Returning

Each summer, we spend a week at the lake. When I was growing up, that meant heading 'Up North', where vacation marked the very peak of summer in my kid brain. The drive through the bustling Twin Cities felt endless, but as the trees thickened and the lakes began to appear, it felt like we were entering a completely different world.

When I became a parent, it felt natural to continue that tradition and return to the same spot. I loved sharing the places and experiences with my own kids. There was comfort in the familiarity. They could swim in the lake or the pool, fish from the dock, or disappear into the playground for hours. And when everyone needed a break, our space overlooking the lake was always waiting—a cool, quiet place to recharge before heading back outside.

That resort felt like our summer home for many years. Recently, though, we've started a new tradition: every other year, we'll explore somewhere new. This summer, that place was the Chippewa Flowage in Wisconsin.

Finding the perfect place to stay has become something Ellie and I genuinely enjoy. We pore over listings, imagining what our week might look like. Which lake? Good fishing for the guys? Enough room for everyone? A gathering space for the nightly Farkle game? A spot for campfires and yard games? The search is almost as much fun as the trip itself.

I look forward to that week away all year—until it's time to pack. Our vacation always falls during the first week of July, when the garden is exploding with growth and the farm's to-do list seems to stretch endlessly. That's when I find myself thinking, I don't really want to leave... I'm still excited for vacation, but I already miss the life we've built before we've even pulled out of the driveway.

This year's trip was immersed in nature. We spent nearly every day in, on, or beside the water. It was peaceful, beautiful, and offered exactly what I needed: space to think, to unplug, and to simply notice the world around me.

I've come to realize that not wanting to leave home is actually a good sign. It tells me I've built a life that feels meaningful—a place I'm eager to return to. And maybe that's what a good vacation is for: not to escape your life, but to step away just long enough to come back with fresh eyes, grateful for both the memories you made and the life waiting for you at home.

Orbit

My kids are getting older. Well, we're all getting older, but time moves differently with children. I can still remember how completely our lives revolved around them when they were young. Everything was ordered by when they would be hungry, need a nap, or need space to let their imaginations run wild. Our days were shaped by the things we knew and our ability to cope with the things we didn't.

Now, I count myself lucky if I see all three of them in the same week. One has already set off to build a life of his own and find his place in the world. His life is full of many of the same questions I wrestled with at his age. We've taken different paths, but the search for who we are and how we want to live remains the same.

The other two are practicing their independence, living in that space between needing us and not wanting to need us. Every day they discover a new skill, a new interest, or a new piece of themselves, and pull away a little more. My rational self knows that's exactly what growing up is supposed to look like.

Still, I'm afraid.

I'm afraid of losing them and the joy they bring to even the most ordinary moments. I'm afraid of how quiet the house will become. I'm afraid of being unable to protect them in this complicated world. And I'm afraid of figuring out who I will be when I'm no longer needed in the role of mom every day.

Since becoming a mother, I've taken a Mother's Day picture with my kids every year. It's one of the few times I want to be in front of the camera. Those photos have become treasures, and looking back at them feels like opening a time capsule. This year, only two of the kids were in the picture—just one more reminder that time keeps moving forward.

But as I looked at that photo, I realized something. While our lives are no longer ordered by nap schedules, snack times, and bedtime routines, I'm still in orbit of these people. The distance between us may change. Their paths may take them farther from home. But they remain the center of some of my deepest joys, worries, hopes, and prayers.

And perhaps that's what motherhood becomes: not holding them close, but learning how to love them as they find their own orbit.

Other Side

The other side of the fence is a tempting place. Things over there are just out of reach. Close enough to see how wonderful it is, and easy to get caught in the 'if only' trap.

If only I were on the other side, things would be better; everything would work out. There couldn't be stress over there on the other side, just look at it, it's so green. There is opportunity on the other side. It's plentiful. I'd never fail over there. And the breeze! Even the breeze on that side looks more inviting, just look how the grass sways.

I find myself doing that more often than I care to admit. "I just need to get through this week." Racing through the things, the obligations. The weekend is on the other side of the fence and filled with a different kind of opportunity. A free space where there is time to develop a strategy, make as many or as few plans as necessary, and enjoy slow mornings that lead to productive (or as productive as we care to be) afternoons. It's all a blank canvas. 

This weekend, we finished a fence we've been working on for a few weeks. Tackling small pieces of a big project as time and weather would allow. No matter how you do it, fencing is decidedly un-fun. It's a lot of work. There's sweating and swearing. Lifting and pulling. Coaxing and cajoling. All to create a new other side. Ironic?

