees, a frozen lake is visible.

If you are fortunate, and there is just the right amount of snow, patched in places, gone in others, your gift is even greater. In my mind, the childlike crunch of snow under my boots is the sister sensation to sand through my toes. Crunch. Crunch. Crunch. The gentle push of your body into the melting earth. The knowledge that this little frozen gift is here for you but may have melted forever away before another human passes this way.

I get it. It’s hard to get out when the thermometer plummets. It is easier to stay inside and bake and cuddle. And all that is important and valuable too. BUT. Cold and ice and snow. If you haven’t tried it recently, may I be so bold as to say you simply must?

The way a crow

Shook down on me

The dust of snow

From a hemlock tree


Has given my heart

A change of mood

And saved some part

Of a day I had rued.

-”Snow Dyst” by Robert Frost

A dad and two kids, a little girl and boy, walk down a walkway built into the woods. The path is lined with dry grasses, higher than the people, and towering evergreens.

On Magic Donuts

If crepe making is a new tradition in our house, donut baking is one that has been going down for years. Especially during our year of homeschool (last year during COVID), donuts were a way to break up the days and surprise the kids with something special for breakfast-afternoon snack-nighttime snack. They’re easy to make and oh-so satisfying when they emerge from their pan looking surprisingly like…well…donuts. Gets me every time.

Baked chocolate donuts sit in a donut-baking stainless steel pan.

I don’t approach these donuts carefully. I mix some of the dry ingredients alone. Same for the wet. Then combine. I’m not cute with this. As long as only two bowls get dirty, I’m happy. If you approach this with more care, let me know if you think it affected the results! For now, I will assume that my lazy, helter skelter approach is just fine. Here’s the basics:

Chocolate Donuts

DRY BOWL:

1/2 cup cocoa

1 1/3 cups flour

1/2 tspn baking powder

1/2 tspn baking soda

1/2 tspn salt

1/2 cup chocolate chips

WET BOWL:

8 tablespoons butter (I put this in first and melt it because…lazy…shrug)

3/4 brown sugar

2 eggs

1/3 cup milk

1 tspn vanilla

1 tspn vinegar (I used acv which is surely not what they intended but it worked)

NOW MIX THE DRY INTO THE WET…TADA!

Two glass bowls sit on a white and grey-veined countertop alongside two stainless steel beaters. One glass bowl holds brown sugar and melting butter. The other a dry chocolate powdery mixture and chocolate chips.

Okay, now a couple notes. First, these bake for 10-15 minutes in a 350 degree oven. Be sure to grease and flour your donut pan. Second, let me tell you about my crazy baking technique.

When I consider baking, the only thing that causes me to baulk is the clean-up time. I LOVE baking and it really is one of the most relaxing things I can do for myself. But the pile of dishes after? Not so much. So I have always approached my baking time in the weirdest way possible. I clean as I go. Does anyone else do this? The way I do it is that I leave my dishwasher open and as I use each measuring cup, utensil and bowl, I immediately rinse and load it. Without exception. What results is that by the time I slide the donuts into the oven, the only bowl left has the final batter in it. Add that to the dishwasher and I’m done. This is maybe crazy, but it is the only way for me.

An open dishwasher shows dirty dishes.

I am careful not to make these donuts too often. There is a fine line between tradition and boring. I save them for a day when we need them. In this case, we needed to recover. From the exhaustion of me working at a school and the kids attending. The bear-tired need to hibernate in January after a hard fought five-ish months of work “out there”. The desire to reconnect with our home during a year that pulls me away from it too often.

Is food magic?

Nah.

Maybe.

Yes.

Here in the kitchen, pulling the donuts out of the oven, I am a homemaker again. The endless, tiring days of work melt away. Our home fills up again. A well-loved tradition reminds me that we do gather here often. That we are doing well even when it feels like we are just kicking the ball a little further down the road. We are doing well.

So that is what I offer you today. Delicious, lazy, MAGIC donuts. Use them well, friends.

Four chocolate donuts sit on a cooling rack on a white and grey-veined countertop. Two more chocolate donuts sit on small blue plates. Milk is poured into green glasses.

On Crepes

I couldn’t wait for Jim to open his Christmas present this year. If you’ve been reading the blog, you know that Jim knocked it out of the park with his handcrafted gifts. But I was pretty confident about what I had for him too. It was, admittedly, store bought. But it was something that I hoped would extend beyond its purchase, hopefully for years to come.

