One more day

When the social worker told 22-year-old me that my mom had two weeks left to live, I cried. She asked, a bit unaffected, "What do you want, Courtney? One more day?"

I did. I wanted a day that would make up for all the losses. For all the wounding. For an entire lifetime we wouldn't share. One more day to squeeze in something meaningful. Something that would last.

As I sat in the car watching horses in a pasture, I got a phone call from Linda's sister, with the news that Linda died. Her sister's voice was worn. And sad. My thoughts couldn't land long on this ground. The brevity of the call, as the news sinks in, I process so many feelings. 

Oh, that I had had one more day with Linda. 

I'd catch her up on everything, as if it even matters. I'd tell her all the things I discovered that were hidden. Tell her of the way I've spent these years. Show her videos of Lanie's performances. Tell her Erin is still just as stubborn at meal times; how she has a deep affection for animals, and for justice--her unyielding spirit will take her far. I'd tell her about chickens and coops and gardens. I'd tell her about running and schooling. I'd tell her about her house's transformation into a community hub of nurturing and education. 

I'd tell her I loved her. I'd tell her she was so very dear to me, and that I've missed her the most of all of them these years. 

There's a frame of wine corks in my kitchen of all the Friday night wines we shared over the years. She gifted me cake plates and serving dishes. I could tell her things, and I knew the words fell on safe ground. She would listen. She would nurture. And though she never had any children of her own, she influenced so many lives of so many little children as a pre-school teacher. And though she wasn't my mom, she filled the space of a mother's place in my life. 

Oh, one more day. One more day to laugh with her. One more day hold her hand. One more day to tell her these words I always wanted to tell her, "You were enough because Christ was enough." 

But I don't need to say any of those things to her now as she woke to glory and peace. A friend once shared with me how we live with veiled eyes here, but in heaven, we will see clearly. We will know. And now she knows.

Thankful for Miss Linda. Always. 

 

Unplanned

That day that we thought about putting our house on the market--the year didn't start with that thought. And in the purging and tidying of our home, I didn't think to take a last picture of how our life was. And then everything was different. I did take pictures of a changed house and an empty house, though. 

That day watching my dad drive down the driveway for the last time. I didn't know it would be the last time, but I felt an urgency to stay at the window and watch him. Watch him turn onto the road, out of sight. I didn't know that I would feel that way when he came over. When I handed him cocoa to warm his hands and warm him up in my old, cold house. 

That day I put on running shoes, almost on a whim. In his book, I'd read Hal Elrod ran and I thought, "That's not me. My knees are bad." I didn't know then how much I'd love running. Didn't know I'd raise the bar a little higher each year. Didn't know how it would shape me. 

That day, of the several different times, walking the woods with Erin when Nella ran off. I think the battery died in her collar and she wandered off. A forever adventurer. I think that was the time we'd seen an abundance of fox activity, and she is a foxhound. I managed to get out of teaching my grammar class that day to walk the woods with my daughter. Took pictures of interesting vegetation. Took a video of the woods because the audio was bird song. Walked long before we got the call that Nella was snoozing in someone's tulip garden. Didn't know that was mere days before the "two weeks to slow the spread" ... That I wouldn't see my class of sixth graders again. That nothing would ever be the same.

There have been days where hunches were confirmed (why are hunches rarely good? Never like, "I had a hunch you were going to buy me a new pair of running shoes," but more like, "I had a hunch you were insincere."). Days I didn't know would be the last a friendship would ever be the same. Days I didn't know were the last I'd attend that church, enter that building, see that person, be able to do that thing. 

A friend's son died. Shane and I thought on the last time we saw him. "Wow, he didn't know he had only a few years left," Shane reflected. 

Sometimes change is planned. And sometimes it comes unexpected. 

Every day, I sit and savor the feel of a breeze, the gentleness of a light rain, the delight of ice water on a hot day, the morning song of birds and roosters, the loyalty of a dog at my feet, the warmth of my husband holding me as I fall asleep, my kids' laughter and run-on chatter, nature's fragrance in the air, the feeling of home, the heart safety of a chosen few, the deep gratitude for kindreds, the food in my fridge, the clothes on my back.

Remember well.

