“Miss Myra, Miss Myra, sit by me!” I lower myself down to the age-old carpet between two little boys, throwing my arms around them. They began to talk immediately—this is what happened today, this is what I got at school, remember how neatly I made my bed this morning? I glance around the room and relax in the consistency, the normality—

Except for one thing.

Another staff is leaving tomorrow.

She sits on the floor, wiping her tears. Little girls crowd around her, some hanging their heads, some looking out with red-rimmed eyes. One of the girls plugs her ears to block out the songs, floppy bangs hanging to hide her eyes. One cannot sing because her tears will not stop.

The agony of leaving is awful. Oh, that we could take these children in forever. All they need, all they have never had, is a constant love. Someone who will not abandon them. Someone who promises to never leave and keeps the promise.

After prayer (...angels watch me through the night…), the girl who has not yet stopped sobbing walks up, leaning into me at the entrance of the back hall. I hold her, pushing back tears of my own. I lead her to her bed, tuck her in, hold her longer—kiss her forehead, smooth back her hair, tell her all the empty comfortings (“you’ll be okay”). She pulls the blanket up to her eyes and stares into mine, begging. I look away, tugged by grief. Even as I walk out the door, telling her I love her, she cries and cries.

We are breaking these childrens’ hearts.

The little boy, fresh out of his visit in the chapel, watches his parents walk through the office doors and drive away. He sobs in my arms: “I want my dad, I want to go home with my dad.” And I have nothing to say to him, nothing but “We just have to wait and see. Wait and pray.”

“Pray for my mom and dad?” asks this child, asks a little girl, asks another boy who has since had his prayers answered. They lay in their bunk beds in the dark, pressed against the metal railing, and grab for my hand. “Pray that we can be back together?”

“...back together as a family of four,” murmurs our oldest boy, hands clasped over his chest, eyes closed. In the day, he runs himself ragged—riding bike, throwing football, anything he can do to push his pain into his physical body. He’s run routes with me throwing the ball for an hour, no breaks—pushing, pushing, and not ready to be done even when I’m finished. I think every night of the marks we’ve seen in his wrists, the ones he denies—“mosquito bites,” he says. I know it can’t be. At night, I crumple into my bed and beg God to hold these children tight. No harm can come to them, not anymore than has already—please God, please give their lives back.

Screaming curses fly down the hallway. Scratching, punching, kicking, sobbing. They do not want us close, and I know why, oh I’ve seen why tonight in the little girl in my arms. We must leave. Everyone must always leave.

So when my dearest little children leave me—when they go back to their family, out to a new one, into the arms of people who can hold true to the promise to keep them as long as they are alive—I do not just cry because of sadness. I cry because this is it. This is right. The happiest moments are the saddest for us.

Because always, always, I would rather sacrifice than see you have to one more time.

Everything is normal, nothing has changed. The same old curse waits around every corner.

Dear God, bring their families back tomorrow. Those smiles that look up at me, those arms wrapped so tightly around me, that laughter I’ve inspired—thank You, thank You, forever thank You—but please give them to who they belong to.

I will pray every night for the brokenness in this world. It will never leave me, I will never forget. There will never be anything better I can do.

(A poem to end with, written a month ago but somehow just the same sentiment):

“Staff!” she says,
“Miss Myra.
I can see God beside you.”

It’s late at night,
The other girls are sleeping.
She is still awake, tossing in her bunk.

 (she was saying her night prayers,
whisper-talking in her absentminded way,
and when she mentioned her family she
suddenly became deeply sad—
“my family…”
“are you praying for them?” I asked.
“I ask Jesus to bring my family back,” she said.
“maybe he will,” I said.
she looked at me—“will he come back?”
“yes,” I said, “he’ll come and be with you
and give your family back.”)

Now, as she fights for sleep,
I kneel on the carpet in the middle of the room and
Pray a blessing over these girls.
I invite the angels in,
Cast out the evil spirits.
This will be a safe night, a good one, because

I see God beside us too.
Even if nothing else in the world is true, this,
This
Is.

If you remember, pray for me.

I love you all.

I feel like God wants me to share with you how this change came to be, and how He has worked miracles in my life and still is working them every day.

I will start by saying this: I had not found the trueness of God when I arrived here. And I would never have found Him if not for this complete breakdown of my entire life. He is showing me how to rebuild it, not on the foundation of everything I’ve been told but on the foundation of the God I now know. He is my first priority; the only one, when you take into consideration the fact that the only reason the other things in my life are priorities are because He orders them so. He is so much bigger than what I could see from my bedroom windows, looking out over the land where I grew up.

I loved my old life, I loved it so much. I loved it too much. I realized when I left that I never ever in my deepest heart of hearts wanted to desert it as I was forced to. And oh how wonderful it was for me to deny that desire. Now for the first time I understand what a vice comfort can be. I understand that the things we think we need the most are often expendable, that the only thing we really need in any life is God. He can be our everything, but He very rarely becomes so until everything else is taken away.1

Did I have secret idols in my life? Most definitely. My home. My ease of life. My little daily pleasures. I was so used to blending into the background; my desires and loves fit the wallpaper that surrounded me so that I was rarely forced into conflict.

Then, like a chameleon thrown into a fire, I was yanked out of my natural habitat and into a place where I had to fend for myself, be my own person, do something. I couldn’t blend into the background; and even had I wanted to, the heat was so intense it would have done nothing for me. All my old defense mechanisms—procrastination, deflection, people-pleasing, blocking out reality by immersing myself in anything else at all—fell useless to the ground. I was forced to get up every day and do something my flesh absolutely hated. I couldn’t do anything when I wanted to—scheduling was done without my consent. I suddenly had practically no say in the way my outer life was constructed. The fire was the only thing that existed, there wasn’t another choice.

I cried. I screamed. I thought every night that perhaps I just wouldn’t get up the next morning, maybe I’d run away, maybe I’d fake sick. Maybe something awful would happen and I’d get sent home. Oh dear God, I prayed, please let me go home. Please, please, please send me back.

God said, “I don’t think so.”

Finally, I realized praying for deliverance from something that was supposed to be delivering me was fruitless. Instead, I began to pray for God to get me up in the mornings. To hold both of my hands, to guide my steps when I couldn’t make myself take them. You have to do it, I told Him. None of me wants to do this, but I know You do. So do it. I followed You here, the ball is in your court now. You have to come through for me.

And He did. He did! What a shock it was to wake up to a morning I dreaded with all my heart and find it to go smoothly, to fall into place. To find myself able to get through it! I became convinced as I never have been before that God was the most active part of my life, that He lived inside me and cared more than I could imagine. It was terrible, terrible to let go of myself so completely. The only confidence I could even imagine having was in Him.

But isn’t that what it’s all about? Doesn’t transformation in Christ mean giving up all of yourself and replacing it with Him? Your insecurities don’t matter not because you don’t have them, but because you were never supposed to be confident in yourself in the first place. God is meant to be everything. He is meant to be your breath of life.

