Clean.

Hushed.

There is a slow, almost meditative mindfulness that comes the day after a mirgaine.

A quieting. A simplifying. A cautious, measured pace.

I step lightly - quite literally - throughout my day.

 

I woke at midnight with the feeling that I might possibly die from the pain in my head. (I realized this morning how rarely my headaches live up to true migraine potential. And for that I am so glad.)

Last night, however, was the real deal. A wild storm had torn through our valley and I woke just as the storm broke and the clouds cleared.

Was it the storm? The pressure? Or something else?

Who knows. I never know.

But Pete was still up and heard me stumbling about and brough me ice and essential oils and remedies and a pail in case I threw up. He took good care of me and soon I somehow fell back to sleep. I woke this morning feeling tender and sore, but mostly better.

Thank goodness.

And still. It lingers on. Sometimes the feeling, sometimes the fear of its return.

 

So I always take it slow.

The day after is not a day for busy.

 

After Pete left for work this morning the kids and I read a few extra chapters of our book in quiet voices, then made tea.

When they felt frisky they would run out into the yard, into another round of rain to get rowdy.

 

They get it. I wish they didn't have to, but they do. And I appreciate it so.

 

Then we walked to the creek to see what messages lasts night's wild storm may have left.

They splashed and tossed mud while I sat on the bank in silence, just watching, then wandered into the moist woods to listen for birds.

 

So today is slow.

No phone, and but a moment on the computer. Dishes waiting. Laundry waiting. Garden waiting.

And I realize - it's not so bad, really.

The journey was ugly, but I've landed in a place of quiet presence that only comes after a taste of misery.

 

Love,
Rachel

 

 

Be in your season.

Like so many things they last but for a moment.

Perhaps the only question is if we will be here to see them bloom.

 

When their blossoms open, will we drink deeply of their fragrance?

Can we feel their small, silken petals upon our cheeks?

Will we sip their nectar and then watch in amazement as the season turns and they fall like snow in the slightest breeze?

 

And then will we appreciate even the magic of this ending?

 

Or will we fail to notice them at all?

Will we hurry by, our heads down, our heads busy, our heads aching, unable to see the magic that surrounds us?

 

Raise your head!

Look. Smell. Taste. Touch.  

Feel.

 

Life has many seasons.

Today yours may be one of worry. Or Joy. Grief. Or contentment.

 

And sometimes we all wish away the season that surrounds us.

We push and resist and tug at the storms.

We curse the ice or the hot sun or the darkness.

And then, distracted, we may cease to notice the magic of our most treasured seasons when they arrive.

So what can I tell you?

Be here. Today.

 

Let your season seep deeply into your soul as you search for appreciation of the clouds or the thunder, the sunshine or the warmth.

Seek out the beauty in the blossoms or the dark clouds that roll over head.

 

And most of all, know that this season - however it feels upon your skin - will come to a close and carry you into another.

 

And without a cold winter, even spring can lose its magic.

Love,
Rachel

Mud and magic.

Sometimes the weekend gets rolling and I'm not sure I'll ever be ready to let it go.

This weekend was like that.

Long and busy and insanely messy, with mud and straw and dirty dishes from Friday right straight through Monday.

Those messy weekends. They're usually the good ones, aren't they?

Overwhelming, sure, but undeniably good.

 

It's been a cold spring here in Wisconsin. Really cold. Sneaking on the furnace two weeks before June kind of cold.

So cold that our garden wasn't planted yet, here on the brink of summer. 

 

This weekend it was time.

It just couldn't wait another week.

We snuggled into wool hats and rain coats and got out there to plant in the drizzle for two days.

Breaks came in the form of hot tea and stories, morel hunts in the woods, and knitting (then unknitting) a sweater.

 

And to be honest I was actually dreading the planting part of our weekend. (cold! raining! windy! new garden! clay soil! thistles!) And yet to my surprise I found my bliss out there with my family, digging in the Earth.

Absolute bliss.

The mist. The rain. The valley. The soil. The countless treasures and bits of history unearthed in our digging (bits of pottery, a vintage toy car, an axe head, a rusty hinge...). The magic of working together. Tending together. Digging in. Together.

It was simultaneously literal and symbolic and both were equally good.

