Missives from the Homestead | Folk Ware

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Last night the snow came in thick, right around bedtime. The village was winterquiet under her new blanket, excepting in those moments when the faint pushing scrape of an ambling plow by could be heard. Isn’t that a fine noise of comfort? The steady skooooosh of a town plow on fresh snow? I think the thing is, it’s nice to be in your winterquiet home in your winterquiet village and to ever so often be reminded- there are people out there, helping your existence, still, even as the winter skies open wide. Because the winter skies opened wide.

In the morning we baked pecan banana bread, and in the evening a lentil sausage soup. We shoveled and stayed put and found frozen eggs in the coop.

(The chickens are steadily laying yet; I can hardly believe it.)

January, at home.

ROOT ANEW

A January thaw’s afoot. Ashes are shoveled from the briefly resting wood stove and the Previously Buried - a yuletide tree, a snow shovel, some long-dead pots of mums - are pulled from their snowy dooryard graves. Meanwhile a pot roast simmers. Don’t we know January thaws never keep, at least for now. There are enough snow showers predicted in the 10-day to ease some of the creeping worry of these April-like days, but winter rain and receding snow lines certainly have a way of putting a person’s teeth on edge.

If you’re a reader of my sporadic newsletters, you’ll know we tumbled into this new year like a family of fresh little calves, sure of what to do with ourselves but unsteady on our feet all the same. There are newly broken bones to nurse and stomach bugs that just won’t let up. We’ve barely been living as ourselves in the resulting haze. But, in the quiet hours of last week (there were so few, weren’t there?) I mended and newly buttoned a secondhand sweater I gave myself two birthdays past (and there I was again).

The sweater is an oversized men’s cardigan whose purchase was catalyzed by Wool Lust I developed from a queasily expensive cardigan elsewhere. Beautifully cabled, horribly buttoned, recently hole-y without explanation. It was an ideal project for an exhausting stretch of days and now that it’s done, I love the sweater enough to have put the idea of unraveling the thing all together - in favor of making something that isn’t so, SO oversized - completely on the back burner. Blessings to the power of some artful mending and a new fleet of buttons.

The buttons are handmade of yew wood, which feels quite an auspicious choice for the times at hand. Yews, ancient and steadfast, are able to dip their old limbs to the earth and root themselves anew. In the midst of so much chaos and uncertainty, what a settling communion between maker and materials- to sew six little talismanic reminders of How To Be down a button placket. Indeed the typical rhythm of our life will remain disrupted for a stretch of time yet, but Root Anew is the call of the season and so we will.

XX to you and yours.

LATESPRING

Irises and radishes are up Up UP. Those delicate bloodroot blossoms come and gone. Missing little boys are Found At Last in their bedrooms, pressed face first into fans, slowly chanting I. am. a. roboooootttt. over and over (and over again). Here- we’ve found June, latespring rolling into summer.

Last week as second grade was winding down for Gus, I began squirreling away his art supplies in a downstairs closet that holds toilet paper, the vacuum, and none of his interest. In a particularly inspired moment, I had determined to turn the old washroom- wood paneled walls, an un-plumbed chipping tub, essentially a glorified closet -into an artist’s studio for Gus. Certainly that for him would be miles better than what the room had become for me- a source of stress as a mob of displaced items had marched their way into the space over the course of our move, slowly covering the floor and filling the old tub in a dizzying weave of etceteras. For the price of a trio of new glue sticks, a few rolls of washi tape, and a night of shocking little sleep- the catchall of moving hell became a proper Artist’s Nook. A place to knit, read, paint, draw, sculpt, weave, collage, etcetera- it is already so well loved.

Earlier this year we decided to transition away from the school we’ve been a part of for the last five years and begin homeschooling in the fall. It has been both a complete surprise and something that feels a long time coming. We’re excited and hopeful, and finding a sort of freedom we didn’t realize we were missing, but it’s equally true that we’re mourning the loss of a place we’ve known and loved in daily life for the better part of Gus’s childhood. I have easily furrowed 3 new lines into permanent being between my brows wondering what it will look and feel and be like to leave our community and set out on a new path with my most precious, important person. Above all- I just want to do right by him, and in the liminal space of summer- neither there nor there- it’s hard to know, easy to worry. Perhaps this is just the plight of all parents, in all choices.

The past year has felt like life in the forge. It’s been beautiful and wonderful and exhausting in all of its newness-by-fire. This summer is our exhale, a space to let time unfurl. I recently pen-to-papered a rhythm for our weekdays- a loose form to drape ourselves over as we come back to our breath. Beekeeping and a few raised garden beds, a quilt for a first birthday, swimming, friends.. a little of this in the morning, a little of that in the afternoon. It’s a generous rhythm with a spaciousness to say yes to spur of the moment bike rides and crisp baking and owl pellet dissections, or whatever Friday’s heart desires. So far it has both held and freed us nicely.

At the end of the day I’m bone tired. I start shortly before 5 a.m. and am barely awake come bedtime for the kids. Despite it being no great work, it’s taken me since starting on Sunday to write this debriefing. Wakefulness and the space to write seem rarely to overlap, but I am trying. Also- grateful. It is an immense privilege, the great joy of my life, to be here, in the trenches, whole-being mothering without reservation.

Sharing our gentle summer rhythm below.