The rain started after our Homeschool Halloween party on Friday and didn't stop until it was time to head to town for trick-or-treating on Saturday afternoon.

I was thankful for the storm and for the quiet it brought us between these two big Halloween events and spent the entire day curled up in my chair by the fire, knitting. (A house-full of introverts means that after a big social day we tend to retreat to our own corners and find our centers again. Saturday was like that, though before it was through Lupine – our part-time extrovert – was off to the neighbors to play for an hour before we went to town.)

And then somehow the lazy part of our day was over in a hurry and – predictably – we were running late. (I was still in my pajamas.) We hustled into costumes and headed to Viroqua for the Enchanted Forest Walk, for visiting with friends, for finding our trick-or-treating buddies, then walking around our old neighborhood collecting hugs from old friends and treats from anyone who had them.

This town. Where during the Enchanted Forest Walk (put on by the 8th grade class at the local Waldorf school), as they spin a story and hand out treats along the trail, one 8th grade actress (handing out cookies to the children) notices Lupine beneath her witch hat and says, "Oh – would you like gluten-free?"

This town. Where one friend hands out cups of hot cider each year from her porch, and the children wait patiently in line to visit with her and sip their warm drink.

This town. Where Lupine was thrilled to find a banana in one treat basket and organic suckers in many others. (Sage at age 4 (dressed as a mouse) found Organic Valley string cheese at one house. "I got my wish!" he shouted, totally beside his mouse-y self.)

This town. Where we gave out individual bags of herbal tea one year and it was met with honest enthusiasm. (Really.)

This town. Where at seeing Sage's costume (and knowing he's our kid) one friend calls out, "You need a salve for that!" Ha.

We wandered home, the kids exhausted but elated and all of us ready for bed hours before normal. They sorted their candy into piles to trade, to keep, and to give to the Pumpkin Fairy.

And then – exhausted – we all fell asleep.

Halloween can be challenging for parents, I admit, but I'm thankful that I get to spend it here.

I don't know about your family, but after a long spell of being under the weather, everyone around here starts to go a little completely stir crazy.

That extra-special bouncing off the walls and driving the grown-ups batty sort of crazy.

It's been like that over here, with us laid out for more than a week by this nonsense we call the flu.

And as Lupine sat at the table eating a snack late Saturday morning she mused aloud about one disappointment from this season.

"It's too bad we missed the winter festival because we were sick."

The winter festival! I hadn't given it a thought in weeks.

I ran to the computer and looked it up. Today! It was today!

In just shy of three minutes the kids and were bundled up and on the road, headed to the Kickapoo Valley Reserve for their annual community winter festival.

Pete, still sick, stayed home to rest and no doubt appreciate the rare and deep silence that came with our departure.

From sleigh rides to sledding and skating, from hanging out in the quinzhee to a delightful chance to visit with friends, it was just what we needed to kick this flu for good.

So. Good.

Because even this hermit needs to get out there and see her people now and then.

And somehow after being home – sick – with family for days on end, standing there in the snow watching our kids zip across the ice or down the hill while we chatted about knitting, homeschooling, goat diseases, and the like with friends was pure bliss.

That night the kids and I dragged ourselves up to bed, utterly exhausted.

Because better from the flu by a couple of days still isn't the health we're used to being.

We read stories and cuddled and I kissed them goodnight. As I left their room I glanced at my watch – 6:50.

And they were out.

Twelve hours later that were both still asleep.

And now? It's Monday. It's January 13 for goodness sake. (Where did this month go?)

I'm getting anxious to start our winter homeschooling season.

To find our rhythm again.

To hit our groove.

To clean some closets.

To be well and present and alive and loving life once more.

Oh, yeah. I might be half a month late for the party, but bring it on, January.

I think I'm (finally!) ready.

Sage and I spent this past Saturday at a spoon carving gathering hosted by our local folk school. 

And while having a one-on-one day with my boy was treat enough, an all day spoon carving workshop together really took things to the next level.