As best as I can remember we planted peas, cucumbers, tomatoes, peppers, summer squash, zucchini, beans, onions, broccoli, cauliflower, strawberries, and potatoes. There might have been more. But at this point it's a blur of leggy starts, seed packets, and mud.

Everywhere the mud.

There is more to be done but we're catching our breath for a few days before we dig in again.

In time.

All in time.

Between planting veggies or running inside to warm up, the kids and I also transformed a low, weed-filled border along our walk into a hen-and-chicks and thyme wonderland and filled some pots and old pails with starts from a nearby nursery.

 

And then last night, after three days of gardening, I sat down to sew some curtains for our bedroom (well, to finish some curtains that I started in February and needed just three more seams to be done). My fingernails were so unbelievably dirty that I laughed right out loud when I saw them, my filthy hands laying so properly on the clean pressed fabric, as I fed it under the presser foot.

I really shouldn't have been touching fabric. I should have been in the bath.

(But considering that those "new" curtains are sewn from sixteen year old bedsheets, that fabric has seen more than its share of post-gardening-marathon fingernails. And feet. And... well, my point is I really don't think it'll show.)

 

And what a difference it makes! All this digging and planting and tending and sewing and doing.

Yes, this long-empty, so-sleepy, tiny little farmhouse is starting to look like home.

And I couldn't be happier.

Or, come to think of it, dirtier.

{This Moment}

Joining Amanda today with {this moment}.

(Oh, my. Those ears!)

Have a wonderful weekend, friends.

Love,

Rachel

Perspective.

Last night I was walking around my yard, scoping out where I can plant some of the starts we have all over our deck.

And wow, do we have a crop of nettle around this house. For real.

Lupine has taken to fencing some of it off with twigs and twine, so that we don't mow it down on accident.

Because yes, nettle is precious.

Even when it's growing through the cracks in your deck.

 

Sometimes it just comes down to how you look at it.

I could see weeds taking over my flower bed, or I could see dinner.

I could see a dirty dish towel to wrap them in.

Or I could see a towel from my hope chest, embroidered by my grandma when I was just a kid.

 

Life is like that, isn't it?

In one breath we look it all over and decide if we're going to laugh of cry. Get stung by those nettles or eat 'em up.

 

Or, maybe both.

Today I think I'll sift. Stop complaining. Count some blessings.

Because sure, my garden is a weed patch. But those weeds do taste fine.

 

Raising funds for Oklahoma.

The night before the storm in Oklahoma I could feel a frightening wind blowing through our valley. I pulled my children into bed with me because I couldn't sleep, an anxiety and fear wrapping around my heart.

I was worried about them being across the hall if a big wind came and tore our house apart.

Irrational? Perhaps. But also very real. Because on a base level, all that we want as parents is to keep our children safe.

And then the next day that unfathomable tornado tore apart so many lives.

And I can't stop thinking about Oklahoma.

Growing up in Wisconsin, I remember hiding in the locker room in the basement of my elementary school, terrified as a tornado passed somewhere close by. I remember a camping trip when a tornado crushed campers and tents all around us while we hid in the concrete shower building, crying and trembling.

We're so small. So vulnerable.

As Oklahoma will attest.

And I can't stop thinking about it.

Whenever I am stuck in a loop of grief and worry I search for any small way in which I can help.

And it occurred to me that the Herbal Apothecary I created when my friend had a fire at her farm might also serve an entirely different community.

So beginning today 100% of Winter Apothecary sales will be donated to the Red Cross for aid provided to Oklahoma.

Buy one copy or buy a dozen. It's up to you and how much you want to give. But know that every cent you give will be ease at least a bit the struggle of those on the ground.

And many (if not all) of these recipes are useful in spring, summer, and autumn as well. So you won't need to wait until the snow returns to use the recipes.

I'll email one PDF to each person ordering (not for each order placed, if that makes sense), and then your effort to bring healing to the people of Oklahoma can also bring healing to your own family in the coming months.

Because really, we are all one. One community. One family. One spirit.

And when we feel the most vulnerable and small is often when we find that indeed, we are strong and filled with grace.

Buy the Winter Apothocary here

Stay safe, friends.

Love,
Rachel