I just never saw Him that way until all my other resources were taken away.

Now, I am not afraid. Yeah, I still sometimes dread the next day, or week, or month. But I know those feelings don’t mean anything. I know they don’t say anything about who God is and what He will work in my life.

Studying my Bible and seeking truth is even more important to me than it was at home. Challenging my comfortable thought patterns does not scare me. I can search out the truth in every single corner of my mind, even the parts I thought were untouchable. I have no tradition, no comfort to hide behind. God is my only confidence. My own fortress has been brutally torn down and I have restarted with Him.

I just want you to hear from me, to hear how real He is.2 To know that the depth you are searching for is not impossible, that the ache in your life might not be lying to you. God will always call you deeper. He wants us to leave every single tie behind and attach ourselves only to Him. The things that seem like the rock in your life—your friends, your family, your home, your comforts—God wants to replace those. He wants to take you to the place where you are willing, truly willing, to give up all of them for Him.

Don’t think that’s too much of Him to ask; He’s asked it of others. He might ask it of you tomorrow. Will you give it up for Him? Will you desert your life for the God who gave His so you could resurrect in Him?

Seek that out. Learn how you can surrender your life for Christ, a little more every day. No, His way to work with you will not be the same as His way with me. But do not expect it to be comfortable.

Let the floor fall out from under you. Don’t be afraid. That’s the only way He can catch you, after all.

The next day, stormclouds crowd in from the edges of the sky like worried churchwomen, and wind huffs around the corners of the red tin roof. Rain teases, then draws back, only to creep upon us full force again at night. In the morning, water pools in the corners of the small grass plots.

Will it be hot enough to swim tomorrow afternoon, or so cold we pull out winter jackets for the school children? We don’t plan on anything.

This is not the Spring I am used to, with bee boxes in the blossoming orchards and rain fresh on the sunlit rye fields, but it is Spring nonetheless and I am happy to see it come. So, in order to convince myself that beauty has not deserted me and that I am in fact in one of the best seasons of my life—and to share this beauty with you—here is my official Spring offering.

Four drinks to make:

1. Blackberry Raspberry Mint Ginger Beer (we girls drank this during an in-service given by a child healthcare worker who specializes in children who have been sexually abused—very intriguing evening)

2. Lavender Peach Lemonade (one of my friends concocted this for me after I jealously watched her drink her own)

3. Brown Sugar Cinnamon Shaken Espresso with Blueberry cold foam (I made this as I was inspired randomly one hot day and loved it)

4. Raspberry Peach Lotus with Mango popping boba (the first lotus I have ever had, once again made by a friend—perhaps the first time I have enjoyed popping boba)

Four foods to try:

1. Pork tacos with fresh pineapple salsa (just… yes) *courtesy of Brooklyn Kauffman

2. Cheesy herb bread (braided, or as focaccia) *courtesy of “Mama” Kim Schafer

3. Bang Bang chicken over rice (with shredded carrots&cucumbers and yumyum sauce) *courtesy of Lindsey “Mingey Beth” Unruh

4. Chocolate chip waffles (chocolate is necessary in every season) *courtesy of me, I guess

Four songs to sing around the house (*to listen):

1. Somewhere Over the Rainbow (*Life In 3D)

2. What a Journey it Has Been (*Lea Salonga)

3. When I’m Gone (*Anna Kendrick)

4. How Can I Keep from Singing? (*Audrey Assad)

(All of these are songs I have sung to the children, except for the second, which was sung at an end-of-school program here a year ago and has been making a recurrence among the girls I work with—we are humming it in the hallways and while making lunch and while helping the kids through showers)

Four colors to search for:

1. The ruby ruby red of fresh strawberry syrup simmering on the stove

2. Gentle lavender (found with delight in blueberry coldfoam—see “Four drinks to make”)

3. The kerrygold yellow of newly risen buttercups (how surprised I was to find them growing even here!)

4. Green, green, the brilliant original green of leaves popping out on tree branches

Four pieces of art to enjoy:

(check out this whole series. I just love it so much, miniature scenes you wish to step inside)

(God’s artwork)

Four activities to experience:

1. Take a walk around a park. Go on a Saturday, when all the kids are out playing soccer with their dads and hanging upside down from the monkey bars. If you have time, pack a bag with a blanket, a good book, and fresh fruit to snack on; find a place to stretch out on the grass and relax. Take a moment to forget your duties and bask in the season.

2. Visit the greenhouse section of your local Lowes/Home Depot/Walmart. Someday, when you are finished with your boring grocery or supplies shopping, walk in and take a thorough tour of the place. Learn the names of the plants you do not know—inhale the scent of potting soil and growth. When I walked through, it was sprinkling lightly through the mesh ceiling, and the wet earth smell was beginning to rise. I could not stop smiling.

3. Take a child on a wagon ride around your yard. Search for flowers and cool rocks and ladybugs and butterflies. Let yourself be excited about everything—joy is so contagious to a child. Watch their face for the awe of each new discovery. It’s even more beautiful than the flowers.

4. Put on a spring meal. Go to the work of picking fresh flowers and arranging them in a glass vase. Pull out a tablecloth with lace or spring colors; buy the special floral napkins. A tea party with cucumber sandwiches and scones with lemon curd, a Sunday lunch with fresh green salad and fall-apart roast, or an outdoor brunch with raspberry white chocolate muffins and vegetable quiche—whatever you choose, be sure to serve fruit-infused water. It is made in abundance here, and has been the delight of all my spring meals.

I hope your Spring has been full and alive, and that you have found (and will continue to find) many pockets of time to step outside and take a deep breath. God shows up so clearly in nature—do not forget to look for Him in your wanderings. Take this chance to listen for Him, everywhere.

As always, I love you. I’m so glad you’re here.

"What though my joys and comforts die?
The Lord my Savior liveth!
What though the darkness gather nigh?
Songs in the night He giveth.
What storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that Rock I'm clinging?
Since Christ is Lord of Heaven and earth,
How can I keep from singing?"

—Robert Lowry, "How Can I Keep from Singing?"

Some girls resent night rounds—I love them. Shining the flashlight on the blanket-covered forms, watching for that rise and fall. Finally, these children can rest. Some nights, all I can think of is the torment these new souls have been forced to face. Demons that come in the shape of a grandpa, an uncle, a mother. I want to take their screams of fear and release them, shun them—reach in and quiet the angry voices in their heads.

While I may not be able to of myself, God can. And one of the best things about God is that He is not distant from us. In fact, He is so close that His power can flow through our fingers.

