SouleMama

be careful what you wish for

We greeted the beginnings of a storm last evening. It was a light snowfall, and beautiful, and so much fun to be outside in it as it began to come down. That quiet hush as the snow falls really is so magical. And I knew I was getting my wish of a cozy snowstorm at home. 

And then we woke to quite a reality! Twenty-seven inches they're saying, around these parts. And given that I only just shoveled ONE of the many walkways and paths to be shoveled today, I'd declare it to be at least that! (Darn those older children of mine - off at theatre and ski adventures of their own and nowhere to be found when shoveling time is here!). 

BUT! Oh goodness, it's beautiful out there. So glorious. The air more fresh than it can ever be. The shoveling feels good on my body and just as soon as I finish clearing the path to the animals, they will stop shouting for their breakfast, and all will be well. With each shovel, I find myself chanting a little mantra that goes something like this: "knitting. shovel. fire. shovel. cabernet. shovel." It works, my friends, it really does. 

I can't leave you without sharing this little bit. While the rest of the sheep were staying put inside the barn quite warm and snug, Adele ventured out for a walk. Oh, Adele!

 

 

on the equinox

 

. . . . . . . . . . .

We celebrated the equinox in proper New England style with a snowstorm that kept everyone home from school and activities, knocked the power out, and covered everything out there in a pretty layer of white.

Inside, we dyed eggs (using red cabbage, onion skins, beets, turmeric and some blue food dye for good measure), stayed cozy by the fire, played many games of chess, did some knitting, and otherwise enjoyed the unexpected 'day off' for all. 

And with the passing of the spring equinox, now we know for certain that no matter if it snows, or not, the days will continue to get longer. And that spring snow, oh, it melts so quickly, acting as water for the growing plants and flowers of spring. 

Happy Spring!

the things we say (that aren't forgotten)

Well, if that smiling face is any indication, it appears as though we've got another skier in the family! That makes for everyone now, excluding Mama (more on that later). As has become our family tradition, Annabel will join the crew on their regular trips to the mountain when she's five - next winter. But she gave it a go yesterday, just to see what she thought of it all. I wasn't certain how she'd do. She's certainly brave, but not a daredevil. But there, between her big sister's legs (bless her), she was comfortable, safe and enjoying herself immensely. "Again, again, again!" And she quickly went from the training hill to bunny run and asked for more. 

How did my baby grow so fast? I don't know. But I do know that once up on a time, very long ago, when all I had was babies, a much younger, much more foolish version of myself vowed that when the last of the little kids joined the big kids at the mountain, I would go too. I'm not certain what I was thinking - could it have been that I thought the baby years would never end and I'd never have to follow through on that? Or maybe I thought that everyone would forget? Well, she really is the last of the babes, and no one has forgotten my words. It isn't that I don't want to join them in outdoor fun, it's just that getting a ride to the top of a mountain and then throwing myself down it has never seemed like something all that enticing. Or even sane, really. I did give snowboarding a try many, many moons ago, and lasted for all of 45 minutes before declaring it 'most definitely not for me, but thanks!' and then happily spent the rest of the group's ski day sitting by the fire and swimming in the (indoor) pool. I do love cross-country skiing, so long as it's, well, flat. My backyard does just fine for that.

And so, with Annabel's happy ski face on my mind, I've got about eight months to sort out my strategy. Maybe there's a way to convince them they'd have more fun without me, and that really I should stay home all alone and knit by the fire all day. Or maybe I could tell them that I could happily keep their gear warm and their food prepped in the lodge - while knitting by the fire? Or, perhaps I could talk them into upgrading to a mountain that has cross country trails - for the Mama who likes flat skiing. Or. Maybe I'll decided that in my fortieth year, I might just as well get to the top of that mountain and ski on down. (And maybe we only get more foolish with age.)

 

at the shore

We spent a lovely day earlier in the week gathering with Em and Sarah and various members of our families (who thankfully all adore each other, as you can see). The last time the three of us were together it was in Bali, and well, the water was a bit warmer there! Ah! But oh, I love this hometown ocean of mine, and the feeling of being so fully awake and alive when immersed in it. So very good indeed.