But when it was done and we turned the cows out, it was worth it. They waded through the grass, barely visible in the middle of their new pasture of plenty. 

I could have sat there all day to watch them jump and dance. Enjoying their precious time on the other side of the fence. But I didn't, I was determined to continue my productivity.

When I went to check on them in the afternoon, I found that they had wandered back to where their day began. Standing in the cool shade of the familiar. Enjoying the breeze on the old side of the fence.

There is something comforting about the familiar. The routine predictability of it all. Maybe that's the challenge, to see the other side for what it is, all while knowing that this familiar side has its perks too. There's no need to race through the things, the obligations. They exist on the other side too, maybe just hidden in that tall swaying grass. 

Destination

My family lives about a mile south of the farm. When my kids were little we frequently hiked the 'field road' - a dusty path between the two places. It was never a quick endeavor - getting from home to the farm - there was just too much to see along the way. I treasure those walks, even though without fail there would be complaining at some point. It's a long walk for little legs. 

Several years ago, we purchased a golf cart. In an instant, the farm became much more accessible for the kids and they made the trip often. Ellie loved to go for drives, bumping slowly along that dusty road, gaining a little more independence each day. 

I can't remember the last time I walked that path with my kids. I'd give just about anything to be able to do it one more time. I'd soak in every second of their discoveries, chattering, and hand-holding.

Now we have a side-by-side that makes the trip across even more expedient. What used to be a 20 minute walk is now a quick 5 minute dash. My favorite part of that trip is getting to the top of the hill and looking down at the farm. 

The view from the top is when I'm first able to see my little herd. Three of the cows grazing with one cow playing nanny for the calves. The steers are on the other side of the fence, but they gather close. Together, but apart.

I'll pause at the top of the hill to watch the little splotches for a bit; such a simple thing. Continuing down the hill and into the farm yard, everything comes into clearer focus and the splotches become recognizable. I love how they get excited to see me too - the bringer of food.

A lot has changed since we first toted Gavin over that hill, in a backpack 22 years ago. Crossing that dusty path was something we did together, but as the kids have grown and became more independent it happens less and less... I guess that's the point, preparing kids to be out in the world on their own. Apart, but together. 

I hope they remember that time with some fondness. I'm pretty certain they appreciate the view from the top of the hill, if only because it means they're close to their destination. With the important stuff, the things that matter, coming into clearer focus as they get closer to their destination.

Calving Season

There’s one thing I’ve learned about calving season.

It’s impossible to explain to someone who hasn’t waited for it.

We had four calves this spring. Three heifers and one little bull calf born on May 4th, which meant he was almost immediately named Chewie.

And honestly, four feels just right for this year.

Small enough that every birth still feels personal. Small enough that I can already see the personalities beginning to emerge in the calves if I stand quietly long enough to watch.

Chewie is a current favorite picture so far this spring.

He’s dozing in the sun, his mama nearby, with the tip of his little tongue sticking out. Brand new life, entirely content and unaware of itself. The kind of moment that would be easy to miss if you weren’t looking for it.

But I am looking for it now.

I know what we’re doing is small.

But maybe significance and scale aren’t always the same thing.

Because when I look at these calves, I can’t help but feel like they represent something bigger than themselves. Not financially. Not operationally. Something quieter than that.

The cows pass along their genetics.
My family keeps stewarding the land.
And somehow those things become connected.

I think that’s what I love most about this place. It reminds me that meaningful things often grow slowly and repeat themselves year after year in ways that look ordinary from the outside.

Four calves probably doesn’t look like much to most people.

But standing in the pasture this spring, it feels like enough.

Coming Back to the Edges

For a long time, this space held the small, everyday pieces of my life.

Lunches packed. Shoes by the door. The kind of tired that only comes from raising little kids and trying to hold everything together at once. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget how it felt—the fullness of it, even when it was hard.

And then, like most things do, that season changed.

The kids got older. Life got fuller in different ways. And somewhere along the line, I stopped writing.

Not because there was nothing to say—but maybe because I wasn’t quite sure how to say it anymore.

Lately, I’ve felt that pull again. Not back to what this space was, but forward into what it might become.

Because something else has been quietly growing in the background.

In 2023, we brought cattle back to the farm.

It wasn’t a grand plan or a big statement. It was small, just two heifers. Intentional, but also a little uncertain. If I’m being honest, my role in it is still small—and in some ways, self-serving. I love it. The rhythm of it. The responsibility. The way it pulls me outside and into something real at the end of a long day.