There is a child here who is the sweetest, most innocent girl and yet perhaps one of the hardest to teach. She fights distraction at every single corner, even more than she fights order. It will never be easy for her, but we try our best to help her function in a way that makes life joyful for her. Most nights, she is one of the last to fall asleep. Once, I stood beside her bed as she tossed and turned and murmured to herself. I sang—she would not be still. I ran my fingers around her eyes in the infinity symbol, just as she loves. Her yawns were big, her eyes fluttering. But her mind would not give in to rest. So I laid my hands on top of her little head and prayed aloud that all the demons keeping her awake would leave in the name of Jesus Christ, and that God would give her a deep rest. Within a minute or two, she was fast asleep.

There is no denying the power of Jesus in a place so wrought with heartache and difficulty. We girls could not get out of bed without it. These children could not give the love they do without it. The sunset spills a brilliant fire across the cloudy sky and we remember how God has not left us here, He has led us here. Oh, how lovely it is to be working within your calling, your purpose. To know that when this child cries, you are the one who is meant to comfort him.

“Can I pray with you and ask Jesus to help you go to sleep?” The little boy nods. We pray. Angels are here, they are all around.

There is no way we can be beside each of these children at once, especially at night. There is no way we can protect them from everything. We are forced to lean on the promise that God will answer our prayers and watch over them when we cannot. We must believe, we have no other choice.

Sometimes a surrender of your will looks like giving up the idea that you can do everything on your own. God, I am helpless—will you do this for me? And He is there. Because He has to be. He must be.

What are you worried about? What keeps you up at night? What if you were to tell yourself that you are not as in control of life as you think you are? You haven’t made this for yourself. You haven’t created all the things around you. God has. Why would you think He expects you to take care of it all on your own?

God has not left you here; He has led you. And He will always continue to do so. Let Him take care of that which is His. Surely you do not doubt His power to do so.

He will come through. He must.

And remember, especially in the times when you have so many things to do and take care of, that you are His too. While He is working in the things around you, He is not bypassing you. He cares more about you than the lillies on your Easter dinner table.

Pray without ceasing. Your world can become a miracle too.

“Do you want to go where the miracles are?
Then go with God into a place you know is going to be hard.
There labor with the Lord while love transforms
Those careworn valleys where the miracles are.” *

(*"Where the Miracles Are" by Charlene Friesen)

“IT’S SNOWING!”
A head shoves behind the blind.
A flurry of activity, boys pouncing
At the playroom windows,
Every blind shooting up in unison and
Shouts, shouts.
“Snow!”
It’s snowing, it’s snowing at
Six oh five in the morning.
Every child is wide-eyed in
Delighted excitement.

—

Slipping treads
In the sidewalk sludge turn to
Footprints in dusted snow on gravel.
They track the children’s stumbling run
To the front gate,
Saying “we have been here first,
We will always have been here first.”
The sun is hidden but the dim light
Sifted through snowclouds makes
A soft purple light on the powdered sugar surface
Of the roofs.
And still, snowflakes,
Pulled into flocks and flung carelessly into our faces
By the bright-eyed-and-bushy-tailed
Wind.

—

We wait for the bus.
It does not come.
Someone needs their coat on,
Now, hurry.
Someone is eating snow,
And I as well,
I only need open my mouth to be given
A taste by the wind.
We wait for the bus.
(We adults hope it is not a snow day,
But we do not say it.)
Someone asks if anyone will dare them
To lick the chain-link fence.
We huddle in our coats.
We wait for the bus.

—

Minutes tick,
We go back inside.
More slush, slogged across
The front mat,
Through the staff room,
Into the kids’ dining room.
Back into the chairs we go.
A boy asks for hot water for a scratchy throat,
And I (distracted, but really not enough
To excuse the stupidity)
Burn a paper cup in the microwave.
On goes the fan,
Out swing the windows.
We will not have the fire alarm ringing
At this time (or any time) in the morning.
Sifted ice flurries through the window screen
And down the necks of the girls in the kitchen.
It is too pretty for us to care.
Oh, look.
Look.
The turtle window clings (with heart eyes,
Stuck on for Valentine’s Day)
Carry a line of snow along their backs.
And the bus is here!
(Secret sigh of relief.)
Stampede for the door, run for the bus.
Quick hugs, shoulder pats,
Hop onto the steps.
We wave, sign “I love you,”
Though we cannot see the children
Through the fogged windows.
And then back through the snow in
Shivering silence,
Beauty falling into step all around.

—

Must babies scream so loudly?
The new first nurse is near to tears,
She only needs a friend to
Hold a baby, cheer the room,
Make a cup of steaming cinnamon tea with honey to
Soothe her worn throat.
Of course I can step in.
Up go the nursery blinds, letting in
The wonderland.
She gasps, I smile.
The best thing about joy is the way
It multiplies when you share it.

—

Grey clouds (the sky
Eraser smudged)
Separate in the top winds
Like cotton candy tugged by eager hands.
Sunclap, shot of espresso
On a tired daybreak.
The white quilt stays;
Earth is sleeping in.
Subdued breezes ruffle the
Whitecapped pines,
Blue sky moves into the frame
Of empty birch branches.
All is settling into rest.
The ground, the light, my heart.
Thank God for this heaven-on-earth morning.
Thank God for prayers sobbed on a stormy night and
Answered in this soul renewal.

Thank God for snow.

It is winter; and yet where I am, most days it feels more like spring. The trees are still barren, and I am surrounded by desertland, so it does not look much like the green wonderland I wish to live in. But the sun is out, and it shines with such intensity that I only need to close my eyes to imagine winter gone, as long as the wind stays quiet.

I am aching everywhere, as if I am being pulled from my skin. (Mentally and spiritually, that is—physically I feel fine, although I’m still trying to get over a cold I’ve had for weeks. I’ve just realized now that my voice may be returning to normal, which is lovely.) I need gratitude therapy, and nature therapy.

And food.

Okay, I’ve just fixed the hunger situation. Now I can get on to the gratitude part.

God has brought me to a place where I could never go on my own. Most mornings I get a rude awakening—everything feels strange around me. Where is my old bed, my old window? I don’t have the same dresser, the same walls. The trees outside are different, there are no orchards. No fields. I don’t want to get out of bed.

But I can. I do. God pulls me up. His hand is on my back, on my shoulder, pushing me on. I have to get through this hard part, I have to, I know I do. I have so, so much to learn.

And I am eternally grateful that God is with me. That I don’t even have to think about tomorrow until it comes, because He will lead me into it. I’m learning to hold on with both hands, to give Him control, totally.

I am grateful for:

• The pink that bleeds into orange that bleeds into yellow against the steel blue morning clouds, a sunrise painted behind the twigs of an empty tree

• Hugs, the kind that hold on for as long as you need. At least I did not leave those behind, too.

• Little babies, wrapped in swaddle blankets, eyes fluttering closed. Soft lamplight falling over the rocking chairs, dim lullabies playing from the sound machine. Everything is gentle in this room. What a sanctuary in a place so full of tears and anger and fear. It reminds you where children start, how innocent. Where their hearts really are. All they want, all they need is love. And who of us cannot offer that?

