Space to Write

It’s a grey January day. I haven’t written a post in almost a year and a half. Last I wrote, I’d been living a month on a raw piece of farmland and woods in a camper with my partner and one kitten. We knew starting from scratch would be both challenging and fun, and our expectations were definitely  accurate.

Eighteen months on the Jasper farm; I hate to put it as a list because I feel that diminishes each addition to our life. But here goes: one kitten turned into five kitties, currently sprawled in different corners of our off grid home. Kellen gave me my first farm animal, Gertie, a Nigerian Dwarf goat, in early March of last year. She was a gift of life, someone to care for and draw my focus away from the dreary winter that had been taking a considerable toll on my mental health on last winter. Little did we know about a week or so prior another little one began her journey of life in my womb.

 Gertie sparked our love for goats and we now have seven goats in the farm family, with two more doelings coming in March. In August, we took a family vacation to Tennessee and returned with our Great Pyrenees LGD Charlotte, better known as Charlie, from a sheep farm in Virginia. Charlie takes her patrolling and animal protection 85 percent seriously, with fifteen percent reserved for just chasing everyone because she can. Ah, a dog’s life. 

Near Christmas we had a some of the coldest, windiest days I’ve ever experienced from the edges of a storm that devastated the Buffalo area. The week before, Kellen announced he’d found a cow calf pair he’d really like to buy. They joined our farm family the day before the frigid days, and through much love and diligence on Kellen’s behalf (that man sure loves cows!) they not only survived but are thriving in their Jasper home. Just last week, we bought a pair of rabbits from a friend, and a few days ago we made a deal with a customer to trade three piglets for wood delivery. Phew!

So yes- it’s been quite a year and a half- and that’s just the animal additions.

 

On November 17, Kellen and I welcomed our daughter, Millie Jean Warriner, into the world. She is- miraculously- napping next to me as I write. I am so blessed to have this baby girl at 40, and I am truly trying to take each day with her as the gift it is. I am so excited to watch Millie live the good life on the farm, and hope she enjoys the opportunity of a lifetime as much as her daddy and I have had preparing it for her. 

I’ve had writing on the fringes of my thoughts for months. Writing has always been important to me, not only for self-expression, but as a way to track my journey and marvel at the wonderful miracles in my life. Writing keeps me mindful; it is a time I reflect on what I’ve accomplished since last penning a post. This can be particularly helpful on the grey January days when my focus gets narrow and a messy house overwhelming. 

I can’t say I have been too busy to write all these months; it was more that loving took priority. I wouldn’t call our life hard, I’ve had more fun and relaxing times than any other in my life. But it is a life of constant challenge and growth. One I’ve been more interested in living than writing about. While I’m still very much engaged in the living aspect, having a baby slows down my pace, and I know there are moments and memories I want to capture in my writing. It’s as much for my own benefit as for my readers. And so I make the conscious effort to give space for my writing, among the other precious activities I choose in this fabulous life. But now my daughter’s eyelids flutter, and so I shift from one love activity to another. 

 

Finding Our Places

Just a little path in the woods, or so it would seem to anyone looking for immediate gratification. Winding and buggy, the trail mocks my stupid wedge shoe choice and the bugs bite me, delighted at my absent application of a smelly girl lotion. I can almost hear them buzzing, “Yay! A delicious city idiot girl to feast upon!” Funny, that’s what I’ve been called in the new place I find myself. Probably other things as well but that’s just the way of curious humans. 

Ha. If only they knew, I thought with a smile. Sure, the town I now call my home is quite a bit more rural than here, no traffic lights as opposed to one blinking one, one place for coffee rather than two- and dirt roads are a bit more the norm in Jasper than Youngstown. But they are both little dots that rarely show up on anything but a county map, and that’s fine by me- they’re both my kinda place. 

I’m excited to hopefully have a new address for where I’ve been living with my love for the last month- that way I can surprise my grandmother when she asks, “And just where am I sending your birthday card this year?”

She’s hardly phased when it changes or remains the same. She’s used to my pattern-less pattern of life. Hey, no one gets to live this life as I do, who needs a pattern? 

