And still counting (12,402-12,443)

(God's) provision
a surgery date
(His) trustworthiness
(His) attention to detail

treasures in the journey
Comfort and Joy--full and front, waiting
this gorgeous weather
moving mulch
sizing down

Ruth
kids on bikes
coconut chocolate bread
time to weed
Sandy at the table

breakfast with Kellie
sunshine in the morning
that moon Friday night
Raul's cheery greeting driving by
Brewster in the field to play with Ruth

marshmallows
a bonfire
Sofia
Sherry
Anita

Val's encouragement
a new year on the horizon
books in the mail
a frog on the wheelbarrow
mums at a great price

juicy, ripe peaches
holes in my shoes
evening shopping with Lanie
Michi
Kristine

good lessons
freedom to read the Bible
my pillow
zinnias in bloom everywhere
grape tomatoes--a feast of them

that "JT" is on Youtube and I got to watch it with my daughter
for tears in new parts
medium shirts

Day story

August

Outside my window, sunrise, hawks, dew glistening across the lawn. The zinnias are full and colorful. The basil abundant. (The weeds are too.) Blue glistens in the back, and a chorus sings of locusts and crickets in the early morning.

Giving thanks for this day. For every day. For peace. For song. For presence.

In the school room, books are in and plans are penciled. I dream of school rooms. I love teaching. So happy to be home. When the last order arrived yesterday, our mail carrier showed up with the big box of books, and a dog cracker for Nella.

From the kitchen, the toast of toasts. Adapted from the cookbook Healthyish, a rival for favorite with Half-Baked Harvest. Oh, life's a feast.

1 slice gf bread, toasted
1/2 T olive tapenade (heart sings!)
1 ounce thinly sliced cheddar
1/3 avocado, sliced
a hit of pink salt
two hits of red pepper flakes

Approximately 254 calories, if you're counting.

I am thankful for peace. New levels of peace in my home. New levels of peace in my heart. When every month, a variation of a theme plagued me in the "let it go" section of goal setting, I finally, without a doubt, let it go. Or rather, I am in the process. How nice to lay on the mat and be quiet in body, mind and soul. How nice to sleep through the night (with the exception of Ruth waking me up!).

I don't want to forget the very good things of my life. When it's so easy to focus on hurts of the past, I miss out on the very joy in front of me. So it's nice to focus on this moment. The laughter of my kids. The warmth of a blanket. The pleasure of growing stronger. How the wind feels against my skin when I run. How my breathing regulates under the workload. How my muscles ache the next day. It's nice to appreciate how his arms feel bigger around me. The loyalty and companionship of two dogs. The way the house smells when I walk upstairs. And the savory, salty, spicy, buttery delight of that toast. It's all a feast.

Around the house, a slower rhythm. A week and a smidge left of summer before the school year starts. A month that's been jam-packed. I love homeschooling. I love teaching. But I'm still waiting for the creative surge to arrive. The freshness of a new start. Lanie tapped into something deep inside me when she said, "I hope nothing happens this year." I realized when she said that, I recognized a hesitancy and caution from too many things over a stretch of the past few years. The Celiac diagnosis and learning curve. That tough year at co-op. A battering string of deaths and loss in our family. The splitting pull of responsibilities. The heartbreak of betrayals. (We are changed.) I am changed. I look through the goal book and remind myself of all the good things that have come as I've narrowed my focus and dedicated myself. There is progress and there is growth. I am better off today physically, emotionally and spiritually than I was in January.

I am hearing the pacing clacking of dogs across the kitchen floor. This puppy that runs through the spaces squeaking her foxy toy as she goes. We are dog people.

A view of my favorite things:

waiting for the sunrise

muffins on the mountain

back to school planning

she leaves hearts

her art on the school table

a haircut and a special day out with this girl

This little love made me a grandmother.

Family cabana, repurposed.

Rembrandt. The rich darkness of Dutch artists.

This was the day that everything changed. It would be the catalyst for letting go. That smile? Acceptance. Perseverance. Faith.

At the table, it fills, it empties, it fills again.

"Everything happens around a table," Joanna Gaines. (Even a conference table.)

And still counting (12,369-12,401)

new distances
this transformation

August peaches
Sophia
a tractor, unstuck
texts with Cindy
the unexpected tree trimming at the power lines

my kids in the pool
butterflies and yellow birds
catching the sunrise on a run
listening for birdsong
a day out with Lanie to shop--so very fun

meeting a stranger and swapping numbers
chats with an owner after class
the comfy chairs at the library
that trio of boys, named all the names I'd have used for my boys
a baby that made me a grandma

Shane's hammer he used as a boy to smash rocks
a bathing suit, too big now
the great return of smiles at my own
joy
God's faithfulness

running into Reggie
tater tots
art museums and Dutch painters
a dedicated fryer
onion rings

twenty pounds down
the NSV of wearing my engagement ring again
a meeting up with a neighbor
our common cataract issues
chatting with Jackie

cold coffee

Looking ahead

I already printed out a 2019 calendar to post class closings, birthdays, and other important appointments.