• Songs that speak the words your heart most needs to hear

• Blankets, everywhere. One beautiful blessing of winter, the ability to cozy up in corners and become warm and tired. I have recently purchased one of the softest, heaviest blankets I own, and I curl up beneath it every night. It really has done such good things for me; I sleep wonderfully.

• The eager affection of children. “For you,” as they hand you a picture they drew, or a bracelet they made, or a craft completed at school. “Hug, Miss Myra?” “Miss Myra, when are you going to be our staff?” “Miss Myra, can you tuck me in?” I have rarely felt so needed, so wanted.

• The warmth that spread through your limbs when drinking a hot latte (agave lavender—let me tell you—)

• Laughing, and making people laugh. The strong sense of community felt through shared humor. I wouldn’t do well without it.

• Campfires, even when the sparks burn holes through your coat and skirt. The heavy and comforting smell of smoke that takes you back to camping in the forest near a lake in the summer. The kind that bakes your raspberry cream cheese pie-iron dessert to perfection.

• Those safe things that give you a small break from reality—good books (the Chronicles of Narnia are reviving me), reliving happy memories, car rides, sleep. I can do this, but not all at once, and not without reprieve.

• Letters and gifts from friends. The joy of seeing an envelope or box with your name in the center, waiting on the table for you to rip open and discover the contents of. Cookies, tea, chocolate, my dad’s seasoned almonds. Pictures, notes, long letters from my sisters. You must know this: every one of these things, even things that may seem small to someone in their regular life with their regular friends and regular schedule, are like a lifeline to someone so far away from their old loves. Talk to me, send me a letter.

Or if you cannot find any time, pray. I want to stay in love with life. I want to wake up with a smile again one of these days. But above all, I want the strength to do whatever God would ask of me. My life is not my own.

I love you, thank you so much for being part of my life (even if you are just a passing reader).

Keep your chin up, and so will I.

(Prologue: the majority of this post was written yesterday.)

Why hello, fancy meeting you here!

How are you doing?

I’m doing quite well, thank you.

Okay, now that we’ve gotten the pleasantries out of the way, may I tell you about my life?

I will anyway, because sharing is half the joy of an experience.

The past two months have been months of creativity—for the whole family, it seems. My ten-year-old sister is writing a comic strip1 (among many other things). Flowers are blooming and vegetables are growing out of control in the garden—we’re beginning to consider gathering an army to subdue the green bean invasion—under the care of my mother’s green thumb. My twelve-year-old brother (when he is not enhancing his skills in Lego architecture) has apparently been illustrating a children's book2. I myself have been building and sewing and doodling and watercoloring, as well as waiting weeks upon weeks for a paint-by-number canvas to arrive. Because I'm one of those people who can’t paint but wish to pretend they can.

Interlude: It is becoming increasingly difficult to write this post, because the song “Goodbye, My Coney Island Baby” is growing in volume in my head. Sometimes the ability to replay four-part harmony in vivid sensory detail in my head is a curse. Now and again a song gets stuck, so much so that I can’t even get rid of it by closing my eyes and playing the whole song from beginning to end. (Thanks, Daybreak barbershop quartet.)

I've just been upstairs to grab my phone and ask my sister where my tea3 was (it was in the fridge), and now I've brought my cup outside. Lucy ran up, mewing, the moment she saw me. We are having intermittent conversation while I sing improv in a valiant attempt to banish the aforementioned song from my head.

So much has happened over the past weekend (and before) that just thinking about writing it down has me overwhelmed. Instead, I will tell you about Daiso.

Daiso is a chain Japanese variety store—sort of like a dollar store, but glorified (better option with much better quality). Perhaps you know about it, but it was just introduced to me this afternoon. Both my sister and I have slightly fallen in love. It’s full of kawaii stuffies and Japanese dishes (including chopsticks in a huge variety of designs), ramen noodles and matcha flavored you-name-it. I bought a pair of coffee/tea cups and a tote bag as a gift for my sister, as well as a very cute bottle of sparkling Oolong tea, and the total was just over $23. Now, depending on where you're from, perhaps that doesn't sound so cheap; but to a teenage girl living under the oppression of the California economy, it feels like a dream.

(No, I don't know what that last sentence means, I just threw some words together in an attempt to appear financially intelligent. In reality, I don't even remember how to write out a check.)

So. That's Daiso.

Now that I've made you sufficiently confused as to why this is called a “summer feature”, let's get to the best part of any blog post.

The lists.

— — —

Here are some of my So-Far Summer Favorites. Feel free to indulge in any of the attainable mentions—you can experience what summer feels like to a little insignificant girl on the west coast.

(Spoiler: It feels wonderful.)

Four drinks to make:

1. Iced americano with cinnamon honey cold foam

2. Strawberry + cucumber + mint infused water

3. Iced earl grey sweet tea

4. Frozen Dr. Pepper

Four foods to try:

1. Avocado toast with scrambled eggs (I add cheese and bacon bits to the eggs in the last stages of cooking.)

2. Dried mango. If you like chocolate, see if you can get your hands on dark-chocolate covered. If you're not a fan of dried fruit, try mango sorbet. It's divine, much superior to ice cream.

3. Mac and cheese. Prepared any way.

4. Zucchini chocolate chip bars with cream cheese frosting

Four songs to sing around the house:

1. “Flee as a Bird” (new favorite hymn)

2. “Take Me Out to the Ballgame” (because of course)

3. “Hazel Eyes” (most recent addition to my lullaby collection)

4. “Tennessee River Runs Low” (I have a slight addiction to songs that talk about rivers.)

Four colors to search for:

1. Cotton candy—soft pastels of blue and pink. You can find this at a concession stand, or at home in the soft clouds at sunset. Or in cotton candy popsicles, because those are the best, of course.

2. Sunflower yellow

3. The hazel green of shallow lake water, clear enough to see the stones

4. Breathy purple, lavender flowers rubbed between palms to release their fragrance

Four stories to read or listen to:

1. The podcast documentary “Hysterical,” an incredible true story of the town of LeRoy, NY, whose school girls came down with a mysterious tic disease—imagine Tourette’s, but contagious.

2. The Penderwicks at Point Mouette. If you haven't read the Penderwicks series, you should definitely read all of them; but while they are in chronological order, it's not absolutely imperative you read them that way. Point Mouette takes place during the family's summer vacation at a lake house, and although I have not reread it yet this summer (I plan to), I can still remember sand and wooden porches and bike rides into town.

3. “What Should I Read Next,” a book recommendation podcast. Now, this is my favorite thing to listen to ever, no matter the season, but since I don't think I've mentioned it here I have to give it a shout-out. There are a lot of seasonal episodes, if you take the time to look for them, so you can find a myriad of summer book ideas. Per usual, the backlist is the best. Once you've checked out the latest summer additions, I recommend starting from the earliest episode up.