I continue to pick my way down the path, that slowly opens to a sandy cliff over a small beach beside Four Mile Creek’s outlet into Lake Ontario.  Time to lose the shoes- truly if I could walk my whole life barefoot I would, and often do, skating just on this side of inappropriate settings for no shoes. I’d rather serve myself barefoot than not feel the earth beneath my feet and fit in to places where shoes are a prerequisite. 

Fitting in. Places. I chuckle inwardly at the images and memories that float through my head. I can’t say I’ve always felt I fit in well in new places, but that’s never stopped me from finding them. 

There was a time I was new to these shores that I now sink my toes into, an awkward girl of twenty-one, with the wit of a witch but the street smarts of a toddler, never mind lacking the experiences most girls get through middle and high school. I awkward-ed through those years, still somehow attracting kindred spirits, but never quite feeling “my place” in any of it. 

Then one day, while playing the wallflower desperately desiring to be a diva, I realized something. I could be a shy, invisible person for the rest of my days, or just- you know- try something new. The only failure is never trying, right? So I started just talking to someone- anyone- then everyone. Finding I could make a tired mother laugh, or an old man smile, was one of my greatest realizations in this life. Most of the world is looking for a place to call theirs, and if my presence is where they find it, I’m happy to share moments of love.

Since then I’ve led a squiggle line through life- often jumping off of just-peaking careers or opportunities to tackle a new one. Just settling into a place others thought would be “just perfect” and then venturing out into new unknowns. Call me crazy but you don’t always just quit when you fail, sometimes you see a higher peak from the peak you just climbed that you would have never known about had you never stepped foot to the first one. 

I don't regret any peak, place, or face I’ve encountered on my journey, and I’m fortunate to be able to return to most of them such as this little inlet on the lake and feel right at home. 

It’s not so much about leaving one thing for another, but adding to the places I can call my place in this life. Everywhere I go is my place, I just have to open my arms first to grasp it. 

I have since encountered so many people who tell me they feel out of place in life, and how do I manage my way?

I have no magic answer; I’m currentlyin a new place where I’m known as “city girl” and someone’s girlfriend, but I know I’m slowly becoming known as neighbor, friend, family- Bonnie. It’s a daily choice to fade into the wall or walk right into the center of the dance floor and recognize that everyone just wants a turn to dance with someone who can smile into their face and say, “I see this is your place too, glad to be a part.” 

So my place is actually many other people’s places; it was theirs before, others will come after me and join in place.  This beach is someone else’s special barefoot cove, and I’m happy to make my place among others who can find room in their hearts for a wayward soul such as mine. 

Are You All In?

Things are moving fast. And then they aren’t. But I’m part of a team that’s in constant forward motion and that’s all that matters. In the future I’d like to avoid forward motion during deer-a-palooza in Steuben County with a new car but some things are unavoidable.  Venison anyone?

The important thing is that no matter what life throws at us (or what dumb mammals jump out in front of us), our stride is wide and in step with each other in this life we’ve chosen to embark on together. And there are some wide strides we need to match sometimes. To put things in perspective for you he’s got three vacation scenarios planned away from our farm that is still technically in the planning stages. 

But that’s ok because he’s a big picture man and I

love me a big picture man. There are often multiple frames in view, but they are all part of the big picture. And big pictures take one hundred percent commitment. I can remember one of the first times I started getting worried and upset over the little steps between the big dreams he stopped me and said- I’m all in. Are you? 

For a dream this big and multi-faceted, it takes a 100% all in dedicated team, and the question is: 

Are you all in when the messy boxes of life need to be unpacked and sorted?

Are you all in when step two needs to happen before step one, because all that really matters is that we keep moving forward, despite all the neatly penned notes and plans? 

Are you all in when your partner just needs you to stop whatever you’re doing and cushion their exhausted fall, and hear you say, don’t worry, something will come up. 

We’ve both fallen into other peoples dreams and given every ounce of our energy only to find out those dreams were not only not our own, but not even fully committed to by the people we dedicated our time to. But this time is different. His dreams are my dreams, his burdens my burdens, we walk hand in hand together towards a sunset we create. And I’m all in. 