And still counting (15,526-15,602)

 Anita with the baby chicks, hanging out with her in the afternoon, the sweetness of a Ruby Red Grapefruit, cooler mornings, the fullness of the trees

coffee with cream and sugar, a last swing on the playset, a scooter in red for Caden, juicy cold and sweet watermelon, texts with friends

leftovers in the fridge for lunch, books to read, a grocery run, Cara and Erin, vitamins

a gentle summer rain at the end of a hot run, yellow blossoms becoming sweet fruits, a cool evening breeze, cuddles with chickens--how Prim loves to be first out and lets me kiss her, Ruth asleep at my feet in the mornings while I read

clean clothes, a good deodorant, triple long runs, the start of honking southbound geese, a friend who gets me

growth, boundaries, red flags, her first paid job, their farm on sweet acres

their horses, their turkeys, their chickens, their story, new friends

for no shame in the game, health, burgers on the grill, garden cukes, Thursdays

frozen blues in yogurt after a hot run, Lisa T, that she's my people, a swim date with the girl in her science class, a garden mentor

a morning with Michi, the cutest little red scooter for the cutest little 3-yr-old boy, friends who are "no until", but especially friends who are "no at all", Erwin

an excellent Saturday workout, vision boards, the color crossing off of tasks completed and goals achieved, emails with Nadine, a talk with Kristine, getting clear on boundaries

an early morning sunrise viewed from the rear view mirror, that woman who posted in NextDoor that we aren't alone, the volunteer t-shirt, race morning vibes, the bikers on the course (loved them!)

a super fun shopping excursion with Erin, that skirt with the zipper and the buckle, the feeling of wanting to wear fall clothes even though it's still 90 degrees outside, back-to-school excitement, a roof on the coop

for being there for the first fill up, blackberries, chicken cuddles, a rainy week, the way the coop looks white washed

self-defense with friends, good sleep, that crazy big moon at the top of the driveway on a morning run,  ice water, vitamins 

Lanie in the newspaper, Erin's first day on the job

 

Heat advisory

It's August. 

I don't remember the date it was over, when I died to face the resurrection. I just know it was August 2018. 

This morning I went for a 3-mile run and physical therapy workout. I was out before the sun crested the treetops. I was drenched in sweat before I finished, but I felt sure that I could have gone for five miles. Or seven. I waited. 

This week I scanned the mornings for temperatures, dreaming of next week's low of 60s. Oh, those days are going to feel amazing.

But today felt amazing in the midst of a heat advisory. Granted, it's only 75 degrees at 7, but my dread-o-meter kicks in around 72. Heaven is somewhere between 45-60 degrees. 

I thought on a comment I read online by someone I went to high school with. I felt the disappointment (perhaps disgust) of his perspective, embracing a mindset because it didn't affect him personally. I ran harder. I knew I could run circles around him. I knew I could run circles around him every day.

In 2018, I was already well on my path to wellness. I had lost a lot of weight. I was already regularly exercising. I looked and felt younger than I had in a long time. And that day at the table, that day I died and was left for dead, the day that preceded the resurrection, because you have to die to self before you can be reborn, it's not noted on my calendar (it could have even been this date), but it is inscribed on my heart. 

Happy August, self.

I was done with my run and drenched in sweat by the time some people were waking up. 

On, on. 

***

A woman in a running group asked for encouragement and I shared, "I never give my mind a say." Wrote how I could come up with any number of excuses or barter myself out of completing; how my mind could sabotage my very goals if I let it. 

Ten

I heard a saying, "If you have to move even three inches to be happy, you'll never be happy." I heard it years ago, and I have argued with it ever since. Ten years ago we moved a lot more than three inches. We moved here. 

Our old neighborhood was beautiful--the most beautiful place I'd ever lived (by my standards then). It was a house we built. A house we grew into with both furniture and people. And the kitchen was my absolute dream because it was so big. But outside the walls of my house, I wasn't happy. I wasn't making the deep friendships I wanted for myself or my kids. Not even that, our family was the target of jokes and pranks. Yeah, a lot like Lot choosing the greener fields, I realized you can't judge on outward appearances. I was relieved when Shane one day dropped down some listings in front of me. We were ready for a change, and we chose something that was exactly opposite of what we had. I couldn't even entertain the thought of a home that remotely resembled that house we left.

We chose an older house in the woods, removed from the sight of neighbors. We have boxy rooms. We have doors to close. We have close and cozy. We have hills, field, woods, a pool. It's opposite here too--privacy and peace. And the neighbors here have lived here a long time. This area has been their home, one man building on family land after he was raised here. In fact the original owner's son of this house built down the road. And the son of the family that we bought from also built on neighboring land. 