4. Cajun stories—if you can manage the accent. My uncle reads these around campfires, and every time our family gets the biggest kick out of it. They're especially good when everyone is full of s'mores and beginning to get tired. They make me laugh almost as hard as Patrick McManus read by Norman Dietz.

Four activities to experience:

1. Make cookies + cream ice cream in plastic bags. If you are not aware of this classic way to make ice cream, look it up. It's very simple, as long as you take care not to give your fingers frostbite.

2. Visit an arboretum. A few friends and I have just done this, and I suspect it's an entirely different walk in the summer than in the spring. All the trees are heavy with green, the flowers big and colorful, if not a little tired from the heat. If you don't have some kind of community garden near you, go to a greenhouse, or even just a park. Surround yourself with nature.

3. Take sidewalk chalk outside, choose a section of concrete, and decorate it to your heart's content. You can make it pretty, you can make it whimsical, you can make it unpredictable. Activities without societal restraints and consequences are so underrated, especially activities that take you back in time.

4. Go to the water. Kayak under the stars, sit on the paddleboard with your feet in the water. Jump off a rock, a diving board, a shed roof. Go swimming. If you can't swim, go wading. I don't know how to describe how I feel when I'm in these spaces, especially around natural bodies of water like rivers and lakes. The way the sun highlights the ripples, the way a stick dragged against the current makes music, the way the temperature shifts from cool to lukewarm to chilly depending on depth. These are the things that show me how inescapable is the magic of nature.

— — —

I won’t say much more, because this has already been plenty. The sun has reminded me that this is a good life to live; and that it must not, under any circumstances, be missed. I hope you can realize the same.

I love you. Now go jump in the pool.4

In regards to the upcoming section: I don't generally write in all lowercase, but summer seems to call for it. Last year, I wrote a poem (in fact, perhaps I'll tack it on at the end of this post), and it just didn't feel right in uppercase—it took away the laziness of summer. Writing this post, I found the same thing. So if you can excuse the grammatical felony1, please enjoy the post.

Feels of summer:

• driving past a park—shadow thrown like doilies from the big oak trees, dark and cool on the grass. you can almost smell the scent of shade through the car window.

• sunflowers popping up beside an old corral fence, tipping their heads to look up at you through long dark eyelashes

• evening 7:30 sunlight, sliding down the worn wood of a barn door

• jumping into water and suddenly entering another dimension, where gravity sways in a weird rhythm and sound breaks like slow motion static. it feels like you've just been swallowed, decreased. if no one else is there, it's the most peaceful thing.

• condensation rings left from frosted glasses of iced tea

• walking outside at 6:30 A.M. to greet a sky that's already carrying the sun on its shoulders—how long ago did you get up, sir, am I that late to the day?

• my little sister wearing a red baseball cap (slapped on backwards over a messy ponytail) every day since school let out

• sitting in a red leather booth, eating chicken tenders and waffle fries in a tiny six table half-stand fast food restaurant, an old box TV mounted in the corner and a gunshot through the window beside the swinging glass door (no shirt, no shoes, no service)

• corduroy ripples on lake water, there and again glossed with white bubbles of sunshine

• my brother composing music while the musty blue evening light shifts through the tall dining room windows

• bare legs stretched out on a striped picnic blanket, skin hot like leather left in the sun

• the brilliant and complex colors of fruit: mangos, sliced and irresistible—strawberries, bit in half and split into diamonds of glistening red—kiwi, my beauty—pineapple, tangy with news of the tropics

• standing in a bathtub, dust muddying the water streaming from your feet

• comic books strewn across the couch

• boys on bicycles, turning off the road onto a gravel drive with a gritting of applause

• the scent of a pickle jar—vinegar, whole garlic, strings of dill like seaweed

• a coworker wearing a flowing blouse, fabric light and white with large-print pink and yellow flowers, her beautiful blonde hair curling down her back

• public libraries, the audible hush when you walk through the doors. children, fresh out of school, weave among the picture books, talking in low voices. college students, silence secured by headphones, glance up briefly as you walk past their study stations. the new summer books spin face-out, beckoning. what better place to find refuge than among the time-traps of literature.

I love this season. Everything about it. While making this list, I kept coming across sounds and scents and scenes I could add to the list. Most things I’ve been experiencing have been making me unusually happy because of the summer glory encompassing my area of the world.

I don't have a lot more to add; I just wanted to check in and give everyone a minute to pause and appreciate the season.

Here's the poem.

as the earth tires early

new pavement
charcoal-black in potholes,
the sky—
bleached by early summer—
fading back from the sun's stare.
tire tread following cracked yellow lines
onto a weathered concrete parking lot,
then gravel,
stones skittering, screeching,
under our tires.
the shine is burning me up
through the car window.
we unload the food onto
white folding tables
and wait for the employees to
fetch their lunch.
warm wind breathes across our necks,
tosses loose napkins,
parachutes the blue canopy.
I can almost see heat waves
undulating on the metal poles.
people begin to flow out the door,
moving slowly,
sluggish,
as summer soaks us in fatigue.

‐ - -

"those two,"
mom says, pointing to the last
pumpkin plots,
rounded off with the patting of her palm.
"and then we're done."

I shake water from
the perforated lid of a recycled
Sunny D gallon,
sprinkling potato field dust
with floods of rain—
rain from my hand
to quench the thirsty land.

how poetic gardening can be,
really.

we walk back towards the house
along the irrigation ditch bank.
the kids are sitting on the side,
throwing rocks into the water—
water flickering
shades of juniper in
the shadows of the backyard pine trees,
soft pink in the breath
of salmon sunset clouds.
obstinate frogs
have begun their warm-ups,
striving to be the first
even before the last lull of light is gone.

the late-evening air is still warm and flat,
dragging its feet—
nature's lengthy yawn.

I slow,
flip-flops picking up dirt,
and watch the water slip along,
ripple after ripple riding in
on the one before—
lazily,
as moves the whole of summer's morning.

I bought my second pair of rainboots (the first being a little pink pair I owned as a five-year-old). The new ones are sturdy, made for garden work, green and covered in white and pink flowers. I love them so much I wear them even when it’s not raining at all.

I straightened out my studio for the final look the other day, and I must say I'm quite pleased. The wood-and-rope plant hanger is up in the corner, holding a Swiss cheese plant, and it looks even better than I expected. Sometime this next week I am going to plant the flowers and ferns and trailing plants Mom and I bought from Stepping Stones Nursery and Lowe's greenhouse section. They will be in the pots on either side of my studio steps—flower pots taken from my Grandma's old back porch. The red and yellow daisies previously inhabiting them have been relocated next to the fence around the swimming pool. The shade from my shed is not so friendly to them as the sun.

It's been rainy one day, clear skies the next. This is the weather I love. No flooding, no full sun for five months straight. A mix, weather that can accommodate a variety of moods.