I've been playing a bit of hookey this week. Well, not really, I suppose, since the work must be done eventually and so I'm trading my normal morning work hours for late night work hours at the moment. It's not a sustainable way of being, but at the moment it seems like absolutely the right thing to do (and the necessary one, as Papa and the older boys are adventuring and so I'm flying solo). And because summer is so short, and because there is no place that brings as much peace and harmony among the crew, and because....well, there needn't be any more reasons. It just is the right thing to do. And so I set a goal with the kids on Monday morning - we must swim and also eat ice cream, each and every day this week. Here we are on Thursday and cruising right along on my plan - hopping from ocean to lake to river and I think back to the ocean again tomorrow. As you can imagine, I have three little ones quite eager to help hold me to that plan. Ah, summer days are the best.

 

to the lake

"Can we go swimming today?" I heard approximately a thousand times on Sunday. The temperature was in the low sixties, farenheit. It really was as lovely, sunny, and warm as it's been all year - a delightful day. We all spent it out of doors - the kids doing everything from biking, shooting bows and arrows to building forts and working on improving Ani's garden cottage, setting up the hammocks and on and on. Steve and I spent the day blissfully prepping our garden beds, pruning the fruit trees, mulching the berries. All that good stuff. But still...all day long, "can we go to the lake PLEASE?????"

"Isn't there still ICE on the lake?" I asked, stopping just short of "No way, we can't go swimming, are you INSANE?" I was planning to just put them off for the day....or a few weeks, or for heaven's sake a decent month! 

Mid-afternoon, because I always forget how to do it, I asked Steve to set me up to prune the raspberries (lo and behold, the only pruners we can find in the barn this spring just so happen to be left handed pruners, which leaves me to the job. Hmn....I spy a perfect Father's Day gift coming right up). I spent a few minutes battling with the canes, happy to be getting the job done. Then I heard the shout of "Are you coming with us?" and looked up to see the kids all in bathing suits, with towels slung over their shoulders.....and behind them? Papa, with the stroller (Ani never makes it all there way there and back without requesting a ride). "You've got to be kidding me." I replied. "Nope!" Steve replied from over his shoulder. I barely had time to register, as they all headed into the woods and onto the trail that leads to the lake. 

I spent a few more minutes pruning the raspberry bushes, thinking about how crazy they all really are, cutting my arms all up to bits as always is the case (because I never remember to wear long sleeves for the job), and thinking that I just couldn't join them. There were only a couple of more hours in the weekend daytime before I needed to start dinner. And tomorrow - full of work and classes and errands. I needed to make the most of the time I had left in the garden.

That musing and cursing of the canes lasted for about five minutes. At which point I ran inside, grabbed my camera and shoes, a sun hat, and turned off the oven, preheating for dinner and started the walk to the lake. When I arrived at the shore I found a combination of children underwater, children shivering, but mostly a whole lot of laughing. They really did swim. I took a few steps in, and there's no other way to describe the temperature except 'shocking'. Just wading in, though - I felt alive. My breathing slowed (like I said, cold water), and I found myself returning to center. On the way back home, judging from the exuberance and joy and pleasuring emanating from all of them, I'm certain they all felt it too. Yes. This was absolutely the right thing to do.

And so, a hip-hip-hooray! to the start of swimming season here and Maine, and most especially a nod to the lessons we learn from our children. Over and over again. 

a warm and wintry day

Yesterday, the sun appeared, the wind quieted down and the temperature reached an amazing thirty degrees fahrenheit. Thirty degrees! We took full advantage - the big kids and Papa hitting the slopes, while the two little ones and I spent the afternoon having our own adventure. We built a snow fort, made a fire, and toasted a few marshmallows. Thank goodness Mama keeps a secret stash of those (I'll never tell where they are) for just such a special occasion. It felt so good there, sitting still in the sunshine, by the warmth of the fire, with my babes. Ah....what a gift such a day is.

the snowy state of things

As the snow piles higher and higher outside, the wood pile continues to go down, down, down. We wake up each morning and wonder which magical winter festivity will begin this day - thawing the frozen pipes? clearing the latest ice dam and the corresponding leak into the house? or, if we're lucky, chasing livestock who have decided to laugh at the silliness of those 'fences' - covered so high on both sides with snow that they really are but merely a step to cross over?

