After a long silence here I often don't know where to begin.
Because what has happened in the past week or more? Nothing. And everything.
And the stories that fight their way up, begging to be told first are the dramatic ones.
Stories of flipped beehives and broken fences. Stories of chasing sheep through the wetland in our pajamas, only to have them escape again.
And worrisome tales of injured, sick, or dying pets.
We've had our share.
The stories of worry and struggle and drama are easy to tell. Loud and bossy they tumble out and almost tell themselves.
But they paint a distorted picture.
These big, dramatic tales are not the substance of these days.
The stories that form the heart of this life are much harder to share. These stories whisper, if they make a sound at all.
These are the everyday sight of the sun rising over the hills. The smell of cherry blossoms. The taste of ramps, morels, nettles, and watercress.
They are conversations with my husband, my children, my sister, my friends.
Normal, everyday gifts that shape our life.
These are the stories of gratitude, simplicity, and connection.
Stories of searching for peace despite struggle; confidence despite uncertainty; gratitude despite imperfection.
Stories of being deeply in love with a life, despite the bumps along the way.
Or, perhaps, because of them.