My sister and I (and two of our mutual friends) have been on one picnic in the cow pasture this season. I mean to have another, in an orchard perhaps. I have ideas for a Secret Garden picnic, most of which consist of Dickon’s potatoes and tea crumpets with jam. I'm looking for a main dish; tell me in the comments what else I should add.

I recently finished reading Chicken Soup for the Gardener's Soul and picked up a beautiful special edition of Anne of Green Gables. Not only is it the perfect book for spring, it's also a hardcover that lays open flat on its own, which means I can read it while combing my hair or preparing tea or petting the cat.2

There are so many wildflowers about. Yellow and white along the country roads, purple and poppy-orange in the coastal hills. I drove down to the ocean a couple weeks back with a group of friends, and it was possibly the best weather I've ever experienced at that particular beach. Sunny, only a (comparatively) light breeze, and thick green on the golf course. We sat on the grassy hillside sloping down to the sand and soaked in the setting sun. It was absolutely dreamy. Oh, and did I mention the water was aqua out by the rocks?

Sometimes, in the middle of winter, I get swallowed up in all the melancholy and think that this is just how I am; I'm in a permanent state of dreary smiles and hopeful dreams. But then spring jumps onto the stage, and I can no longer deny the effect nature has on my mood. I have been so happy lately; nothing has been able to get me down for long. I want to show everyone the absolute wonder of spring.

As an attempt to do just that, here are some Substack posts/notes from my feed that feel like smelling rain-watered earth and wishing on dandelions (and if you’ve already seen them, read them again, they’re worth it):

consider the wildflowers

Wading Through Mud & Green & Flowering Things

I love March and I love this season. I love how the grass slowly but surely starts to turn green again. I love the reappearance of the birds—their chirping in the morning and afternoon. I love working in the greenhouses each day and getting to witness sprouts that are only just beginning. So much about March is new and refreshing—like that first relieve…

Read more

a year ago · 14 likes · 3 comments · Taylor Blayse

L. Adams

Hallelujah Chorus

Out into the windy dusk we women went, some hoofing it, some straggling. It began to rain. I stood and listened to the rain hitting the brown cornstalks. It sounded like we should have been getting wetter, but there were only a few drops landing on my shoulders and face. “A second baptism,” I remarked to my friend. I liked the idea of this baptism, …

Read more

a year ago · 22 likes · 1 comment · L. Adams

• a softer existence

  the bee farm

  this road is so familiar…

  Read more

  a year ago · 23 likes · 4 comments · tanya

• Mrs.’s Substack

  It is spring here.

  It is spring here. I am not sure what I can write that spring has not already sprawled across the thrumming landscape in an eloquence that far exceeds mine. Bark wraps its silver and green stanzas about living and dead pillar alike, daffodils waltz about long forgotten homesteads; all that is left of them a fringe of cedar and this golden laughter of th…

  Read more

  a year ago · 13 likes · 1 comment · Mrs. Theodore White

milk and cookies

chasing slow dopamine

i used to think happiness was supposed to hit like a sugar rush. fast, overwhelming, dizzying. like the first sip of an iced latte when you’re running on two hours of sleep. like an impulsive purchase that feels like a new identity in a cardboard box. like scrolling until your brain is overstimulated and you can’t remember what you were even looking for…

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a year ago · 555 likes · 20 comments · milk and cookies

Racquel’s Substack

How to Maximize Joy

Get over yourself. Clambering, scrambling, any how. And welcome joy when it comes. Let it pelt you, open-armed, open-eyed, open-mouthed. If you sense it on the horizon, open wide all your doors, all your windows. Let it rush in, tearing at the blinds. And don’t rush it out. Stop, and savour it. Be a joy snob, swirling, smelling, tasting—what is t…

Read more

a year ago · 15 likes · 4 comments · Racquel James Esau

Feel free to share your own favorite posts in the comments.

In the meantime, I hope your winter is moving along and you're beginning to feel a little warmer these days.

I love you.

Now I’m going to go make some earl grey (chocolate chip) cookies.

I’ve been trying to write a blog post for the past week or so, but everything I’ve written has been too depressing. Finally, I decided to break the curse by making a list of the things that have been making me smile lately; I gave up because I couldn’t even concoct a number five.

Essentially, I maintain the deep longing to create, but I have lost all ideas of what I could possibly be creating. Everything I actually want to focus on either dries up within a couple minutes or really wouldn’t be interesting to anyone but me.

I keep thinking “Just write what you enjoy,” so I start another list, and it goes nowhere. Because I can’t even keep up my enthusiasm through bullet point two. It just slowly fizzles out until I’m left staring, unfocused, at half-written sentences with no desire to finish them.

Now that I’ve just returned from stirring honey into my tea (and getting it on my mittens—and, for some reason, in my mouth—in the process), I’ll relieve you from this and get to the point.

[*retypes paragraph seven times]

[*retypes paragraph another four times]

Okay. There isn’t a point.

Interlude: Have you ever thought about the fact that the book of Ecclesiastes is basically just January in thought form? An old man laugh-crying about how pointless everything seems and finally concluding that the best we can do is serve God and try to enjoy ourselves while we’re alive, despite the biting sardonicism of life.

I can’t seem to garner up motivation for anything. I do things because I have to. I am obligated. How I wish I were obligated to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head and lay awake doing absolutely nothing for two hours. That would be nice.

The only realistic thing I seem to actually want to do is eat snickerdoodle cake and disappear into my imagination.

But, of course, I am an adult who will at least fulfill her minimum required responsibilities. Like going to work. And cleaning up my spaces. And petting the cat.

I’m not exactly sure what this post is, except that I want to make sure everyone—mostly myself—does not think I have disappeared into a void. (Although perhaps that is closer to the truth than I would like to admit.) Also, for some reason, it’s easier to be honest here than to someone’s face. (Hi, people I know.)

So please—if you have any writing ideas or cozy food recipes or even just a tiny little comment to reassure me that I am not the only one in the world whose fingers and toes become blocks of ice the moment she slips out of bed and do not thaw out until the moment she slips back into bed at night (in spite of socks and mittens), then please leave it in the comments or PM me or something.

Excuse the unnecessary post, I beg of you. It’s been a feel-alone-in-a-room-full-of-people month.

And for those of you who have disregarded your better judgement and stuck around this long, here’s a little poem from the archives of last summer.

Weary

At the end of the day,
You put your wasted body to bed—lowered sails,
Slackened lines.
Through the curtains, through the window
You can hear the cars flash by.
The sheets are hot,
The blanket is too heavy but you don't want to move.
Snapshots of the day reel through your mind—
A passing comment
Clip
An unanswered question
Clip
The laundry that never got done.
Let them clock circles around you—
There will be another day, and if there isn't
Nothing matters anyway.
Breath out from your head to your feet, 
Listen to the whirring of the fan, and
Close your eyes.
Your day is done; you have not given up.
Lay the weight down.
Sleep.

(Love you.)