My dad still runs the farm. He owns it, carries it, knows it in a way I probably never will. What I’m doing doesn’t compare to that—and I don’t want to pretend that it does.

But I am finding my place here.

Not at the center of it. Maybe not even close.

More like… along the edges.

And the edges, I’m learning, are still part of the story.

This land has held our family for generations. There’s something grounding about that—something that makes everything else feel a little less urgent and a little more connected. It's also intimidating—the legacy is another character in the story.

I don’t know exactly what this next chapter looks like. But I'm peaking out, finding my way.

I’m not stepping into ownership or trying to claim something that isn’t mine. I’m just showing up, in the ways that I can. Learning. Paying attention. Letting it matter.

And maybe that’s enough.

So this space might start to look a little different.

Still family. Always family.
But maybe more dirt under it.
More seasons.
More stories about what it means to belong to a place—and to try, in small ways, to carry it forward.

Not perfectly. Not fully.

Just honestly.

I think that’s where I want to begin again.

Butterflies

There is something special about tracks in the snow. They show us where we've been... and a keen onlooker can see where they're going... but not necessarily why the tracks are leading in any particular direction. And unless you're there to witness the progress, each print looks the same.

As if there were no more angst or difficulty exerted from one step to the next. Tracks belie effort and purpose.

Ellie made these hand prints in the snow a couple of days ago. She said it was a 'snow butterfly.' Had she not told me that, I would have thought she simply put her hands down to rest... or to see if the snow under her warm little hands would melt.

Her commentary made the marks meaningful. They were a display of creativity and imagination. Soon after this picture was snapped, there was a whole crowd of snow butterflies fluttering across the deck. Her little foot prints interwoven in the joyful display.

If my career were like tracks in the snow, they would look fairly straight. You would see them headed in a similar trajectory, my stride consistent. Not always joyful, but the path would have a contentedness about it. But why did I choose this path? Are those tracks purposeful or was the course selected for safety?

I'm finding myself reconsidering and asking myself all kinds of messy questions. Maybe it's because I've been doing the same kind of work for so long. Maybe I'm ready for a new challenge... maybe I don't know what I want to be anymore.

Maybe I need to simply look at things in a different way... pause and make snow butterflies for a while.

Conscious

Some things never change.

The time leading up to Christmas is filled with activities and bustling. We make a conscious effort to drink it all in, trying to prepare for and enjoy as much as we can.

Cookies are made. Gifts are purchased and wrapped. Advent is observed. Special music is enjoyed. Holiday décor is displayed amidst the tree. Memories of those who won't be enjoying the season with us are shared. Maybe a tear or two is shed.

It's all done.

The actual day of Christmas, and eve of course... those race past us in a blur that is hardly recongizable. There is joy and enjoyment.

But some things never change.

I don't take enough pictures... I'm forced to rely on my fragile memory to remind me of every little detail. We don't play with the little people. We find the perfect items, just for each of them (or at least hope they think the items are perfect). But the playing is done in each of their own little worlds.

I'm always sad when it's over. Sad that it was wonderful... or sad that I wish I could have made it better or done something differently. But sadness is my companion in each case.

Some things never change.

I see that sadness in Benett's personality too. We have been working through it together. Hand in hand, a little something that we share. And that's where this story changes. While some things never change, life continues to carry us along this winding and twisting path, changing ever so slightly.

This year we introduced a new activity that I hope will become a tradition - the Christmas Pickle. I knew Gavin would find it. He is a resourceful child. It took him about two minutes of looking high and low to realize that laying on the floor and looking up would be much more effective. He won the prize, much to his sister's chagrin.

My kids are no longer the littlest people in the family. They haven't been for two years now. I look back on the time that they were so small and miss those little ones. But at the same time, I love who they are becoming.

I love that the biggest of the littles was the first one on the floor playing with his cousin. Even more, I love that it was his idea... I love his enthusiasm. I just love him. He's a teenager, so be drives me crazy (obviously), but I love him to pieces. Someday I'll find a way to make sure he knows that... he hears it regularly, but I'm not sure that his heart speaks the same language.

Some things never change.
Some things always change.

The conscious effort that we put into family means that what always remains the same is our connection to each other. No matter how much things change...

Shell

I don't recall who wanted to plant them. Maybe it was me. I love the way they stand so tall and lovely, keeping a watchful eye over the entire garden.