But....the goats and sheep don't seem to mind it a bit. Chickens and ducks are hunkered down inside, steering clear of all snow. Greta, with her most fabulous Great Pyrenees blood and fur keeping her warm, is in heaven with all this snow - rolling, digging, taking all her naps in the snowbanks. And so too are the kids. An entire terrain park has been constructed near the half pipe that was built last summer for snowboarding but is now for skiing and sledding on. There are pipes and rails and barrels and oh so many things that will make a really interesting backyard display come thawing time. Whenever that might be. We are wondering about Maple Syrup season - it seems such a long ways off yet before that could possibly happen. And will we have to use a ladder to reach the buckets by the time the snow melts, if we place them at any visible level before then?

Ah, but it IS a magical winter, it really is. It is as much snow as I ever remember having as an adult, and reminiscent more of the winters of my childhood. We will all remember this wild and cold winter - full of winter adventuring ... and cozy fires with lots of handwork and plenty of hot chocolate. All the best that winter has to offer. And well, seeing as how it's only mid February - the month in which snow seems to be falling each and every day - I'd say we've got a ways to go yet. 

that was something

 

Well, now. That's some serious snow! My skiers/sledders/skaters are beside themselves with excitement. So much so, that the promise of a day on the slopes today motivated them up and out of bed and out into the snow to shovel, shovel, shovel....all before I even woke up. Though the winds were so high, we never lost power, amazingly. And everyone stayed safe and snug and perfectly fine through it all. Especially those sheep, they didn't mind a thing. It must be the wool sweaters...

 

sit a spell

I remember quite distinctly being in the library one late winter day, pouring over an English country garden book (as one does in Maine in the late winter days). I don't remember the book, but I do remember the light bulb moment as I decided that my life needed more benches. Yes, yes...benches. I suppose the appeal is a bit like my approach to knitting, particularly with very, very little ones. I always scattered projects throughout the house, in every room, so that should I, by some chance, find myself with a peaceful moment of occupied children, I could pick up the needles and knit without disturbing the peace. So maybe the same could be said for benches? If there were benches at every corner, perhaps I could find more opportunity to sit a spell. To stop and admire what's planted around me. To connect with those beside me. Surely that's something we could all use a little more of.

So when this garden season began, I was quite committed to fulfilling this bench dream. I started at Brimfield where I found many adorable benches but nothing that could possibly withstand the abuse of a Maine winter or my children (the latter being slightly more worrisome). I scoured the garden stores for benches, with no luck of finding on that was either made in the United States or within my budget. Once those avenues didn't produce the sought after benches, there was only one thing left to do, of course. Do it myself. And as I said last week, this really was the perfect project for me to try on my own. And now, after some sanding and painting (Benjamin Moore's Blue Lake), they're in place. In three different spots throughout the yard and pastures, each at the ready for some sitting.

In the front garden, where one can watch all the comings and goings, and play with horses.

In the pond pasture, where one can stand and shout and recite a monologue, in practice for auditions.

And in the back yard, where one can read and daydream and talk to the goats. 

Each time I pass one of these benches, they call to me - come, have a seat. Breathe easy. Sit a spell.

I love them for that.

thawing out

Thawing out, that's what we're doing. Quite happily, and quite often interrupted by lambs. Because really, with six spunky and snuggly baby lambs in the backyard, it's hard to get a whole lot done other than that. It goes a little like this..."I'll just wash these dishes then I'll go see the lambs." Or, "I'll just work for an hour then take a break with the lambs." Essentially, visiting the lambs becomes a reward for tiny little pockets of working time, all day long. And then once there, it becomes impossible to peel oneself away - once there's a sleeping lamb on your lap and you're sitting in the sunshine. And so I mostly give in...because they're only this little once. The kids, of course, have fewer reasons to leave the pasture, and so they hardly do. It is so good.

Yes, spring is here - the Sandhill cranes that visit our neighborhood are back; the boys are squeezing every last bit out of the backyard ski (jump) season as that snow is disappearing; our driveway is an elaborate system of the annual spring game "rivers and streams" (and not at all a place to park cars for fear of never getting out); the first maple syrup boil is behind us with a small stash begun on the pantry shelf; and our days spent out of doors are full of movement and freedom. These early spring days are all about thawing out, and stretching out, and breathing it all in. It is so good.

