On the Path

I remember driving home to my old house--the first house I lived in when I moved to Des Moines a few years back. It was near the bike trail on a beautiful owl-filled oak-lined street. The houses were well kept, the neighbors were friendly, deer and fox would often be milling about. And yet despite the beauty something in my knew it was not where I was supposed to be, as every time I would feel blanketed by the sense: is this my life? Is this what I am going to be doing for the next 50 years--driving this road? At the time I didn't know what that meant. Here I am on this quaint street yet I felt a cloud of unease. I chalked it up to not wanting to feel stuck (I had traveled a lot and never lived anywhere for long), or not being ready to join the ranks of that kind of adulthood. Looking back now I realize that feeling was my guiding spirit telling me it wasn't the right path, that my life was due for a shake up. And so it did.

Sometimes that feeling of unease is the result of delving into the unknown--challenging yourself to follow your dreams without knowing the outcome. But it doesn't just come from facing fears, it comes from an intuitive spirit that knows the course we need to take. It means not that we are restless, but that we are due for a change, that this path isn't meant for us and we need to be open and fearlessly walk through those future doorways when they come. It is saying be ready. 2 years ago I met the love of my life. Just over a year ago we moved to this home on 2 acres on the edge of the city--a distance I never imagined I would choose as I never wanted to be near the suburbs. And now driving home on this windy, tree hemmed road with pockets of deer and raccoons and groundhogs, I finally know what it feels like to be home. No longer questioning--is this my life? The only thing I feel is awe and gratitude. This is where I am supposed to be.

About a Boy

My son Fisher (7 years of age) is my big dreamer. On Monday after school he headed straight to the garage and with hammer, nails, and wood scraps, began building a table. He asked me if he could use the big slab of plywood for the top as he wanted to make a big table and sell it for a thousand dollars (he's saving up to buy a car and a home for his future wife). This is the kid who had lemonade stands all summer to earn money--and no wonder--most people stopped to just give him all their change because, as they said, he was just so cute. I explained he needed to start small and work his way up to fine construction, reminded him of those lemonade stands and told him next year he can have a produce stand and sell our eggs and pumpkins and the like. Trying to tell a kid that things take time is like trying to pocket the stars.

On Tuesday he came home from school and set out a table and chairs under the apple tree. He picked a peck of apples and he and I enjoyed them right there, all the while I listened to him talk about how he wanted to invent something but couldn't decide just what since so much has been invented and can he sell his invention in stores.

On Wednesday he tied a box to the back of his bike and rode around the yard collecting who the heck knows what. He kept exclaiming how much he loved it here--this house, this land. And then he found a toad and named it Acorn and built it a home. He and I got sledge hammers and tore apart the old wooden planter box that sat at the top of the hill to revamp the landscape with stone we found and hauled from deep in the woods. Our hands in the dirt, rich with roots and bulbs and worms, I reminded him how growing things takes time and nurturing. Look at what we've done here--we remodeled most of the house, built a tree house and chicken coop and fence, landscaped, started a garden, planted trees and cleared out much of the old stuff the previous owners had let go--all in just over a year. And everything we do we learn, especially when it comes to gardening. We see what works and how to improve next year. It's a lot like life I told him--you've got to nurture it and give it time to grow, figure out what works and what doesn't, and learn the patience that comes from enjoying every stage of growth. It's about being present. What a gift it is to watch this boy grow. I can't wait to see what he goes out to do in this world, but for now he's all mine.

A Simple Message

Today I watched the sun rise alongside bird song. It is hard to capture the light inching across the ribs of clouds that line the sky. One minute it is just a blush in the east and before you know it the light reaches everywhere you look. It reminds me of autumn trees. Just a few weeks ago the leaves here had hardly turned. There's a red maple we pass on the drive to school and every day I point it out to the kids--telling them to notice its beauty every day because once it turns it doesn't last long before they leave the tree barren. Phoenix asked me why she should be looking at the trees and I told her because as her mom I feel it is my job to teach her how to see the beauty in the world every day, in even the simplest of things like a tree in a ditch beside a parking lot. To me that is one of the most important life skills I can teach them--being able to appreciate the simple beauty that surrounds them so they grow up contented and able to see the light side of things no matter the struggles they face. And because I want them to be able to be satisfied in this world that people often tend to over-complicate. I get a lot of advice-seeking messages from people who are struggling with hard times and always I point out their positive traits to remind them of their strength and their beauty. It's in you at all times so how could we not get through. Wherever you are, whoever you are--the sun is up and the trees that just a week ago were full are halfway barren. You will get through before you know it.