As much as I love how they look, my favorite part about sunflowers, and really everything in the garden, is sharing the beautiful details with the little people. We examined way the outside leaves are so think, like a protective shell... how they are covered with the same kind of peach fuzz that is on the back of Benett's neck. How each of the petals are tucked inside, perfectly ordered and folded into place until they open to greet the sun.

As the season evolves from Spring to Summer to Autumn, the sights and sounds and smells of the garden change too. I love that the kids know what that means within their own little world. The way Ellie laments the lack of lettuce in the garden in September, only to find the raspberries is proof. She gobbles the sun-warmed berries up one by one before she can collect a handful to top her breakfast yogurt. We can't enjoy the firefly's light show anymore, but the entertainment provided by a chicken chasing a grasshopper is nearly as fun.

As the petunias have given way to the mums, the sunflowers lost their bright yellow petals and the seeds themselves have turned from green to brown. The heads bending ever low under the weight of the bounty, tonight I decided to harvest the seeds.

After plucking the seeds, washing and sorting and boiling and roasting and stirring, I can say with 100% certainty, that sunflowers are best enjoyed in flower form. If however, the seeds are half as good as they are time consuming to process, they'll taste like summertime in a shell. Which sounds just about right... and we'll have enough to help remind us of summer, well into the winter months.

Ready

Today has been difficult.

Not for them, they were filled with that nervous excitement that goes with the first day of school. The two little ones were pure joy, while the oldest of the bunch shared a rare glimpse of worry. Would he get into his locker? What should he take to each class? Where would he meet his teammates for the game? By next week, this will all be easy, but today we shared our nervous excitement.

Like always, we brought out the chalkboard for each to write their name and grade. Taking care to write their name neatly, I hope they can feel the tradition and the history of the small board, worn smooth by so many hands. Theirs and many more before them.

Donning new shoes and something special to wear, they picked up their back packs and headed out into the world. Gavin is in 7th grade this year and growing taller and wiser by the moment. The wisdom is often genuine, only sometimes invented for someone's benefit. He's not a little boy anymore. He's tall and strong and has his own ideas. He is sweet and kind (but not too kind) and ready to have great fun. I think he'll do great things along the way, but there is no sense telling a 12 year old such foolishness.

Benett is in 2nd grade. He is such a practical little person. He wants so much to be autonomous, to do his own thing. I want to let him and hold him back all at the same time. Autumn and the first day of school is like that for me. I want them to go on and up, but I don't. I want them to stay like they are, because they're just perfect.

Benett's whit and personality is so much fun. So innocent but sharp and dry and perfectly hilarious. I hope people continue gravitate towards him for those reasons.

And then there is Ellie. She is never too far behind Benett. I suppose that has been true from the very start. Close in proximity, but never the same she is her own person. I love her joy and spirit. She makes my heart happy.

She will be just fine, but I think I worry most about her. Maybe it's because she's the youngest... maybe it's because she's my little girl... maybe it's because she is so trusting and wants to take care of everyone else. She told me last year that she wanted to be a teacher when she grew up. I think she would make an excellent one.

I hope all of them let their dreams take them as far as they can imagine. And that's the difficult thing about being a parent. We prepare them to go off and do these great things, all the while waiting and wishing for just a few more moments with them.

So as difficult as it is today, we sent them off. Their hearts full and their minds ready to learn, hoping to get them back having given as much love as they received.

Happily

I've never met a little girl who loves to ride on a swing, like our little Ellie. So when we gave the big tree in our front yard a trim, we spotted a branch perfectly suited for a rope swing.

Last night, when the boys were off doing their own things, Ellie and I went to install her newest happy place. The smile on her face seemed to be permanent. As was the tenacity involved in getting onto the disk. She was adamant that she was going to do it all by herself. Each time her palms got more red and sore... but none of that mattered. Ellie was going to swing, getting as much air as she possibly could. All by herself, but with her personal audience close.

I love that spirit of hers. When she sets her mind to something, she's so focused. She won't be satisfied with herself until she can do it on her own terms. She's strong and has this force about her that is firm but sweet. It's what makes Ellie, Ellie.

So now she swings. Each and every chance she has, as high as she wants and all on her own. And as it turns out, her happy place happens to be mine as well.

Path

Today Monte had the opportunity to listen to the Dalai Lama speak. What a great experience to be in the presence of such a compassionate and spiritual being. The topic sounded interesting, as Monte described it, but I was more interested in how the Dalai Lama practiced his compassion and love for humankind. It was evident in the simplest gestures and his interpersonal interactions with the others in the chapel.