 

Sugarin' Time

With slightly warmer daytime temperatures, and after lots of conversation with friends and neighbors doing the same, we tapped our maples this week. Loading the sled up with buckets, drills, taps, and hammers, we set out to get the job done. Leisurely, we did - the girls sledding beside us (on what's turned out to be the longest sled run we've ever had, thanks to this winters' perfect conditions for that). Harper led the tapping charge - choosing which sugar maple was next, and tapping that spile in at just the right angle, and in just the right direction of the sun. He knows. We were mindful of the height at which we put the spiles in, remembering that all this snow (all this snow!) will melt before we pull the taps, and we'll still want to reach those buckets. We've got forty taps in this year, just enough to hopefully warrant us a few gallons of syrup (at roughly forty gallons of sap to one gallon of syrup, it takes a bit to get there!).

Harper got himself a new hat just prior to the occasion. With leftover from his sweater, a quick Aston hat. What better accessory is there for a red plaid woodsman jacket (as he calls it) than a purple pixie hat? None, I say. He was delighted.

With lamb watch officially on (nothing yet!), and now these taps in...it sure does feel like there's some movement towards the next season. It's exciting - being pulled out of doors by these tasks as we are, and I think we're all feeling that buzz of what's around the corner. And I am reminded, once again, that tapping these trees, for us, is not just about the maple syrup. In fact, that's almost secondary really...to the hopeful feeling and excitement that the first harvest of the year gives us all.

 

wonderland

Just when we think we can't take Winter another minute longer....we wake up to a morning like this. All is forgiven and we fall in love all over again.

the perfect nap

 Yesterday, on a walk in the woods with Greta, Annabel and I - and Piper, the cat that always escorts us into the woods - I broke my own no nap rule. We are in that stretch of toddler hood when a daytime nap is no longer a part of the regular rhythm - and where the occassional inclination to do so is best avoided, if possible. All too often, it makes for a funky afternoon wake up and a bedtime far too late for these two tired parents, anyway. But oh, the woods were quiet, the sun was warm - it felt so good on our faces. There are exceptions to every rule. Thank goodness.

"I tired, Mama" she declared from her cozy spot in the sled, halfway into our intended journey to the back of our land. "Close your eyes, baby girl," I replied. She squeezed her eyes tight in silliness, "I sleepin!". But then, just a minute later she really had fallen asleep. I stopped the sled. I sat myself right next to her, and leaned against a maple tree. Dog and cat hovered nearby - both playing but keeping a watchful eye on where we were. And then, well, I may have just closed my eyes for a moment there in those woods, in that sunshine, right next to my baby girl. And I have to say, it really was the perfect nap.

summer weekend

 

I'm lingering this morning in the summer weekend that just was - good friends, beautiful weather, fabulous food and an amazing piece of Earth. Though I can't be moving slowly this morning - there are camp pick ups and drop offs to make, horses to visit, beans in great need of picking and a magazine in need of editing - I have every intention of lingering a little longer in heart and mind, calmly going about my business holding onto that feeling of a perfect summer weekend. 

Wishing you, too, a gentle start to your week!

this weekend

Oh, that was delightful. That was a real-deal summer weekend.  The kind of days we think and sometimes dream about all winter long. The kind of days that by late winter - when it feels like all we've seen is white and brown, and the walls of the house, and the layers of clothing - the kind of days we begin to doubt even exist right about then. Nothing extraordinary, nothing huge....just work and play (one in the same) at home, together, in the warmth of the sun, with the color of all that is blooming around us and room to breathe. The sounds and sights of summer. Here we are.

April weekend

I had some rather lofty gardening goals heading into the weekend. Though it's far too early for me to be planting here, I thought I could at least get out there and clean up, prepare for the work to come, I thought. I am so longing to get my hands in the dirt and get to work on all of that. But then this happened (see above), and we laughed and thought, "Oh, but of course! It's still only just April," as we recalibrated our plans to fit the weather.

And back inside we were, with energy going toward spring cleaning and tidying and purging and a bit of repair and redo on the woodstove and hearth, which is coming off another long winter season spent working hard for us. Wandering wood chips of winter contained, stove polished, floors scrubbed and hearth tiles freshly painted. It's amazing to me to think about how this little corner of our home, the place at the center of our days and nights all fall and winter long, is soon to sit dormant and quiet in seasons of spring and summer to come. Cleaning this corner each spring season seems such a symbolic gesture of gratitude and care, and a marker of time. 