I'll Be Walking Awhile

I've been short on words here because my head has been in the clouds. I am racked with brain fog--that feeling that you can not clear your mind, that you're not wholly with it. It is frustrating to feel that constant ache, the constant sense that you're forgetting something because all your thoughts and intentions swirl about your mind. Yesterday I had a break in running the kids and I gave myself the gift of a long walk around Gray's lake to try to shake the fog loose. Within minutes of starting my walk I was met with several smiles and warm hello's from passing strangers. The sun on my skull, the seagulls, the view. There was a crew of people planting hundreds of flags on a hill. Everyone wanted to be there so naturally you feel this is where you ought to be. I used to get so many lines for poems while walking--the cadence of step after step forming words. So whenever I've been in a rut I go for a walk. Or 50. Yesterday this thought rose from the soles of my feet--I've started and quit so many interests over the years. I've gone through so many phases and fads, be it with food or exercise or playing instruments, making candles and beer, knitting, crafting, even the type of music or movies or books I am into, not to mention all the things I intended to start (break dancing). Soon I will be taking a hula hooping class. I've got to teach myself how to can our harvest, would like to pick up cross stitch. I don't do any of it with the aim of being the best, and I don't claim to be an expert in anything. I realized yesterday as I was laughing at all the things I've started that it doesn't matter if I fail or fall short or change my mind--it is the act of doing that matters to me. It is learning about what is possible. Doesn't it keep us young at heart to always believe in the art of endeavor? I can do it all, because even though I can't, the source of acceptance and belief lies within me. You can try and do and get through even the cloudiness of fog or your latest struggle and heartache or the thoughts that don't serve you because you have boundless peace/light/love/will beneath it all. Sometimes you just have to find ways to get back there, which is what I am doing now.

What We Have Done on This Speck of the Planet

Just over a year ago Matt and I closed on our home that sits on two acres on the appropriately named street, Lovington. We gutted the house. We redid much of the indoors ourselves, and though we have a ways to go, we are proud of what we have accomplished. But it is the outdoors that we were itching to work on, as it is the land that drew us here. The large plot, the woods, the creek, the slopes, the potential to finally fulfill our shared dream of being urban farmers. This place has become our oasis. We thrive here. We grow. We dirty our hands and save chickens from raccoons and fox. We plant and prune and weed here. We teach the children how to garden and build things and use their hands. I have always dreamt of living somewhere that rooted me, a place where I could plant fruit trees and be secure in knowing that I would be there come harvest. Before this, everything felt temporary--I was always looking for the next thing, the next move. Now I realize I had been looking for Matt, and I found him. And we had spent our lives working to get to this point together. And it feels really good being able to feel like we are going to be here a long while. We are moored by this:

 We bought the coop, but built the open run area. All told we have 7 chickens now and it appears they are all hens. The kids gather 4 eggs a day. 

 We built this fence a couple weeks ago. I am drawn to working with my hands--something about the meditative flow and seeing results.

 Raspberry bushes we planted late last summer.

 We started a 15 by 25 foot garden, fenced it to keep out the deer, and tilled up this little hill for our pumpkins, squash, gourds, and cucumbers. All things viney.

 Squash blossoms creeping up by the driveway.

 Our fruit trees. We planted 4 apple trees, 1 pear, and 2 cherry.

 Some landscape work. Herbs and flowers and lettuce. The kids and I built that little tri-fence post--cemented it and all. We have no idea what we are doing but we figure it out as we go.

 View of the garden from the house.

 The first pumpkin.

 Tomatoes, asparagus, sweet potatoes, peppers, onions, corn, broccoli and cauliflower. It's a start.

Sunflowers. The kids and their lemonade stand. Phoenix sat their holding that chicken for over an hour. The kids are expert chicken handlers now!