New discussion idea, read the latest text. Send a list of your icks/pet peeves.

One list had already been sent, and I began to read it.

Oh, yes, I thought. That one's awful. Then, No, no, that's not a bad thing at all; besides, some people can't even help doing that.

Suddenly, I realized how much my mood had soured. Not only had this list driven me to remember the times I was unimpressed by or offended at people, it had also caused me to judge the girl who wrote it. I noticed I'd been keeping a running tally of the things on this list I agreed or disagreed with—emphasis on the disagrees—and forming new (negative) opinions about the writer and anyone else who either has pet peeves or gets on my nerves by doing things that annoy me.

I put down my phone. Nothing about this was helpful. “Why,” I asked myself, “would I purposely engage in something that will keep me in a negative headspace?”

“Well, that's easy,” I answered myself. “I'm naturally drawn to both gossip and lists.”

“But not to negativity,” I responded.

“And that's why I put down the phone,” I said.

“…but as much as this whole experience1 has taught me about myself and how even the smallest thought paths can affect us, I still want to make a list.”

And from this, my now ongoing list of Reverse Pet-Peeves2 blossomed like a dandelion garden on steroids.

(I told you I like lists.)

Actually, many of the entries on my list point to this precise idea: making a conscious choice to focus on the positive (mentioning something nice about a stranger, expounding on why you love someone, noticing little sparks of beauty everywhere). Whenever I realize I am in the presence of someone who is actively looking for joyful moments, I am wildly impressed. And I don't think I'm the only one.

Let me set a scene for you.

You're in the produce section of your local grocery store, agonizing over whether you'll actually use this many limes or if three of them will rot in your fridge drawer like last time. A couple yards down from you are two other shoppers—you, reader, get to choose their genders and ages and whatever other specific details you need to complete this story.

You hear a quick inhale—a muted gasp—and turn to see what the attraction is. One of the shoppers is fingering a mango.

“Look at this, just look at this,” they say to their partner. “Oh, this is perfect. I really can’t over mangos, I don't know why.” [*insert shiver of intense joy here if it fits your created character] “I've got to get this, I can already taste the beauty of it on my tongue. Ooh, do you think I could get a couple? It's not really a splurge, right? I could get five and I'd probably have them all eaten by noon tomorrow. Wow, just look at the shading in the skin, look, it's so pretty. Okay, I need this, I will die if I cannot consume at least one within an hour.”

Do you feel:

(a)confused and slightly suspicious of their behavior

(b)annoyed because you don't actually like mangos and people liking mangos is one of your pet peeves

(c)strangely pleased because you just witnessed the childlike happiness of a stranger

(Please say “c,” because this won't work if you don't.)

You probably walk away from the produce section a little bit happier, or at least amused. That's because joy is infectious, especially this type of innocent giddiness. We all long to experience it. Most of us may see glimpses of it: waking up on a cold morning and watching the beginnings of a sunrise from a delightfully warm bed, being alone when a song gets stuck in your head and singing it as loudly and dramatically as you wish, that niche moment before you begin the last task of the day and you know as soon as you finish this you can go home/go to bed/eat supper/etc. A sense of such deep satisfaction that you can actually feel it in your bones.

What if we could amplify this feeling?

What if we could prioritize it, be conscious about it?

What if we could make it a thought process as easy to access as our everyday complaints are now?

Maybe you have already done this. Maybe you don't even want to. Maybe I'm the only one who has ever smiled about moments like these.

But I hope I'm not.

Because in my lowly opinion, everyday joy is one of the most lovely things someone can experience.

It's pure. It's shareable. It's playful, shocking, enchanting. It's not a fireworks show, it's a firefly—and that's what makes it so alluring.

Now.

Imagine if you could not only access that headspace easily but could also make a habit of applying it to everyone you see.

How much happier would you be if you made a practice of seeking out the little things that impress you about the people around you?

Like when they reach out a hand to help someone up, or voluntarily include a stranger, or give impulsive compliments.

It's so easy for us to talk about what we don't like about those in our atmosphere. “I hate it when someone is picky about their friends.” “I can't abide nervous ticks like chewing nails and being jittery.” “I could never be friends with someone who leaves their towel on the bathroom floor.”

Why don't we make a habit of rephrasing these complaints into appreciation?

“I love open-minded people.” “Composure in stressful or nerve-wracking situations impresses me.” “Someone who prioritizes cleanliness is someone I will likely approve of.”

Could this, with practice, become our natural instinct?

It's the mindset I'm trying to cultivate by keeping my list of Reverse Pet Peeves.

And guess what?

Not only does adding a bullet point to the list make me think of the good things about the people I love, it also puts me in the most wonderful positive headspace.

Because nEwS fLaSh: if you spend your time thinking about things that bring you joy, odds are you're gonna be joyful.

Or maybe that's just the high of creating a list. Who knows.

A few of my personal Reverse Pet Peeves:

• matching the mood of the other person in a conversation (i.e. speaking seriously when they're being serious, whispering when they're whispering)

• collecting things, especially little things (shells, rocks, bottle caps, etc.)

• talking about a dream you had last night

• blowing kisses or making hearts with your fingers

• not being afraid to be seen as a Christian, praying or having your devotions in front of others

• acting friendly toward all staff of any building you enter

• offering to let a friend sleep on your shoulder when they're tired

Let me know some of your own RPPs in the comments—I’d be delighted to read them.

As always, love ya and take lots of care.

[*blows kisses]

• We have a navel orange tree, and there are two at Grandma K’s old house, which is just down the road and which we are keeping up until my uncles move in. Navel oranges ripen in the winter, and I never can get enough of them. Just writing about it makes my mouth water. I could grab one at any moment, scrape my fingernails against the pockmarked saffron skin, releasing the tang of citrus rind, and peel it apart section by section, the segments exploding between my teeth like bottled sunshine. In fact, perhaps I will.

• The cats come inside! Lucy, my darling calico, sleeps on my pillow now and again. If you visit our house, you’ll likely see Sherlock on a pillow in front of the fireplace, Josephine on a rocking chair in the rec room, and the Little Black Kitty1 curled up in blankets on my youngest sister’s bed. These are the days of “I can’t, a cat just went to sleep on my lap” and waking up in the middle of the night because Jo has just had an epiphany and is celebrating by dancing on top of the dresser.

• Candles on cloudy days. My sister and I have six around our room (and another I just received but haven't yet burned), and I have three in my studio. I love to go around and light them all at once, or pull up the blinds and light a candle on the sill against a rainy backdrop. If you want to treat yourself to the perfect candle this winter, look up the Darsee and David brand. Not super easy to get a hold of (check the website Mardel to find them in the pretty glass jars), but so beautiful and divine and absolutely worth it. I have Vintage Luxe, and it's close to burning out. Grandma J has Madagascar Vanilla & Cedar and I want to steal it every time I visit her house.

