weekend
instructions for living
Instructions for living a life. Pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it. ― Mary Oliver, Something I’ve been thinking about this poem lately, a timely reminder for me to slow down and pay attention to the ordinary
a rainy weekend: winter’s prelude
It has rained for days now. A cold, relentless rain. I look toward our cactus still propped on our outdoor table, now hunched over like an old man, withering. Cold has a way of making us
camping, the gift of wilderness
“I love cooking in nature,” Liam tells me. He tosses the scrambled eggs around the pan gently with a fork. He’s carefully improvising the spatula I have forgotten. Nearby, two trees cradle Olive and her
in praise of fall
We spent the day at a local event celebrating fall recently. While the event was primarily to help raise money for a local nature conservation project, the kids enjoyed stomping through muddy fields and hills,
a brief mid-day hike
I noticed my shirt was inside out while brushing my teeth the other day and realized this is how life feels right now: the same shape and design only with all the frayed threads exposed.
oh, chicago!
After having four kids (whom I love desperately), I have new perspective when we get to travel without them: Eat. It. Up. Mark and I try to enjoy at least a weekend alone together a