As soon as he pulled back the wrapping paper, I knew I had done well. Tucked into a cardboard box was a crepe pan and two sweet little wooden tools. True to form, Jim was researching crepe recipes that very day. Two weeks into January, we’ve had them twice for breakfast.

The crepe pan was a thing. An item adding to the other items in our home. Sure. But it was a thing that represented mornings at our kitchen table. It represented a food that would hopefully become a beloved tradition. Let’s get cliche: it was a gift that would keep on giving.

Yesterday was our second go at the newfound tradition. Jim will likely always be the crepe maker. You might as well know now that he is in charge of all things bread and bread-adjacent in this house (anything that requires finesse and patience, basically). Somehow I have decided that the delicate touch needed for crepes (specifically the need to flip them) is better suited for my sweet husband.

BUT I did decide to step up my contribution beyond setting the table. I decided I would make a filling for the crepes! So let’s break down what we each did…

Jim turned to his faithful “The Pancake Handbook” for the crepe recipe (link below to the cookbook). Before I show you the recipe, let me just say that it makes only 4 to 5 crepes. They are large, so if you stuff them with enough of a hardy filling, they may be enough to feed a family of four. Just be forewarned.

3/4 cup cold water

1/2 cup cold milk

2 eggs

1/4 cup butter, melted

1/2 teaspoon salt

1 cup all-purpose flour

Blend water, milk, eggs, butter, salt and flour for 30 seconds on a high speed. Scrape, then blend an additional 15 seconds. CHILL BATTER FROM ONE HOUR TO OVERNIGHT (we have only ever done overnight).

Heat up your crepe pan and rub it lightly with oil. Ladle in your batter and swirl the pan to allow your crepe to become even. You will need to cook it for about 1-2 minutes. When the sides seem to be cooked, you can flip your crepe and cook the other side. That’s it!

As for the filling I chose to make, I went with a cream cheese one, in tribute to the IHOP crepes my grandma always ordered without fail on our breakfast trips. I didn’t make this complicated. I dumped a half of a normal container of cream cheese (solid measurement, right?) into a bowl and blended it with one tablespoon of powdered sugar and a splash of milk. That is literally it. I blended it for a couple of minutes. Then when my crepe was cooked, I lined it with the whipped cream cheese filling and a strawberry jam. I am determined to preserve my own strawberries this season, but for now this worked just fine.

In the end, I was the only one who ate my filling. Eye roll. But the kids were just as happy with their nutella and peanut butter filling. Of course.

So my gift turned out to be exactly what I hoped for. This simple and enormous act of creating a tradition that draws us closer. Anything that brings us around our table is a win. If my last post was about giving, this one, I suppose is about gathering. And the gift that got us there was a little, inexpensive crepe pan. Go figure.

LINKS (I’m not cool enough to make commissions on these haha just wanted to share):

The Pancake Handbook

Crepe pan

On Things

Christmas morning was weird for us. It started with the usual discovery of Santa-eaten cookies and carefully wrapped gifts. It ended with realizing one of us had a fever and canceled plans. But in between, I made a realization that confirmed we were on the right path in this little life we have built.

The kids opened their gifts. We are in the land of Legos and Barbie, science experiments and pretend make-up. As the gifts were unveiled, each recipient was pleased. After all, I had worked carefully to pick things I knew each child would love and enjoy. But they were still things. More things on top of the existing things. In spite of enjoying the fun of giving, I have never quite been able to shake the heavy feeling of adding more things to a house already full enough with things. We have spent the last year purging big time. Boxes have been donated and bags have been tossed. But we still live in a world overcome by consuming. 

I had especially felt this struggle this year, and based on conversations with friends, I’m thinking I’m not alone. I wanted the joy of giving and receiving without the nagging feeling that it was all too much.

The gifts were done -I thought- but actually, they weren’t. Because Jim, my husband, had a few surprises of his own.

Jim is a woodworker, and a darn good one. Our house has his fingerprints all over it. The adirondack chairs that he built around the firepit he constructed. The playhouse he designed and then built to match our real house. The lookout tower that reaches high enough for the kids (and often me) to spy on the walkers in the park across the street. The huge, welcoming, rustic table on our deck and the shelves in our bedrooms. I love that when I come home, I am coming into something that is very much our own. There are so many things that, thanks to Jim, are uniquely mine. 