Being Vulnerable

I am truly thankful for this path that I am on--all my travels and the friends that stick no matter what, birthing two spirited children, and finding Matt, the love of my life, and his daughter Ella. Becoming this family of 5 with a dog and chickens and this home that we have revitalized and our land where squash and pumpkins and berries and tomatoes grow thick. And the pride in my parents for embracing another granddaughter and son-in-law. I've been through a lot of challenging times and I grew strong. I was tough--I could handle anything. But then these children softened me. And Matt softened me. And I've realized that my old stoicism no longer works. Because real, deep love is vulnerable. Not in the "I'm always going to be hurt" sense, but in the "I'm going to do this no matter what" sense and that takes a leap of faith. I've realized that the greatest strength is being okay with vulnerability.

I don't know many divorced-with-kids people and even Ella's mom is not really in the picture, so this path is an unchartered one. I made the decision years ago to be a stay at home mom because I didn't want to miss out on seeing my kids grow. And since the divorce I do miss out--3 nights a week. I've learned how hurtful it is to tell a divorced parent: "oh I don't have the luxury of (fill in the blanks) because I always have my kids." I didn't choose this. It is not a luxury to go without them 3 times a week. I've learned that to get through the heartbreak of hearing my kids say "I've done this" or already "tried this" and I wasn't there for it, that I need to be thankful for their opportunities and be a stable ground. I've realized that I've got to stay out of the way and not try to implant myself by going over the top to impress them and just provide consistent love and comfort. To just be me--vulnerable to the fact that I am enough just being me and refusing to compete with their affections.

The best thing my mother has ever said on raising me is "Casey, we had no idea what we were doing and just did the best we could." I've realized to admit that kind of vulnerability is a profound call to love. I've realized that it is essential to give your best, be kind and loving, and things will work themselves out eventually (after periods where they don't). Love prevails. I have Matt and 3 kids and parents and a handful of "any weather" friends to thank for that.

A Family Vacation

We just got back from our family vacation in Colorado where we rented a cabin way up in the mountains on a sharp, windy path that was only accessible by 4 wheel drive in the summer. It was out there - no electricity or running water, just a small hut with 2 bunk beds, a wood stove, and a few essentials surrounded by a stream and woods and peaks, wildflowers and bear scat. The kids took to it quite well, declaring they wished they could live there, and spent their time running through the woods like nymphs and climbing rocks and exploring, which meant I was on high alert as the potential for injury abounded - the wood stove, the sharp rocks, the rushing stream, thick woods for getting lost, and no medical services within an hour. Sleep was not a luxury either - but those stars, that air, the sound of water spilling over rocks and logs - it was enough to keep me moored. And the fact that I had to walk the young ones to the outhouse every time they needed didn't seem a burden as Phoenix always doted on the views from the doorway, always pointing out the beauty. We had many an interesting conversation while I waited there.

After our days of hiking and exploring and alpine slides and windy roads we stopped at a diner to fill up for our long trek home. In the booth next to us a grandmother and her mentally disabled grandchild awaited her nephew to join them for lunch. You could tell even a cheap diner was a luxury. They were rough around the edges, and I heard her ask the waitress if she could pay with a few different cards as she didn't know how much she had left on each. The grandson couldn't speak, but still she talked to him and explained even the simplest things like dairy creamer and still she asked him questions and engaged him patiently. The nephew arrived, seemingly angry at the world, never softening his features. I heard her tell him he just needed to relax and be calm about things, that it was always better when you weren't angry. All the while she was clutching her cards, pulling at her ratty clothing, and trying to lift up the spirits of these boys. Doing the best she could with what she had. I decided then of a knew family tradition - as long as we are blessed to be able to take a vacation, we would always buy a meal for someone who could use a little help, who deserved a bit of joy. As Matt went to pay up our bill and theirs anonymously, I heard the grandma ask the child if he was happy. He tilted his head up slightly and she smiled and said "good, you should always try to be happy." A glimmer of light even in this greasy spoon roadside diner. I wanted her to know that this world appreciated her efforts. Yeah it was a small gesture, but it was something to mark our own thankfulness for vacation and, as is expected when traveling, to leave the area better than you found it. And remembering her clutching those cards and scouring the menu, trying to show those boys that it paid to be positive and level-headed, I imagine when she discovered their meal was covered she felt a bit of joy and a needed break, and those boys grew in respect and admiration for her. Glimpses of light - what more can we ask for when we have the chance to have glimpses at all?