 Ah....yes, this is what April work is really about here. Cleaning up from the season behind us, and readying for the next. Right now is the time for all of that - waiting, preparing, building excitement all the while. 

It won't be long now, it really won't, before our hands are deep in the earth planting, and all of our energy is shifted out of doors. For now, we clean up from the season we're leaving behind, we wait as patiently as we can, and we enjoy - oh so much - the tiny glimspes we can get of spring. A taste of what's to come. 

on the equinox

Well...if we were going to be snowbound with a late winter storm at the point in which we're all kind of over it....I can't imagine a better way to have done so than we did. With Southerners Ashley English and her boys in the house, plenty of good food and drink, lots of knitting, scrabble and music, and my favorite six people. Not to mention some (annoyed) chickens, (sleeping) pigs, and (hardy) sheep. I heard no complaining at all...just delight.

Happy Spring Equinox to you!

It's Time

For weeks now, it's been the topic of conversation at the feed store, at the gas station and from the rolled-down windows of the pick up trucks passing by. You tapping yet? The question itself a harbinger of the end of winter days. There's a short window of time - 3 weeks or so - once a tap goes in before the hole begins to close up and the tree begins to heal. Trying to predict precisely when those best three weeks are going to be - when the nights are below freezing and the days above (so that the sap fully cycles through the tree and 'runs') - is everybody's guess. A careful survey of the weather forecast, a little bit of watching to see what the neighbors are doing and saying....and then you just go for it. Or at least, that's the "science" behind our tapping date. 

We got a start this weekend, in a light snowfall, on our own trees. With a new (to us) evaporator to step up our game a little bit from years past, more taps in than we've ever done before, and a good winter behind us, we're hopeful about a good run this year. I am mostly proud to report that (so far) I did not tap a single oak tree. Ahem. Still learning, I am.

We'll put the rest of the taps in over the next couple of days, and then...then it's on. We empty the buckets each day on a walk through the woods that gets our blood pumping (that's a lot of sap to lug). When the storage drums are full, the boiling begins - which involves friends, warm fires, popcorn and cocoa while watching the sap boil. At the end of all of that, there may just be a decent stash of maple syrup on the shelves to last us through the seasons to come (or at the least, until honey harvest time). There's a whole lot to love about maple sugaring time! 

on ice

We're just back from a wintry weekend away with dear friends - a cabin full of adventure-seeking adults and the more than eager children that outnumbered us. Full of all the winter sport - on ice, on sled, on ski - to put butterflies in our stomachs, and thrill the daylights out of us all. And the perfect ice complement - fire - to return to for warming, games and just a little bit of knitting, of course. All in all, just the dose of winter medicine needed to remind us all of the possibilities - and the magic - we can find, when we look for it in Winter.

in search of summer magic

This was such a funny summer for us. Well, not really funny at all. Kind of worrisome, definitely disappointing, and a little bit crummy if I'm being honest with myself and you both. There is so much to be grateful for, of course - and we are, I assure you - but at the same time, we were all missing 'summer' in the way we know and love it to be. With good health returning to us all (or heading in that direction, anyway), we set out last week in search of a little bit of that summer magic we love so very much. After several days of work and play at our favorite fair, and with the farm in good and capable hands, we headed deep into the woods. We landed ourselves in one of my favorite places on earth - my family's land DownEast - where we spent our days together with another family - new friends for all, with child peace and companionship that was nothing short of miraculous. New friends instantly made old and good friends. While the children disappeared to (quite literally) frolic through the mossy woods, the adults (and babies) relaxed into the glory of late summer sunshine, quiet and conversation. Just as magic was the weather which found us 'living summer' fully in the boats, woods, and (albeit, very very cold) water of the lake. For a few incredibly special days, we received the gift of summer with wide open arms and hearts. No matter the calendar.

And now, with summer tucked deep in our souls...we all take a deep exhale, turn the calendar page and embrace - with wide open hearts and arms - the beauty of October.

september shore

Our official quarantine has long been over, but it's only been a very little while since anyone has felt up for leaving home. That magical day happened last week...when all seven of us felt well enough for a journey at the same time. There wasn't much debate at all about where we'd all go. The vote was rather unanimous. In fact, did we even discuss it? I'm not sure we did. I think we just piled into the car, and a short while later, poured out of it with much happiness. Yes, that's just how it happened.