The first time he said the words I love you, I can’t deny I felt a flutter- but I’d heard those words before- and while I have no doubt every speaker meant the words, their love never reached the standard of what I considered it to mean. 

I needed to know that this man’s love met my definition. Love to me is a way of life. An art that must be practiced and grown in every day. I was brought up being taught that God is love- the very creator and pinnacle of our existence IS the essence of this word-how can it be anything other than a transcendent, all-consuming and fulfilling life experience? Anything less to me is man’s cheap imitation. When it comes to love and dreams he’s the cockiest idealist I know, matched only by my own ideals- and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

We met on a dating site. My profile opened with the words “Not girlfriend material.” He told me when he read those words he thought to himself “challenge accepted” and he definitely met the challenge. But it was true. I wasn’t girlfriend material. I wasn’t after what the 99% considered a relationship. I wanted a lifelong companion, but even this Word’s definition has been dulled in contemporary culture. 

I wanted someone to take life risks with- no safety nets but each others’ arms. I wanted to dream big and then do big, every single day. I wanted a love that was 100%- word, thought, deed- anything less and I wasn’t interested. 

Love was a lifelong art that I would always be growing to understand and practice better, and I wanted a partner with the same perspective. 

This isn’t a 9-5 job, it’s not an experience I’ll ever want a break from, it’s an all-consuming life companionship with intertwined life dreams and minute to minute actions that take us there together. And yes, I’m all in. 

Barefoot Journey, Heartfelt Home

 I haven't written a blog post yet this year. Oh I've written aplenty in the last three months: journal entries, feverish notebook pages filled with thoughts and plans and dreams. Budgets and lists and notes scattered around my room. None of it is irrelevant, even if some of the words just remain penned thoughts. For I can say that one thing I have learned to live: The journey is the journey. I'm unconcerned with destinations. Success to me is a life lived to my utmost heart-strength. I have written this blog for approximately four years now, with ebbs and flows in my step. If you were ever looking for a woman with a definitive, linear path, this is certainly not the story to follow. 

Now, I find myself poised for a turn in my journey that might appear off-track on the surface. Let me explain. In the next month or so, I will be moving to the NY/PA border to live and work on a farm in partnership (on multiple levels) with someone I can truly say is meant to be a part of my journey. I've been drafting this post in my head for this whole month since I met him. It isn't all that complicated really; I fell in love with a farmer. I met someone who shares my life dream. What else can I do but follow my heart with these bare feet to a place that feels like home?

I began this blog almost four years ago while living on a farm with a dear friend. The original name was Baking, Beekeeping, and Barefoot Gardening- my three dearest hobbies at the time. Other than a lapse in being able to keep bees, that hasn't changed. I explored ways to farm on that land; the timing wasn't right. I took a leap of faith and left my federal job to open my gardening service, a move I will never regret. I had a wild and passionate dream to open a coffee shop/bakery/farm co-op in Arcade which due to circumstances out of my control, I had to abandon- for the time being. I found a farm training program to attend for Veterans, and met the most wonderful group of farmer Vets that I am now grateful to call family. While there, I felt as a single person I was not in an ideal position to farm alone. Now, I will say this: if Bonnie sets her heart to something she CAN do anything, but I truly did not want to farm alone. Farming to me is about family, community, and working together on the land for a shared purpose. Most of the joy derived is from the efforts and time spent with other like-minded people working towards a common goal. 

So I decided my best course of action, or what was originally called Plan B, was to help my Veteran farmer friends on their farms until maybe someday, I found my place in the farming world. Thus, the Van Plan was born. I would travel to Veteran farms, blog about them, offer content writing, tell their stories, work on their farms, and help bring them together through my journey. This plan has been in the planning stages for 2+ years. I took a loan out in 2019 to have cash on hand to buy a short bus at an auction when the right one came along. After sifting through many road-weary buses, and heeding the advice of mechanic friends and my ex-husband who is a truck driver, I shifted focus to buying a van. Then, the pandemic hit. My life wasn't much affected, but Van Life would have been extremely difficult in 2020, and I am grateful I didn't pull the trigger last year. 