• Sweaters. Turtlenecks, loose-fit, oversized, knit (especially French cable). I have three of Grandma K’s—in fact, I have one on right now. Looking at the sleeves, I can even remember her wearing it. These are special, the most worn, but my sister and I put all of ours to good use. I wear them everywhere, even to bed.

Interlude: I’ve just looked up from typing and found that the sun has come out. Suddenly the breakfast table is golden, the exposed sides of the tree leaves are lit brilliantly. The siding glows a winter white. These are the little moments that carry me through the days.

Continuing:

• Hot drinks. Mornings, I stumble downstairs shuddering in the cold and put the kettle on, burner high. Hot tea2 is my automatic choice for a winter morning warm up, but now and then I indulge in other, less practical drinks. 2024 Honorable Mentions: D&D’s gingersnap latte, Starbucks caramel creme brulee, a friend’s chai (she makes it with whole spices and crushes the cardamom pods—couldn't get it better), high-grade Jasmine Oolong tea straight from Taiwan (Dad has a very generous Taiwanese friend), the London fog Grandpa made me.

• Gift shopping. I know some people find this stressful, but even if I take ten days to decide between two items it’s still a source of great pleasure for me. I mean, think about it: you’re buying something for someone and they don’t know what it is or where you got it from but they do know they’re getting something and you know you get to settle the suspense with something they’ll enjoy. Perhaps the experience is mostly unique to me, but every time I’m buying or arranging or wrapping a gift I get little shivers of excitement. I think most of the time I have more anticipation than the receiver.

• Art. I’m aware this is not a seasonal thing, but I know for myself I’ve noticed it more this winter. I think it’s the general mood of melancholy and contemplation brought on by overcast skies and earlier nights. I’ve been doodling a lot more and even dabbling a bit in watercolor again. Entertaining the idea that I’m an artist is always a fun delusion.

• Mushrooms3 in the lawn. Oh, oh! I start down the walkway and spot the caps spreading wide, umbrellas facing the sky. Every time I see them it makes me want to go foraging. I don’t think I can eat the ones in our lawn, but I bring one or two inside and slice them open on the counter and examine the gills anyway, letting my thoughts run down flights of fantasy in which the slices lay sizzling in a frying pan. (Confession: I have never actually cooked a mushroom. Other than me, my dad is the only one who enjoys them, and he only buys them for special occasions. For this reason, and the fact that I rarely get seafood, I consider myself underprivileged.4)

• Green rye fields. Everywhere. Behind and on both sides of our house, intermittently along the country roads. After the molting decay of November, the shock of green takes my breath away. Sometimes it makes me feel like a cheater—we don’t have real winter here, because even in December the ground looks like spring. But I’m not terribly angry about it, so it’s alright.

• Nutmeg and cinnamon. Oh, and cloves. And anise. I don’t think I need to explain myself. Go make chai cupcakes or eggnog or Christmas coffee and lift the spice containers right up to your face and take a deep breath in. I’m fairly certain that’s what my house in Heaven is going to smell like.

• Silence. Taking a walk in the fog and watching familiar landmarks disappear around me. Sitting in my studio and gazing out the window as the sun plays hide-n-seek with the heavy clouds. Standing still, breathing as silently as possible, and opening my ears to the quiet. Slowing my racing thoughts. Stopping in the rain to stick my nose in one of the last colorful roses. Noticing.

• Lessons from the Christmas story. I took the advice of a friend and asked God what He had for me this Christmas. I’ve never been more intrigued by the story of Jesus’ birth. I want to understand everything. The more I look into theology the more of an enigma it becomes. Which doesn’t discourage me as much as draw me in. I’ve been re-inspired.

• Letting myself enjoy coziness. Leaning against the hot fireplace glass on cold days. Wearing warm socks. Turning my studio heater up to 75 degrees. Holding a hot mug in both hands. Curling up in the backseat with a blanket on the way to the airport at night. Sitting in my windowseat with a chunky-knit blanket and a good book.5 If I let myself think of winter as soft, the mood swings no longer feel so harsh, but more of a gentle lowering into the pensive blue of a season that specializes in the process. It’s about looking forward to what comes after, but not longing for it—making yourself at home in the waiting.

It’s been easier this year. I am much more hopeful. January is usually the hardest, so I pray I take enough from Christmas to carry me through to spring.

Love to you all. Remember that you find what you’re looking for, even in the dark.

It's been raining since my alarm screamed me awake at seven this morning. For once, I actually felt ready to wake up. I didn't lift in and out of my typical morning fog; my eyes opened and stayed open.

I read the prelude to the Christmas story (the conceptions of Mary and Elizabeth) by candlelight.

I went to a coffee shop with a friend and sipped a gingersnap latte.

We came home together and I showed her my studio.

I texted my boss.

I read Substack posts and wondered if I'd ever start a blog as I'd been considering it since the beginning of time.

No one will read it, I thought. I'll vanish in the layers and layers of restacks and never actually write a post worth anyone else’s time, much less my own.

But you want to write, my inner poet nudged. And not just for yourself, because your own opinions on your own writings are becoming quite redundant.

And it's true.

The black smoke is going wild with its whispering. I do hope it doesn't stain the windowframe. But I will likely only sit here and watch it do so.

What does productivity really mean? Is it like success, defined by the individual?

Why has this morning, full of connection and stories and comparing reading lives felt so much more productive than yesterday, when I hardly even sat down to breathe?

I am forever getting upset at myself for not doing as much work as I possibly can. Part of it is due to having a small business that largely consists of custom orders, especially this time of year. If I am not working I am failing not only myself but my customers.

And yet most of it is simply feeling guilty for spending a day doing things I enjoy, even if they do happen to be useful.

I wish we had grown up in a society of fulfillment instead of production. Not that they can't exist at once—on most days, my job is quite fulfilling. And I believe being raised in a Christian home has lended more toward that mindset than I realize.

But is it not alright to measure ones life by the hours one has spent smiling than by hours clocked in, or by digits on a bank balance?

Every time I see a friend, one of the first questions we ask is some form of “Did you work today?”

And if one of us says, “Yes, I was busy from the moment I woke up til now,” the other says in a commending tone, “That sounds like a productive day.”

I want to stop that. I want to ask how your day was, and if you say, “I slept in and baked cookies and read five chapters in my book,” I will say in a commending tone, “That sounds like a productive day.”

Because really, I would much rather hear that you enjoyed yourself than hear how exhausted you are from a full day of work.

Wouldn't it be less tiring to wake up into a world where connection is currency? Where joy is prioritized, where jobs are only necessary subplots and are never allowed to stifle the soul’s desire to live and praise.

I want to see us being productive peacemakers, givers, observers, learners.

Ask me if I worked today, and I will say, “Yes, I was busy being happy from the moment I woke up this morning.”

Because turns out, “joyful” is the new “useful.”

Now please excuse me for a minute while I trim this wick before the window turns black with soot.