The facilitators were laid back, the other participants were inspiring, and through-and-through we had a fabulous time.

In all we carved for seven hours. Almost without stopping. On the drive home we both realized that it was 5:00 and we hadn't yet had lunch.

It was that good.

We carved until our hands ached, our backs ached, and we were out of bandaids.

We laughed hard, learned new tricks, and stretched ourselves.

Like other folk school classes, the spoon carving gathering was an outstanding way to connect with folks we already know and to meet a couple dozen new and inspiring folks, all while developing new skills.

It was a welcome break in our busy week. A time to pause, learn, and play.

There were a couple of other families from our homeschool coop there as well as adults ranging from their 20's up into their 70's. Men, women, kids – learning together.

And in this room-full of people we carved, we listened, and we talked. About our parents and our kids, our gardens, our reasons for moving here, food preferences, invasive species, farm animals, and of course, spoons.

And over the course of the day this room-full of people moved along the continuum from "strangers" toward "friends". I suppose that is where "community" begins.

On the way home Sage said, "It was easy being with the people at the gathering today. They were our kind of people."

And then he added, "Today was the best day ever."

We drove home that night tired (hungry) and happy. And the next thing I knew, there we were – Sage and I – sitting side by side at the kitchen table, carving.

* ~ * ~ * ~ *

There are folk schools all over the country.

Of course I think ours is pretty special, because, well, this is the Driftless. To which I'm rather partial. And the Driftless Folk School is brimming with some of the shining stars or our region – as teachers and students.

For those of you close enough to make it here for a class (yes, it's worth the drive from Minneapolis, Chicago, or Madison), the fine folks at the Driftless Folk School have offered a $60 gift certificate to one lucky reader. To enter your name in a drawing, take a look at their website and leave a comment here of what inspires you on their site.

(If you want to leave a comment but not enter the drawing you are welcome to. I'll double check that the winner is local before I award the gift certificate.)

Not from around here? Ask around about folk schools in your region. You'll be glad you did.

 Comments are now closed. The winner is Dorothy Ann who said:

I'm not sure when our house was built, but I know it's over 100 years old.

The Danielsons raised five kids here during the Great Depression.

Five kids. In 1000 square feet.

There were two other owners between then and now, but to all the old-timers around here it'll always be the Danielson Farm.

I often think about them.

Like when the broken handle of a tea cup emerged from the garden soil after a hard rain, a tiny art nouveau rouge tin appeared by the barn, and the bottom of a blue canning jar was unearthed down by the creek.

It makes for dangerous barefooting, but also interesting history.

Mostly I think about her.

When I'm canning tomatoes or tucking children in for the night.

When I'm in the garden, filling my basket with green beans or hanging laundry on the line.

When I look out on the same hills and the same mist and the same creek she did when I pause from my day.

Our lives share the same stage.

And then today Pete went into the attic to work on the chimney and found a handful of treasures tucked up in the ceiling by a young Lewis Danielson.

A voided check from the Soldiers Grove Bank.

An empty spool of thread.

A newspaper clipping from 1925.

A stash of handmade valentines, likely collected during on a cold winter day at the one room schoolhouse just up the road.

And this small collection of treasures is at once fascinating and humbling.

Because some day we, too, will be just stories pieced together from what we left behind.

Time is swift.

When I shared this story a friend suggested that we make our own time capsule and tuck it into the attic or a wall. A ziplock bag stapled to the rafters or a mason jar tucked in the crawl space, filled with our story – a letter, some photographs, keepsakes, and treasures – for someone to find 100 years from now.

When, perhaps, this place is known as the Wolf Family farm.

I think we will.

P.S. Somehow 3000 of you have found me on Facebook (Three-thousand. I can't explain it.) To celebrate I'm hosting my own giveaway of LüSa goodies tomorrow. See you then!