This winter I worked my tail off in 3+ jobs to save money for the van. The down payment money is sitting in my savings account. The goal was at the start of landscaping season where I would be pulling a heftier paycheck I would buy the van and begin buildout, when I would have cash flow for payments and building materials. This summer I could live in a semi-built van and take short trips as the work progressed. As is normal, distractions came and went, yet I remained focused. This was the dream, the journey, and I was all but in the driver's seat. 

Enter Kellen. Yes, I'll put his name right in here, unlike past posts where I would talk about a figure in my life without revealing identity. Why? Because they were transient I know in my heart he is part of my journey. I have no doubts this is where I am meant to journey. It happened fast, which if you know me is nothing unusual. One day I'm at a desk, the next I'm leasing and tearing apart an old building to open a store. One moment I am journeying alone ready to travel the country in a van, the next I find myself in love and on my way to a place that feels like home. My best friend says that she cannot go too log without talking to me otherwise she will have too much to catch up on in Bonnie World. I have been affectionately called a vagrant, and I'm sure less than affectionately called similar terms to describe a life few understand. No matter: I believe life is meant to be lived to the fullest, and as I find passions and opportunities that call my heart, I listen and follow. This is the barefoot journey. I feel the life-earth through barefoot living and follow where I'm called. While it is true that I have led a rather transient life for most of my adult years, I was pleasantly surprised to hear my mother voice who I truly am when I called to tell her I was moving to live and love a farmer and the van plan was on permanent hold: a soul that seeks to be grounded and close to the earth and a place I can call home.

I want to farm. I want to tend the earth. I want to have a family and community that I tend with all my heart and soul. This includes my veteran farmer friends, and I will continue to pursue my mission to tell their farm stories. I still have plans to travel to veteran farms to network, help, and write. I also hope to someday be able to open my doors to farm friends as part of the plan as well. Maybe there will be a van, but know this- whether we see it clearly or not, or even understand it right now, there is always, always a plan. 

In conclusion, I will continue this blog, for its purpose has never changed. Neither, truly, has mine. I have been on a journey to find home, to find my place, a place where I can live out my life-passions for both myself and my community. And I can hear quite clearly, the farm calling my bare feet home. 

The Ginkgo Bowl and Possessions of Yesterday

 It’s 3 am. I should be sleeping after a 10 hour day of work but I need to write, specifically on the word “need”. This insomnia came from snowfall brightening my window and I’m guessing resulting in my brain thinking it’s morning. Either way, it’s a peaceful insomnia. I scrolled through social media; it’s interesting all the night owl posts you miss when your bedtime is consistently before 10pm. My dear friend Jill, who has a very similar life mindset, posted a thought-provoking article on the Diderot Effect and controlling overconsumption. I’d never heard of it before, but the article defined this 18th Century theory on possessions as “the introduction of a new possession into a consumer’s existence will often result in a process of spiraling consumption.”

I could very much identify with the article’s points of how buying one new thing leads to a desire for more “new things” that are of similar status to this new thing. While I feel I’ve mostly broken that purchasing trend, I face a similar issue of possession that I need to break- here and now- to break into Van Life. This is the attachment to possessions. I’ve culled my own belonging several times in order to become minimal enough for the van, while also trying to liquidate for some on hand cash I’ll need for van payments. Oh yes, I’ve given away and sold quite a few lovely things, and yet I still have many possessions. I’ll use that word specifically because each time I attempt to look critically at what’s left (and there’s a LOT left) I nostalgically reminisce on how much this or that means to me, or justify that even though I haven’t worn a particular dress in years- I’ll need it someday. 