Wishing you all a beautiful day today, friends....and a most lovely start to your week.

on being a grownup

I recently overheard the boys discussing the best and worst things about what they imagine grown up life to be. Topping the list of not-so-great in their minds was "cleaning after someone throws up". Their idea of the best? Getting to pick the biggest ice cream cone size you want.

I've been thinking about that conversation ever since I heard it. And yes, yes...of course there are grand and global answers to their question - the joy of mothering them topping the list of the best and of course there's plenty of real world, big-picture heartbreak and pain on the other side.  But I keep getting caught up in the everyday mudane of their question. Because yes, cleaning up after someone throws up isn't all that great, but cleaning up after a fox has visited the broiler chicken pen and wreaked havoc? Even less fun. Paying the bills after the unexpected collapse of a large appliance and a vehicle in one week? Decidely not my favorite parts of being a grown up.

But they really aren't all that far off in their estimation. Because on the flip side, it still - after twelve years as The Mama - gives me great thrill to realize that I'm the one (of two, of course) who gets to say on a hot summer afternoon (upon realizing that I have no dinner plan), "Grab your suits and get in the car! We're going to the lake and having ice cream for dinner!" 

 

I do so love being the grownup.

morning :: noon :: night

More often than not, on these full and wonderfully long summer days, our children have been collapsing into their respective beds with no effort and even less fanfare. Tired, happy and dirty from their days spent running, biking, swinging, swimming - the work of a child's summer. We are soon to follow, my love and I - far earlier than we are accustomed to, but oh, it feels so good to give into the feeling of tired deep in our bones that comes from the work of our own summer days. Before we do though, there's a moment - a quiet simple little moment that we've happened upon for more than a few nights now. I'm coming to treasure this moment. Too tired to really dissect the day behind us or plan the one ahead, our words are few. Sitting on the front porch, all those little details and troubles of the day are blurred into a simple and perfect clarity by the last bit of pink in the sky, or the fiery stars above. Exhale. It was a good day, this one. 

with thanks to the birds

The radio news filtered into my ears earlier than I like it to this morning. Violence, waste, heartbreak. Oh, of course these things must be told, must be heard, and I very much want to know - to feel, to share, to act upon it all.

But not right now, not just yet, I think. As the day is still new. For I know there must be something wonderful and beautiful right in front of me in plain sight to take in first.

So many things. Sleepy-eyed babies waking from soft dreams, the crack of the egg onto the side of the frying pan and the sizzle that follows, the rooster that crows eagerly as though it just can't wait for another day to begin. And the remembrance of that nest so blessedly made right outside the window so that we may watch a simple, everyday, little thing as it unfolds. Life.

Ah, yes. It is with thanks to the birds that I start this day.

Learning and Living at Koviashuvik

Last week, we had the pleasure of inaugurating the Family Sustainability Stay - a new offering from Chris and Ashirah Knapp at Koviashuvik Local Living School in Temple, Maine. A kind of living and learning retreat, the program offers families a hands-on and fully-immersed experience on the lovingly-tended piece of land they make their Home. You can read more about the program on their website. 

It's been several years now since we began gathering with other homeschooling families to learn from the folks at Koviashuvik. In that time, there have been countless foraging adventures, bows made, wigwams and debris shelters constructed, sap boiled, baskets woven, animals tracked, deerhides stretched, necklaces made, and on and on. Traditional folk arts, sustainability skills, and a connection to the Earth and each other nurtured all along the way. 

As our family (and theirs) has grown, and we've moved even closer to them, they've grown to be both mentors and friends to us on our own homesteading journey towards more sustainability. There is something so helpful and handy about the piles of books on our bookshelves giving us all sorts of informations on which "weeds" are edible and just how to check the beehives for mites or exactly how hummanure works. And then there is the beautiful sea of connection to be found virtually through blogs and forums of like-minded folk reaching out to each other and sharing tales and knowledge. But oh, there is nothing quite like working alongside someone in their (gorgeous!) garden, talking pests and plants and children and life. This kind of real, tangible, hands-on living and skill-sharing is the kind of learning that feels whole and full - and sinks into your bones and soul in a way that only doing can.