So on Christmas morning, the woodworker had some secret Santa-ing to do. He slowly and lovingly unveiled his gifts for each of us. For our son, a requested pencil box and a game. Our daughter received a jewelry box crafted from a previous year’s Christmas tree trunk. She also was given a bandsaw box, a butterfly shaped box with a little wooden drawer. Jim knew me well enough to gift me a piece of sanded wood with ideas for what it could become. I decided on napkin holders. They’re done now and I love them (more on those in another post).

We were all overjoyed by our little surprises. Not just that we didn’t know they were coming, but that they were so perfect for each of us. And made by hand, late at night in the workshop/garage while we all rested. Even if I understood it more than the kids, we were all holding acts of love in our hands.

It made me think about how easy it is to actually solve the problem of generosity in this age that feels so yucky with consumerism. Crafting things by hand just might be the key.

And that doesn’t mean you have to be a woodworker. I thought of the little cross stitched cardinal ornaments I made for neighbors last year and how special it had been to one in particular, who saw cardinals as a connection to the mother she had lost. I thought of the meals during COVID, both given and received, that spanned the bridge of quarantines and brought us into the homes of friends. And I thought of our beloved garden. Of the produce shared with neighbors and family during growing season. 

This is a whole other conversation, but I wondered what it would look like if I worked sharing into my garden planning for this year. I’m asking myself what it looks like to grow crops that others will love to receive, not just that I will use myself. Not just giving out of our overflow but intentionally passing on the first fruits of our labor. I’m hoping this will be part of the homemade lifestyle we have embraced.

Christmas was a little quieter this year. A little different. The homemade presents were a part of that. And you know what? I kind of loved it.   

On Blueberry Time Machines

This is the year of the blueberries. Or at least the blueberry bushes.

See, when we moved from our original tiny starter home to an equally tiny house in a different town, we left behind a few things. 

First, our strawberry patch. But that we replaced almost immediately. Soon enough to now be in the years of plenty, where our summers are launched in the bright, juicy reds of fresh strawberries. Our plants have been so prosperous that we are planning to plant runners in another part of the yard. There is no longer loss when I contemplate strawberries.


We also lost our neighbor’s raspberry bushes. Our neighbor who shared with such enormous generosity that the bounty of his crop felt like our own. We haven’t figured that one out yet. Our current neighbors are fantastic but are sadly not gardeners. I’m eyeing my dad’s gorgeous garden and wondering if he’ll notice if I plant a few raspberry bushes among the tomatoes and zucchini and peppers…stay tuned on that one.

But this brings us to the third thing we left behind: our blueberry bushes.

Does anyone else have a plant that takes them back to their childhood? Surely there are other people out there prone to botanically induced flashbacks? 

In my world, blueberry bushes are my time machine. One glimpse and I am a kid on a trip to New Hampshire, staying in a family friend’s country house. The house was old, with narrow staircases and cuckoo clocks and a note over the toilet that said if it was yellow, we were to let it mellow, which I found both scandalous and thrilling. Out front there was a country road and across the street, a tiny country library. And on the side of the house, well, there was the greatest glory of all. The blueberry bushes. 

In my memory, there are not just a few. There are dozens. Enough for a small child and her older brother to feel enveloped by them. The idea that blueberries could exist in a yard was beyond me until that moment. I grew up in a very Jersey tomato and basil kind of garden existence. This -the blueberry- was so otherworldly. It was Secret Garden level stuff.

So when we started our newlywed garden, and we stumbled upon blueberry bushes, it was like a dream come true. Leaving them behind during our move was devastating. I meant to replace them right away. But they just never made the budget. They got shelved for next year, then next year, then next year…they were almost but not entirely forgotten. 

I don’t even know what brought them back to mind. We knew we wanted to move our kids’ sand box. That would free up some more space for plants. And as we contemplated how to use that valuable new space, at some point between discussing wildflowers and rain barrels, I so desperately knew how I needed to fill that space. I needed my blueberries back.

The thing with blueberries is that we probably won’t be able to harvest any this year. If we’re lucky, our bushes will come with like, two blueberries already on them and we can pretend we grew something. But we’ve been at this gardening thing long enough to know that a year or two of preparation is worth the many years of production to come. There’s probably a lesson in there somewhere, right? Oh gardening, how you teach us.