It's a lie to say you won't find happiness if you can't find it where you are. Maybe that lie is why people stay stuck in jobs they hate. Or why people stay in bad relationships. Or why people repeat generational cycles--because maybe they're afraid to step out in faith to change. Maybe they think they never will find happiness. Maybe they're fine with good enough. Or maybe they're afraid of something worse.

Happiness was right here. In fragrant field, in soaring pines, in frog song and bird song. Happiness was here in tree limbs and fences to climb, and running track, a stretch of driveway for bike riding. Hills for sledding. Gardens for beauty and imagination. A nook for poetry teas, musical performances and birthday celebrations. The cherry tree. The pool. The raspberries growing wild along the perimeter. Bonfires, woodstove fires. Windows trimmed in white lights. Our swing set! The captain's bell. Bleeding hearts, columbine, hydrangeas, rhodes. This house is my year-round wonderland. 

I joked recently with a friend that one thing the old neighborhood prepared me for was how to stand alone--and for that, I am sincerely and eternally grateful. 

For the longest time, I looked at the disappointments and wounds in my life as fractures, and often divided time by them: before and after the move, before and after the diagnosis, before and after my dad died, before and after I resigned. At some point, and I'm not sure when, only when I wrote it out (to her) in a text, did the perspective shift from fractures to chiseling. These events didn't wound me and make me weak--although at times that's how it felt--they fell off in heavy chunks, chiseled away to shape me and reveal me. When all the weight of things I carried began to fall away, there was freedom. Lightness of being. Peace. Happiness. 

So maybe a stuck job or a bad relationship or a generational mindset or rejection feels like a life sentence. It's not. It's ok to set boundaries and dream dreams and seek out your people. I read a book called When to Walk Away by Gary Thomas, and I felt peace accepting that some things aren't good (for me). Some people actually distract or prevent you from being and doing who and what you were made to be/do. 

It's hard to believe--we lived in our last house ten years before we moved. And here we are, ten years here. Home is deeply meaningful to me. Thank you, God, for redemption. Thank you for this wonderland beauty. Thank you for peace.

Celebrating ten years here. Celebrating life. Celebrating freedom. Celebrating lessons in losses. Celebrating resilience. You don't have to stay stuck where you are, you can move, move on, let go. 

Day story

 August 2021

Outside my window, in the space where the playset once was, stands a structure in progress to become our chicken coop. I'm so excited. I bought paint. Michi is making me a sign, "God bless our coop."

And I quote, 

"It was that time when everything seems hopeless, when to go on seems futile, and when a small act of kindness, another step, a sip of water, can make you realize that nothing is futile, that going on--especially when going on seems so foolish--is the most meaningful thing in the world." (Eat & Run by Scott Jurek, p 183.)

and

"You can hurt more than you ever thought possible, then continue until you discover that hurting isn't that big a deal." (Eat & Run by Scott Jurek, p 185.)

Giving thanks for an attitude changed so that we could all enjoy the experience. Sometimes you can get/achieve something, but the accomplishment/victory seems deeply shadowed by conflict/attitudes/etc. I'm so glad that this journey could be delighted and enjoyed by us all. Thank you, God. Thank you so much.

In the school room, stacks of books to read from the library. Ever since I decided to get out of my own head last summer and into books, I have been devouring books. It's been so wonderful.

From the kitchen, smoothies and salads. In an effort to get off this plateau, I decided to get really serious about my choices. Looking mostly at plant-based meals and whole foods. Really trying to avoid packaged items. I batched a week's worth of delicious green smoothies for breakfast. They're in the freezer, and I take one out before my run so that it's defrosted by the time I get back. Lunch is a ginormous salad. Dinner is whatever I make it to be and can include gf breads or pastas. It's nice to have my two most vulnerable meals prepared.

I am grateful. Grateful for ten years here, and ten years there. Grateful for cool mornings and long runs. Grateful for his "not no" to chickens and that he holds them too. Grateful for so many years my kids enjoyed a playset. Grateful for a week of their interest and love for baby chicks.

I don't want to forget the last swinging on the set, looking up to a beautiful summer sky, the creak and sway of the swing, the way the world seemed to pause. I remembered especially swinging Lanie to sleep when she was two. All the times friends came over and climbed and slid and swung. Reading books together in the tower. Being the mom who slid down slides instead of watching from the sideline. And the monkey bars that I never seemed to master. Thank you, God, for a good, sturdy playset that lasted their childhood. Thank you for pieces of it we are incorporating into the coop.