Before our arrival for the Family Sustainability Stay, we worked together with Chris and Ashirah to craft our days there in a way that worked best for all - some old favorites of our time together (bows and arrows for the boys!), and some new things we wanted to learn (my love is now a scything fool!). In between, we gathered and shared meals together, worked on little projects here and there, and got caught up on all the latest happenings at Koviashuvik since our last visit (oh, how I do love that icehouse!). We did this all with lots of time for quiet wandering and reflection, and in the flow of two families sharing our days together - with seven children between us. There was time and space made for all ages and abilities to participate, learn and explore...and that's exactly what we all did in a meaningful way. 

Chris and Ashirah's deep respect for the Earth, and their efforts in resourcefulness and self-sustainability is both admirable and inspiring. Arriving home from time spent with them, we are always eager to incorporate something new - large or small - into our own days and lives. For that, I am grateful to those teachers, friends and mentors who open their homes and hearts, and so willingly share their knowledge with our family and yours, wherever we may be on our own path - be it a forty-three year old scything for the first time, or a four year old thrilled to know and identify wood sorrel all on his own. These interactions, these skills, are the very things that quiet our minds, preserve our Earth's resources, and ultimately bring us all closer to each other. 

at Koviashuvik

Our family is home - invigorated and inspired - after spending some precious days with our friends, the Knapp family at Koviashuvik Local Living School. Often, while working in the woods with them, I leave the camera behind to use both of my eyes and all of my hands. But I've long wanted to properly document and share our time with them here with you in this space. It was a pleasure to do that on this trip and a pleasure to see this place through the lens, where everywhere I looked I found the beauty of the natural world, the touch of handmade, and the thoughtful details of people with deep respect for the Earth.

I have words to share about our time there, and some of the good things that Chris and Ashirah are doing at Koviashuvik, but I'll save that for tomorrow.

Today, through the lens....

Our 'home' for the stay. 

Gathering food from the root cellar and garden.

Starting a fire with the (large) bow drill.

Collecting ice from the icehouse.

Making bows on the shave horse.

Making a quick birch bark basket.

Sharpening knives.

Learning to scythe. 

Koviashuvik, the name of the School and place, is an Inuit word meaning "A time and place of joy in the present."

Yes.

More to come tomorrow...

this summertime morning

The early morning summertime light comes bursting into the windows and streaming across the hall. I peel myself out from underneath sticky baby legs and arms - wrapped and stuck together like a pretzel - just as quietly as I can, tiptoeing around the spots in the floorboards I know will otherwise creak to wake my baby, and alter my morning plan.

Looking across the hall as I slip downstairs, I smile at the empty beds, remembering their excitement in backyard tent sleeping last night with fireflies, flashlights, and baseball games buzzing well into the dark.

Before tea, before anyone else is woken by me and asking anything of me...I slip out the door. It's so early, and the sun is so bright, the air already thickening. It's going to be warm today.

But for now, it's light enough and cool enough to slowly and quietly work. Diapers go on the line. I let the squawking chickens out of their coop, saving the rest of the morning animal chores for later. I check on the garden, pulling some weeds around the beans. Slowly, quietly, and completely - without anyone to ask a question or bring my attention anywhere but here and now.

Maybe it's only twenty minutes, a half an hour at best. First, I hear the zipper on the tent opening and two groggy, but happy children pouring out. Then from inside I hear the beginnings of breakfast with a tea kettle and a squeaky baby. And headed towards me on a bicycle next comes my little guy with a proper "Mornin' Mama! Watch this!"

And the rest of the day begins.

Today will be warm. Too warm to do too much work, I think. But still, there will be (many) animals to feed and water and care for, and (many) children too. This afternoon, we host a gathering of family - a celebration we're all looking forward to - and there is much to do before everyone arrives. This will be a busy day, a full one.

These early summer morning moments feel a bit like a prayer that I want to carry with me through the rest of my day. A quiet, still and peaceful prayer for gentleness to follow all the day long.

the backyard bee quilt

I must first give props to Steve, for his quick eye, handy truck, and faith in my plans. For it is he who picked this set up roadside. A vintage patio glider and three matching chairs, all in a rather sorry state of rusty, squeaky, tippy disrepair. 