Being in the presence of someone who is capable of emanating such a deep love, in that kind of way, sounds very intimidating.

We are all on this journey, traveling a path which is exclusively our own... it's uncomfortable for me to think about this one precious life and be fully open and aware of God's purpose for me. What that means for how I spend each moment of each day, and what that means for my little people is a heavy thing.

The weight of that importance is stifling.

Parents always wonder if we're getting it right... maybe more accurately, we're convinced we are getting everything all wrong. I am anyway. I spend so much time second-guessing myself and wondering how I can be a better mom... or just better in general, for my little people.

In my head, I have things all neat and tidy... planned and considered, logical and age-appropriate, calm and deliberate, loving and unwavering. Outside of my head, real life doesn't happen that way. I'm often emotional and reactive, loud and inconsistent. Always loving... that love may not be readily at the surface, but it's always there. Always.

Indeed, we are all on this journey, but the path is not clear. For those, like the Dalai Lama, who know their divine purpose, I'm awe-struck. Maybe life is simpler for them... they KNOW their purpose. They live that purpose each and every day.

For me, well I don't fully understand mine... but I'm happy to have a partner to walk imperfectly next to... sometimes to follow... sometimes to lead... but always together. For the little people and for ourselves.

Together, we'll all live our lives imperfectly, trying to be fully open and aware. And if nothing else, simply thankful that we are able to spend this one sweet life together, whether or not we understand why. Maybe our purpose isn't to KNOW... but simply to love.

Matey

They were on an adventure. They're usually having an adventure, but this time, there was a treasure map. They set out on a blanket boat, with tinker toy paddles and Teddy as first mate, in search of the great treasure box.

Their adventure took them past the giant terrifying fish and around another scary looking creature, into the boulder canyon. Judging by the delicate way they were holding their find, it was filled with precious items.

This went on for an hour and a half. I'm not sure how it started, but it looks like Benett engineered the scenario. Ellie always seems happy to play along. She sprinkles in details that are uniquely her own, like the pirate picnic they enjoyed, complete with tea and donuts.

I love the way they play. I'm always amazed at what they come up with and mesmerized by the details... I am thankful for lazy days with no where to be and nothing to do, but search for treasure. They found theirs on a map, me on the other hand, I find mine in my living room, floating along on a blanket boat, without a care in the world.

Someday

After we all made it safely home, I could start to enjoy our snow day together. Home feels a little bit cozier, a little more like a refuge, when the wind is blowing and the snow is swirling. On these days, it's perfectly acceptable to snuggle under the biggest and coziest blanket in the house.

But before any of that, my first thought is always about this little tree.

I don my warm winter gear and trudge through the drifts to take a picture of this little tree every winter. There is something about it that calls to me.

It stands small and straight to the west of our house. Someday it will be part of a wind break. Someday the little people will play in its summer shade or the drift of snow that always forms at its feet in the winter. Someday it will be home for a family of birds.

It's impervious to the gusty wind. I love how this little tree stands steady and strong in any weather; calm in every storm. Someday it will be a bigger version of itself... that's true... but even though small, it's already doing the job it was planted to do. It's slowing the wind, collecting the snow and in the summer a favorite nesting spot for at least one Robin.

It's job isn't to be beautiful, though it is. This little tree is a reminder that though small, it's purposeful now. There is no need for someday; today is as good as any. Though it will grow, I like it just fine the way it is right now.

There is something about this little tree that reminds me that today is yesterday's, someday. Why a tree has the ability to remind me of this important lesson, so clearly... I'll never know.

Reminded that someday, I won't have all of my little people gathered around me on a snowy day eager for my company, I'm trying to sit a little longer under that big cozy blanket. There will be some other day for obligations. For now, we are happily right where we should be.

Maybe

Maybe, just maybe, we're back to our old smiley selves today. For the first time in days (for Ellie, weeks) everyone seems to have risen from their beds in a kind of happy state.

It could have something to do with the fact that Ellie was able to sleep in. The boys on the other hand emerged from their bedrooms only to sit on the couch and play video games uninterrupted. That always makes them happy. Although I'm not a fan of screen time so early in the morning (or much at all really) I'm not ready, just yet, to tell them their time is up.

For me, I'm celebrating my new-found ability to breathe through my nose. It's glorious. There's nothing stopping us today... although I'm already planning a nap for later. Even with the nap and the video games, I'm happy and content with the feeling that we're all getting back to normal. With any luck this feeling will last a few hours... or at least long enough for me to start to catch up on all of the things that need attention.