I am reading Eat & Run by Scott Jurek (I just finished his book North.); DIY Hydroponic Gardens by Tyler Baras; Red Scarf Girl by Ji-Li Jiang; The New American Homestead by John Tullock; Irreversible Damage by Abigail Shrier; In Beauty May She Walk: Hiking the Appalachian Trail at 60 by Leslie Mass. And thirteen others in queue ...

Around the house, grass to cut. Weeds to pull. A celebration of ten years here. Readying for a fall school year. Is this the first year I haven't dreaded the school year? I can't be sure, but it's definitely a year I'm looking forward to. Erin and I will be taking to bikes, watercolor, chicken raising, and fun reads.

I value health. I went into a used equipment store yesterday, and I was shocked at how packed it was with equipment and not people. When I run, I run for and run against all the people who can't and who won't. It's no longer a question of if I feel like it or want to. It's just something I do. I'm not making excuses, and I'm sick of hearing other people's excuses. You don't have to begin again if you never gave up in the first place. It all comes down to what you value. If you value comfort and ease over health and discipline, guess what's ultimately going to win? Be honest and be careful with the things you truly value.

I am hearing baby chicks chirping. It is lovely. It is the sound of a dream come true.

On the letterboard: Home Sweet Home

A view of my favorite things:

We're good.

Truth

Effie: White-Crested Black Polish

Clove and Effie: first days

Sweet Sunday of rest. Enjoy your August!

Good reads

loveload

Beauty

Sweet summer

Here comes the coop

 

At the table, I made our celebratory burgers last night instead of this coming Thursday (the day we officially bought this house) because I didn't get to the store yesterday to buy things I needed for what I originally planned. Lanie asked me if other people celebrate the day they moved someplace. I don't really know. But I know that I celebrate here every year. Grateful. Home sweet home. All the years and memories. Celebrating.

And still counting ... (15,416-15,525)

 a fun day trip, the safari open-air bus, that longhorn, safe travels, that he didn't say no to chickens

books on chickens, baby chicks at the Tractor Supply Store, the field--cut, our neighbors, texts with Suzanne about chickens and gardening

The Cure, the garden, perspective, a cancelled order, the playset

a plan, a broom for the driveway, buckets from Christy, Ivette's offer of wood scraps, a bouquet of lettuce gifted

an order reinstated, a neighbor's generous offer--though declined, coop plans, texts with Michi, lunch with Anita

Ruth, the cold crunch and sweetness of carrots, how the pool feels in July, laughing with Erin, how he turned it around so we could all enjoy the journey

coop plans, the writers on 66 Books, Thursday mornings at the computer, a friend who texts me in the wee hours because she knows I'm awake, wild raspberries plucked and washed and offered by a neighbor

basil on grilled cheese sandwiches, the salty crispness of potato chips, ice water, homemade cookies, the puppy at the flower store

a bunny that we called Hagrid, the softness of the gray kitten's ear, the little tins for mason jars to feed and water the chicks, a notice to get ready, a neighbor's tour of his farmette

thoughts about my mom on her birthday, libraries, summer dresses, the abundance of tiny tomatoes on the vine, popsicles

olive tapenade, books by runners, Bayo's ultra marathon, school books in the mail, so many books read and to read

peace, joy, contentment, sweaty runs, jump rope

Stromae, summer thunderstorms, a loveload of wood, cucumbers to gift, swooping bats at the predawn

a cooling morning breeze, the feeling of wanting to run farther, when he suggested raised beds, music to dance to, clean dish towels

thoughts on ten years, the gift of standing alone, the gift of not fitting in, the gift of persecution, the gift of rejection, endorphins every day

gifted ears of corn, potatoes harvested from Erin's garden and roasted for dinner, basil from the garden, the chill of AC, a good pillow

a fully charged watch on a long-run day, the watercolor projects for the school year, baby chick videos, garden spaces tended, the warmth of sunshine on my face

pool days with the kids, car talks, country drives, vines cut, the view from the patio

paint swatches, Rick's bike, dreams dared and achieved, hope, a box of baby chicks

all 6 safe, the smiles of the people at the post office upon hearing the chirps and realizing the treasure, little fluffs, a quiet night, the warming plate

texts with Anita, my very old mountain bike, how she sat at the table and shared her heart, vulnerable places, celebratory cupcakes

buttercream frosting, the bunny that plays and runs with me on the driveway, bookshelves prepared for a next school year, high school with Erin, county fair dates