On Distress Calls

This week, I found myself feeling seriously distressed. Fear was swamping my metaphorical boat. I felt less in control, and because of that, way more anxious. The truth is, I want COVID-19 to go away. Maybe you can relate. I feel like a five-year-old on a trip I didn’t want to take, asking over and over again, “Are we there yet?”. I am ready to move forward but it isn’t up to me. And in this place of helplessness, I turned to a scripture that has encouraged me again and again. I love Psalm 20, and this verse in particular held the words I needed to hear. I took a little time and wrote out my thoughts about it below. I hope it offers you the same comfort it gave me.

May the LORD answer you when you are in distress; may the name of the God of Jacob protect you. -Psalm 20:1

The captain of the R.M.S. Lusitania was not ignorant to the risks in the water on the day of his ship’s tragedy. After all, World War I was well under way and the waters around Great Britain were vibrating with the possibilities of attack. So while Captain Turner did not specifically know that a German U-boat was about to stumble upon his cruise liner and unload one perfectly aimed torpedo at his hull, it was also not terribly surprising. U-boats had been present in the area, and several ships had already been sunk. Surely, there had been tension in the air as the crew hoped to somehow reach shore safely. Unfortunately, that was not going to happen.

Maybe you know what it feels like to be traveling in unsafe waters. Whether you’re living through health issues, marriage problems, family drama, or yes, corona virus fears, life can feel very similar to navigating a cruise ship through a U-boat infested sea. Things can feel so unsure. You hope things are going to work out and then...and then.

And then you find yourself in distress. You hoped to make it safely to shore. To receive good news from the doctor, to find that your spouse is ready to change, to see your child’s behavior shift, to avoid the months long quarantine. You hoped the tension would lift and you would finally feel safe. But it didn’t work out that way. This broken world is breaking you and you Just. Want. Help.

The Lusitania was struck, wounded beyond repair. Captain Turner saw to it that the distress signal danced out over the air immediately:

“SOS. Come at once.”

The call went out, but help would not arrive in time for 1,201 of the passengers and crew aboard. Ultimately, only 763 people would survive. From the time of impact to its burial at sea, less than 20 minutes passed. Too little time for a rescue with no boat nearby.  

Well, dear ones, this is where your story stops looking like that of the 1,201. Because when we turn to the Psalms, we see that our rescue is close at hand. Psalm 20 opens with the hope-filled call of David, “May the LORD answer you when you are in distress.”

It is easy for me to imagine myself standing in the proverbial signal room of my life, reaching out for help. “SOS. Come at once.” Have you been there? Have you ever sent up a desperate prayer for deliverance? David had. And he knew that God had never failed to answer him in those moments. He goes on to say, “May the name of the God of Jacob protect you.”

Why the God of Jacob? When I began meditating on this verse, I realized I would have to turn back to the story of Jacob if I were going to truly understand the meaning of the Psalm. If it is the God of Jacob who is meant to protect us, what was their relationship like? Who was God to Jacob? What I discovered was that they were so intimate that God chose to promise Jacob:

“I am with you and will watch over you wherever you go.”

I AM WITH YOU.

See, this is where your narrative diverges from that of a fated ocean liner on a dangerous voyage. We too have been struck by enemy fire. Afflicted. Hard pressed on every side, perplexed, persecuted, struck down. But that is just half of the story. Turn to 2 Corinthians 4:8-9 in your Bible. Read the other half of the verse.

“We are hard pressed on every side, BUT NOT CRUSHED; perplexed, BUT NOT IN DESPAIR; persecuted, BUT NOT FORSAKEN; struck down, BUT NOT DESTROYED.”

It matters that God is referred to as the God of Jacob in Psalm 20. Because the God of Jacob is the God who promises His presence. He promises His protection. He promises that no matter where our voyage takes us, He sees us. And it is within that context that this Psalm is written. Because it is not only asking God to answer us, it is asking Him to answer in the way He would answer Jacob. With the immediacy of someone who is with us. Always.

We can’t deny the fact that we will face trouble in this world. Jesus didn’t sugar coat it. He stated it plainly. But He also said He had overcome the world. We may find ourselves in the sights of an enemy warship. We may even be struck. But we will not be destroyed. We serve a God who answers when we are in distress. We serve a God who unequivocally promises that He will be with us wherever we go. To protect us. 

Go ahead and send that distress call. He is listening. He is faithful. And He will answer you when you are in distress.