But never fear, for as my grandmother always said, "there's nothing that a little bit of imagination, elbow grease, and a can of paint can't fix". I don't know as though she said those words, exactly, but she certainly lived them. I try to too. It's just the treatment I gave this set - a good and thorough scrubbing with stainless steel to remove the rust, some sanding in the rough patches, a few coats of grey paint, and a bit of oil in the gliding parts.

Of course, it needed something soft and comfortable too. Rather than making a cushion that would stay on the glider (and be limited by 'outdoor fabric'), I used some existing pillows that we often bring in and out anyway. And to that, I added a new blanket - a Backyard Bee quilt!

(Yes, the dress multiplied! It kept raining. What was I to do but keep sewing summer?)

In a really big way, I stumbled head over heels in love with these fabrics when I spied them from Holly Ward Bimba's Woodland Collection (available at Spoonflower). Love, love, love. The "quilt" top is the three different prints cut and arranged in just a few strips, really. I added a light layer of batting, backed it with a brown slub linen, and tied it all. It all came together in one (really late) night. It's really all about those fabrics and keeping it simple felt best. Most especially in that those fabrics found their way off my studio table in the blink of an eye, and outside where they belong to be properly enjoyed by all those in need of a little backyard bee quilt.

planting time

We are deep in the work of planting right now. Having picked up our annual tree order from FEDCO this weekend, it is a pile of trees, shrubs, and bushes that are the work of these particular days. The order placed what seems like long ago in the quiet days of January, now is in our hands and making its way into the ground here. It feels so good - this setting down of more literal roots in this place we love, the work of breathing fresh air and living with dirt under our fingernails, the promise of goodness to come as these trees mature.

This year we add more apple trees and pear trees to the orchard; more raspberry, blueberry, and blackberry stalks to the ones we began last year; and we plant a big patch of strawberries where the veggie garden last was. As always, there are lots of helping hands in various degrees of involvement in the process. The youngest ones closest by, and the older ones in and out. Ever-ready to dig, to carry buckets of water or compost, or just play in the dirt ("it's SOIL, Mama!" Adelaide corrects me), we have a lot of helping hands.

It will be years still before most of these trees bear any fruit that we can enjoy, and this fact amazes my little ones. It seems so far away - three, four, five years. They do the math to figure out how old they'll be and how old their siblings will be when that Cortland apple tree begins sharing fruit with us, or when we'll have a snack from that Bosc pear tree. They giggle, as if it's just too impossible to imagine that someday they'll be seven, ten, twenty years old. The strawberries they understand more, for it will only be next year that we'll hopefully be enjoying their fruit. Counting the seasons till then, instead of years, they can imagine that much easier, though it still seems far away in their minds. We help them do the math, count the seasons, and smile bittersweetly, knowing of course just how very quickly it will be next spring again, five years from now, and then ten.

But for now, we are here. Moving at the pace of an almost one-year old, a three year old, a six year old, a nine year old and an eleven year old....weaving through the needs of us all within a day. It goes slowly, this work with so many hands. But it is good work, and we are grateful - even if we must remind each other from time to time - for the pace that is required of so many helping hands. A pace that demands we stop to admire each worm; notice the slow, but fast growth of plants (and people); appreciate each tree we place in the ground; and celebrate in the joy of doing it together.

officially

Yesterday, the ground was warm enough - and dry enough in one spot, at least - so that a proper blanket session could be had. In lieu of cleaing up from the weekend's flurry, in lieu of gardening work, or chicken coop clean out or anything else like that, I laid out that wool blanket and sat myself down to feel the sun and breathe it all in. The baby crawled, ate sticks, and laughed at her big brothers jumping in front of her. I read a chapter of the book the boys have been asking me to read for a while now (that they've already read and want to talk about). A toddler came and went on his own missions between Mama, Papa and woodshed. A silly preteen boy picked up the camera and snapped pictures of his Mama taking a two minute nap. Cats visited under the arm of a girl, and a chicken too. Family life happened....outside. 

It was the First Day. It was a good day. 

Today? Today we celebrate the Vernal Equinox and I can only hope (and guess) there will be more of the same. I wish that for you too!