 Take for example my ginkgo bowl. The first time I visited Graycliff I saw this bowl, a beautiful handmade piece of pottery that I just loved. I looked at the price tag, and although far from the spendthrift I am today, upwards of $80 for a decorative piece was not a justifiable price for an impulse purchase. Yet, the bowl lingered in my mind and I ended up calling the shop a few weeks later, only to find out it was discontinued. The shop clerk, however, ever vigilant for a sale, assured me that he could contact the artist to create one just for me. Uncharacteristically I agreed and $90 some-odd dollars later the beautiful bowl came into my possession. It’s several years later, and the ginkgo bowl continually finds itself at the center of any of my living spaces, beautiful to look at, but with little other purpose than to make other items on the shelf unfit to be alongside it, itself useful only as a collection point of business cards I used to collect. I don’t need it. The ginkgo bowl, along with so many other things I own, has no place- and more importantly- use- in the Van Plan. I’ve irrationally wrestled with giving it away, how could I just give up such a lovely piece that personifies my style- and to whom would I gift it? I couldn’t possibly sell it to a stranger- it means too much! Only after reading the above mentioned article did I recognize this unhealthy attachment to my possessions and the self-worth I assume based on their possession. Add to that the self delusion that anyone else would of course assign similar worth to these items- just because I loved them.As always, writing these things down helps solidify their lunacy. If I truly desire to live the Van Plan life now there is no room for possessions of status, or defining of worth based on what I own. I seek a life that will not be easy to maintain, and certainly not attainable if I value things over being. 

I know I’ve come a long way from the girl who would easily spend $200 on a shopping trip with no need other than that if getting something new. The only store I enter regularly is the grocery store (my food habits will need to be addressed in a later self-evaluation) and occasional local shop for gifts. These habits formed more from my employment choice of choosing passion over paycheck and adjusting to a much smaller budget as opposed to self-examination of possession attachment. 

Now, having realized my roadblock, everything must go. No more nostalgic feelings attaching importance to objects- whether it be deriving self-worth from owning lovely things or the memories the item stirs. . Memories and objects get me nowhere on the road to Van Life. I often weary of listening to certain people reminisce over the same memories year after year, with no new additions to their memory bank. It seems dismal to remain attached to a single, circular set of the same memories that seem to play like broken records for an otherwise uneventful life. I feel the time for memories to take full center stage in my life is that day I can no longer physically make them. A day I pray is far in my future, but of this I am certain, it is not today. 

Guilt over selling or giving away thoughtful gifts must also be set aside. Friends: if you see a gift you purchased for me up for sale, I hope you understand it’s true worth is in propelling me towards my dreams, and that I value our friendship far more than the tokens of it we’ve exchanged over the years. 

 And so, the ginkgo bowl must go, along with every earthly possession that cannot presently be of use inside the van or needed for present living. If there is anything of mine you desire, please ask for it; I’d gladly fill friend’s homes with things I once loved. You might be gifted one of them either way, and what you do with it is truly up to you. Things are things, I seek connections and experiences first and foremost.  I can hold on to a dress, or a bowl until I die- but the relinquishment of possessions of yesterday results in the realization of my dreams today. 

Craftswoman of Connection

 "Bonnie, put down the phone, and pick up your pen."

 I've always had an unhealthy addiction to my phone; I don't deny it, and my addiction can be justified (somewhat) by the social media accounts I run for a non-profit and a few businesses, as well as the online class I'm teaching. But not really. That's hardly why I pick up the phone. I'm constantly checking- for what- I can't even say entirely, but as I've been giving myself time to think about it, I know why I look. I'm looking for connection. I'm looking for a virtual substitution to all the hugs I've had to forego this year. I cannot tell you how hard it was to train myself not to reach out and hug people during these past eight months. I'm a "hug first ask for forgiveness later" type of person. I can't tell you how many handshakes I've mutated into hugs in my life. People need hugs, and I can usually feel their relief in the return squeeze once I've initiated it. I'm small, but I'm a good, solid hug. It's my thing.  Thank goodness my son loves physical touch as much as I do, and he never turns down a hug from me. Thanks, Joe, you are truly a wonderful human. 

I'm writing today primarily to break the technological bond I've created with my phone to fill the hole of human bonds. That sounds ridiculous once I've typed it, but it's true. I find I can't read a book like I used to; every page or so, I pick up my phone- and this habit ruins the reading experience. To read, you leave your reality and enter the book's reality. It's a wonderful suspension that I have enjoyed all of my life. If a book is good, I'll forego sleep to stay suspended in its world. I want that back. I need that back. I've just started a book I just know is one that can take me for hours into another connection. I struggled just the same with the first few sittings. Now, I turn my phone off to read. Honestly, nothing in the world matters as much as my own mental health.  There. I typed it. Now to believe it. I can change nothing in the world around me other than my way of living and moving through it.  Have to believe that one too. 