I believe that cultivating
gratitude can transform not only how we view our (beautiful yet deeply
imperfect) lives, but transforms our lives themselves.

Each week I will share with you seven things that I am thankful for.

I'd love to have you join me in your own post or simply here in the comments.

Because taking just a moment to appreciate what we have can change everything.

Today I'm thankful for…

1. this incredible parade and the magical small town that keeps me in awe year after year;

2. the hard frost that ushered in a new season two nights ago;

3. a new project on my needles with yarn from my stash (for a little lady about to turn seven);

4. family work days at LüSa Organics;

5. gathering with friends around the fire pit on our farm for an impromptu welcome to Autumn;

6. cozy fingerless gloves and wool slippers; 

and 7. your words and support along this journey.  

Link up to a post of your own in the comments, or simply leave your
list there. I look forward to seeing what ordinary, extraordinary
blessings you're counting today.

Love,
Rachel

I'm joining Amanda again this week with This Moment. And while this may not be my best photography ever, it was certainly a strange moment in our week. Did anyone loose a pig?

Feel free to link to your own in the comments!

Wishing you wild and free sort of weekend.

Love,
Rachel

After we talked about seeing beauty in imperfection I began to see it everywhere.

Decay.

Beautiful, poetic decay.

Today I wanted to share a collection of photographs on that theme from our recent visit to the Circus Museum.

I realized
as I looked over my photos that my favorites were indeed mostly of that –
the slow return to the earth of what was made by our human hands.

I have titled this post "part one" because I suspect it will be a recurring theme through time for me.

Go slowly.

 Linger.

 And see beauty in imperfection.

P.S. I've shared my appreciation for decay before, including this long-ago post I thought you might also enjoy. That link includes an audio story that is tuning in for.

Love,
Rachel

Lupine's birthday was perfectly lovely. A few dear friends, a treasure hunt, some tea in fancy cups and some grain-free cake and treats. 

It was nothing short of lovely.

And the setting didn't hurt any either.

Magical house in the country, creek gurgling at the edge of the pasture, pink sunset behind the ridge.

Let's take another look at that, shall we? (Come to think of it, you've had a few sneak peeks already. Especially this day.)

Because… yep. You guessed it. We've found our country home!

It has been a long time coming. The road here has been up and down. But we held fast to the vision and trusted that yes, it would happen. It would happen someday.

And today all of that wanting and visioning seems like a lifetime ago.

We've been contemplating this very farm for no short of two years. And now that our house is sold (eek!), we're ready.

Strangely (for a country girl who has been
temporarily displaced to a small town for the past six years) I am
paralizingly terrified by this move.

I'm not sure why. I guess because it feels big. Like our last move. For a long, long time.

And also perhaps because we've been trying so hard for so long to get back to the land.

So tonight is our
last night in town. In the house where Lupine was born. And in the morning there will be a horse trailer
full of our belongings heading to the country.

Eeek! So excited, and so terrified – all at the same time. Truly, I am at a loss to explain why this move has me so undone.

(Say something encouraging, won't you?)

xxoo

Rachel

You lovely and generous people made this sentiment come true.

Something wonderful is happening.

Italy, Ireland, Canada, the Netherlands, the United Kingdom, and Great Britain. North Carolina, South Carolina, Wisconsin, California, Maryland, Oregon, Utah, Pennsylvania, Minnesota, New Jersey, Maine, Louisiana, Missouri, Nebraska, Montana, New York, Arkansas, Arizona, Indiana, Illinois, Vermont, Michigan, Washington, Rhode Island… they just keep coming in.

So far (in just two days) we've raised nearly $1000 for Mary and her family. I know that if she could Mary would humbly thank each and every one of you.

Orders for the Winter Apothecary have come in from – quite literally – around the world. And are still coming in. Thank you.

If you haven't done so yet, there is still time to help. And if you want to invite your friends to join in, I'd be so pleased.

Your heart is gold. You've given us so much to be thankful for.

Love,

Rachel