Some of the birthdays aren't carried forward any longer--because someone has died or relationships are broken (the latter hard to do, a conscious decision to omit).

There are new dates too as newer relationships and celebrations and births and anniversaries become part of our life story.

But I stopped in my tracks when I was writing in Lanie's birthday. She will be seventeen next year. And for whatever reason, it stopped me hard. We are here already?

"Lanie!" I exclaimed to her. "You're going to be seventeen next year!"

"I know," she said.

I looked at her long. Oh, it went so fast. Wasn't she just a little a little while ago picking the best blueberries from the lowest branches of the bush? Weren't we just a pair getting our nails painted together at the salon? Wasn't she just playing with Barbies?

"I have always loved being your mom," I told her.

I never want my kids to doubt--I love them fiercely. I'm excited for their futures and want to encourage them in their pursuits. I have never wished them away or resented their interruptions (though when I'm writing, I do like silence. I do like grown-up time when a friend is over. And when it's 8 p.m., I am ready to retire the "mom" title till morning.).

I don't think my mom liked being a mother. But thankfully, I have met so many women who do like it, and they model their love well. I have learned so much from them. I wouldn't trade this for anything. I've loved all the years.

And still counting (12,336-12,368)

lunch at the picnic table in a park
bowling with Marshall's Mom and kids
a fun girls' day with Erin
her new 'do
lunch outside at her request

a day in peace and present
new running distances
the hospitality house mom who made note of my diligence
morning sounds on the morning walk
holes in my shoes

sunny days for field cuts
Ruth asleep at my feet
time with my kids
quiet time in the library
the dime on the road

and the nickel too
Sofia
Tracey
Shane
Marshall's Mom

Kellie
Rebecca
Christy
Becky
Joanne

for her heart revealed, truly, without a doubt

(Your) strength to stand
Lanie's brave words
tears that are caught
a good read

progress in goals

the ability to hug and offer heart to an enemy, still
clothes that fit again, like a whole new wardrobe

And still counting (12,321-12,335)

bunny crossings on the morning walk
a nest in the neighbor's mailbox
thunderstorms
fifteen pounds down
free textbooks

watermelon
burgers on the grill
cheesecake for dessert
flowers in bloom
the lush green of the field

worship
feeling smaller in his arms
holes in my shoes
seven years here
the difference here makes

Seven

I celebrate this day every year. The day we moved here. Sometimes I wonder if the family who bought our (former) house celebrates their day (I don't even remember what date theirs was, just that it was sometime in July). But here, I celebrate. This move meant everything to me.

Freedom. Peace. And later I'd discover new things that awaited us: community, healing, camaraderie, learning, growth. I'd get more involved at our church because of this move. We made new friends because of this move. My kids thrived because of this move.

We grilled last night and the kids wore glow necklaces and did a night swim. We listened to frog song and watched bats swoop past and Ruth sat behind my poolside seat, ever watchful of me. Oh, this place. Thank you, God.

This morning's run and our home tucked in a wonderland embrace. I love everything about here.

My kids learned to swim in our pool. They climbed fences and trees and built forts and rode bikes. There were teeth lost and treasures found (golf balls and all the rocks!). Their imaginations took root here and their futures are being shaped because of this home, here, in the woods. Home improvements, yard work, new tutors, a new co-op, new neighbors (how they have loved us and we have loved them back). God, thank you.

All the seasons, I've loved them all--and recently, especially, winter. The wood smoke, the woodland peace, the stillness in snow, the big front hill for sledding. This house is the stage to my kids' memories and those of our friends who have sat around a bonfire, played on the swings, swum in the pool, walked through the woods, tromped through the leaves, biked on the driveway, sat at our table.

There are years where seats at our table were full, and more recently, vacant. We have opened our doors to many new people, grown new relationships. We got a dog, lost a cat, got two more (loaner) cats, and added a puppy.

The captain's bell, the split rail fence, the gardens, the field, peace. I breathe in a summer sweet fragrance.

The years at that former house seem vague and distant. I looked through photos yesterday of that transition year of waiting and then going. I remember wondering if we were doing the right thing. And now in retrospect--oh, yes.

The former owner of this house sent me a reminder of our seven years friendship, and I told her I celebrate this every year. This wonderland.

Thankful every day. Every. Day.