I still have astronomical goals I set for myself. I would like to say I'll try to be a bit more realistic with them, but I don't think that is going to happen. I don't mind being alone. As a matter of fact, I very much prefer working alone, sleeping alone, and having large blocks of time in nature alone. But I am a creature of connection. I enjoy connecting with others, connecting others to each other, and others connecting to me. Through military leadership training I discovered I was a natural facilitator, and this role follows me to almost every work and social position. 

What's ironic is that all my connections that I truly long for NEVER come through social media. The people I've lost touch with, even before the pandemic, oh, they're all on there, and lurk at the edges of my profiles, but we don't connect on there. I've honestly slowly replaced people with accounts of botanical art, plant memes, and inspirational quotes. People's baby pics and other repetitive media still slither in, but it's not connection. I don't even know what it is. It's a poor substitute for human interaction, that's for sure. 

I find that any time I make a drastic sudden change, I'm not one for sticking to it. I'm better with the slow, sure, stepping away from a thing or habit. It's honestly the same way I learn. I would consider myself a slow learner, mostly because I do not feel confident about a thing until I am well practiced. Others have always called me a very fast learner, but my confidence far lags my mastery. I don't practice something confidently until I excel. I practice something slowly and methodically, and somewhat timidly, until I excel. That might sound like an odd distinction, but it is something I know about myself. I rarely give advice for the same reason, unless I am pointedly asked. I wasn't always like this. Part of it developed from a friendship and observing this friend's mannerisms. This friend isn't one to voice an opinion unless asked. But ironically, he is always being asked for advice or an opinion. When he gives it, there are tempering words, such as, 'in my experience' or 'from what I have seen' or my favorite 'most generally'. No, my favorite would have to be 'I don't know'. For one of the most knowledgeable in their field, that is a phrase he says often and without chagrin. There's not tempering it with- "But I'll find out for you!" or any guessing shills. He knows what he knows and that's all he'll tell you. But I digress.

I'm actually picking up writing this post a few days later than the above, after my most inspiring day of
the week- Monday. Yes indeed, there was genius in making Monday Woodworking Day. As winter progresses, the one day will turn into several. I am pleasantly surprised how much I love woodworking. It is a magical craft and skill that I am just in the very beginning stages of learning, and the possibilities are truly ENDLESS. Right now I build weaving looms under the guidance of long time craftsman Craig Vogel, owner of Lost Pond Looms. It has been a wonderful friendship from the start, from the music he has introduced  me to, as well as talking about so many subjects and his wonderful teaching and encouragement as I learn this new craft. Truly friends: find mentors in multiple disciplines. Not only will they teach you their craft, but lessons from their life spill out and over in everyday conversations. Plus, the man has great taste in music and knows all the history to every musician that comes over the speaker. This connection is truly a blessing, and not only for a year such as 2020. 

Woodworking gives me the same space to ponder things as weeding a garden does, There's usually one or more power tools running so we only talk during breaks. Today, I pondered about how at 38, I am picking up an entirely new craft, and the possibilities for future work and creation are inspiring. Then I began to think about all the different "jobs" I've had since I was 15, when my mom signed a slip so I could take my first legal job as a library clerk. I can't remember what I "wanted to be when I grew up" as a child. I thought about how odd it seems to me that we condition children that what they will be  is usually a job title. Teacher. Firefighter. Lawyer. Doctor. I've never been good at defining one career for myself. And today, I realized why. I don't want to be one thing, or identified by the work I perform for money- at least, not anymore. Oh, I went through those years where I was proud to puff out my chest and say I worked for the federal government, or I was a horticulturist, or a teacher. But no, I don't want any of those titles to define me.