On Growth

We’re all doing it, right? During this period of heaviness, of isolation, of struggle, we are doing our best. Our best to keep it together. Our best to stay calm. Our best to honor the words of the Serenity Prayer: to accept the things we cannot change. We vacillate between hope and despair, faith and doubt, strength and weakness.

But in the midst of this emotional tug-of-war, I would argue that we are also doing something else. We are growing.

A couple months back, my family placed seeds into dirt. Put tiny containers under grow lights in our kitchen. Hoped that something would come of it. And now here we are. Where there were once seeds, there are vibrant plants. Leaves and stems and in every green shoot, constant growth. Every day another centimeter or two. Those tiny seeds have defied logic, doing the hard work of bursting out in a world where they will spend their whole lives fighting to thrive.

We didn’t expect to be planted in the middle of a pandemic. But with every day that we struggle and strive, we become stronger. Even if it doesn’t feel like it. Because we are doing it. We are getting through. Doing the things. Finding a way. And I can’t wait to see how we come out the other side. There is no doubt we will have grown. What fruit will we bear having lived this? How will we have changed? What will we have to say or do?

We will get there. Of that I am sure. To the other side of this, where the brightest sun shines down on us and welcomes us and says, “Oh, how you have grown.” I can’t wait to see what we all do on that day.

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On Harvests

The garden didn’t go according to plan this year. The zucchinis came down with a case of gross-but-unidentified-disease and shriveled up. Our large tomatoes split or rotted before they turned red. Half of the cucumbers we bought at a garden center turned out to be gourds. The wildflowers got partially overrun by gi-gundo weeds. The harvest wasn’t as big as I expected and the garden didn’t have that decidedly British organized look I had sketched out way back in May.

But. But we did manage to score a nice harvest of zucchini back in early July. It was kind of nice that they died off before we started getting sick of them. No large tomatoes, but plenty of beautiful, grape-sized ones, bright as the afternoon sun. We didn’t get enough cucumbers to preserve them, but we did make refrigerator pickles and enjoyed piles of them in our salads. And alright, the gourds are kind of cute. And the attack on my wildflowers let me assess my flower ideas for next year, all while enjoying the beautiful flowers that survived. Because there were survivors. And I only noticed just how beautiful each individual one was once I let go of the dream of my perfect patch of flowers. I might have even enjoyed them more this year.

Harvests are tricky. It is easy to equate “good harvest” with “just-like-I-planned-it-harvest.” That doesn’t have to be true.

This year hasn’t looked like I expected it to. Outside of the garden, there have been ups and downs and bumps in the road. I am arriving in this Fall season with a harvest that is, in some ways, less then I expected. Judged by my own plan, my current state feels like it falls short. Until I take a step back and take a look at the big picture. The picture that includes all the joys and the victories and even the, “well, we made it through that one”s. The truth is, this summer held zero professional achievements. It held more visits to the doctor than I would like. But it also includes a thousand wonderful memories with our family. Trips and non-trips, days spent at landmarks and days spent in the yard. Swimming and fishing and book reading. A harvest that is better than anything I drew up in my plans.

It’s hard to let go of the plan. It really is. But it is only when I do that I have the chance to see the harvest for what it is: beautiful.

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On Seeds

People who say gardening isn’t a daring thing haven’t tried it. Not in its truest sense. Because growing a garden from seed is a risky endeavor. You can make all the plans, study planting dates, depth levels and watering needs. But nothing is promised in a garden. The power is never truly in your hands.

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Unless you have stared at the soil, wishing it to show green, willing it to produce a stem, you don’t know garden hope. The kind of hope that dreams in emeralds and ferns and jades. Only if you have felt the dirt under your nails, counted the seeds into the ground, fretted over the birds and the squirrels...only then will you know what it is to hope that this thing, this tiny thing, will grow up strong from root to stem to bud.

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Oh, and the joy. That feeling when the seed delivers on its maybe-I-will-maybe-I-won’t promise. The joy looks like leaves. Leaves of marigolds, forget-me-nots, poppies, morning glories. Of tomatoes, herbs, peppers, string beans.

It is June. That is the season of leaves. Wildflowers deliver early, and thanks to that fact, I have three (count em) bloomed flowers in my garden. But mostly, it is green everywhere. Nothing to see to the casual observer. That’s okay. I know what is there in all that green. And what will be there in July, when the big show begins. For now, it is enough for me. We have done the daring thing. We have risked that a seed will become something more and it has. What a tiny victory that is. What a miraculous one.

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