 I have one goal in being, and that's a van (or bus) dwelling woman who travels and connects Veterans to resources, their own potential as farmers, and the public to them, as well as share my abilities and skills with them when I visit. I want to be armed with so many tricks up my sleeve and hats I can wear to be able to lend all of myself to the people I connect with on my journey- be it by digging the earth, framing out a door, crocheting a scarf, capturing a photograph, or crafting words to tell their stories. I strive to be a multi-skilled craftswoman who can put my heart, soul, and hands to work for those I love- and those I have yet to love, on this journey. 

I just KNOW woodworking will plan a role in the Van Plan. Not only is Craig going to let me use the shop to build out the conversion, but the skills I'm learning will travel with me and are added to an arsenal of experiences and skills I've learned in the different jobs I've had over the years. Have you heard that Disney song, Try Everything? I take it to heart, and I'll never turn down the opportunity to learn a new skill or job that truly lights my passion. So I won't go to my grave having over 20 years in a steady secure career. Good! That's not the goal! My goal is a lifelong journey of connection and learning, and I must say, looking back over the last twenty-three years of "work" my direction has stayed consistently on point for such a storied career path.  I'll end this post by saying I've recently started an Etsy shop, Heron and the Chickadee, where I intend to sell prints of my photography, as well as other hand made creations, and some day soon, my wood crafts. The name will have to be another story. My life is full of stories, and I plant to keep on crafting them with every new day I'm given. 

Skin Splitting

I haven’t written at all this year. And here it is September.  I feel so far from that brave person who articulated thoughts, dreams, and direction nearly every month on this page. For I feel that I have done none of those things this year. I have plodded through months of uncertainty concentrating on one steady foot in front of the other. And this is no condemnation on myself, merely an observation. I am careful to avoid all words that have been used to the point of wear for this year. This year like no other. Oddly, one of tremendous change yet based on my lofty goals, no real movement. My bus is still a series of plans in several notebooks.

It’s not as though I have been idle; I have been extremely occupied. This year required flexibility, I was needed- as a mother, a colleague, and that’s where I’ve been. I regret nothing. Time is precious and I can truly say it was spent on the precious this year. In the end, my progress is judged by the fullness in my heart, which is overflowing with Loves. Therefore 2020, your demand for a detour seems appropriate. But the dream returns as an unsatisfied hunger pang- and so I turn to my writing to focus my thoughts. 

One thought that came to me the other day was: 

Why do we always compare our growth to the metamorphosis of a butterfly?

All the instars blurred together as mere development for the final, beautiful stage. And yet, there are many insects whose mid-life cycles are more valuable than their final emergence. In fact, one could argue that the final stage of the butterfly is highly valued more because we as humans can easily recognize it and find it aesthetically pleasing. 

I recently was able to spend quality time with a dear friend that I have not seen since May. She commented that she knew it was way too long- not only for nourishing our friendship but also that whenever we went long periods without seeing each other I was the type of person to go through complete metamorphosis and she knew she had to get caught up to wherever life had taken me these past months. 

And it’s true. I haven’t written in my blog since December of last year. I re-read my post, as I always do, to gain insight into where I left off the last time I was inspired to write. To see if I’ve had any shifts in viewpoint. In life trajectory. To gain perspective for my current instar. You see, I don’t believe in doggedly pursuing ANYTHING that no longer serves my growth. I don’t mean this to sound like I make 180 degree turns, but more the splitting of skin that no longer houses the next stage of growth I find myself. Some instars are merely bigger goals that mirror a previous stage, while others are seemingly complete transformations with wings or new legs with which to journey. 

So where, exactly, am I right now? I have been voraciously munching on nourishment- building strong friendships and alliances, practicing my craft in the field, and lastly moving to a new home where I feel free to relax my guard- and write again. Oh I know the mantra, write every day whether you feel it or not, but to me writing isn’t a “practice” or a “job”. It is verbal explosions that come close to these transformations, literal markers whereby I can record the next stage of my life path. These ten months were a time of necessary nurturing, an unavoidable pause to fatten up on love, both to my son, myself, and a tight circle of people that I carry in my heart. And now, I feel the skin splitting. My arms and feet aching to move in ways the previous me was incapable of doing. I don’t guarantee wings and a striking array of colors. I can’t say anyone will even recognize the change. But I feel it’s undeniable presence, as only a transient being of uncountable life stages can.