Let’s begin here: thank you! So, so much.

Your delightful response to my big announcement last week was just what I had hoped for. Indeed, you seem as tickled as I feel about it! Honestly, it’s a dream come true and I can hardly wait to hold a copy in my hands come Winter Solstice time. Thank you for sharing in my joy.

In other news, here are some pictures that Lupine took of me in my new(ish) dress that I took far too long to sew considering how simple and intuitive the construction is. I kept wandering off and getting distracted, but now that it’s done I might never take it off.

The pattern is the lovely Dotty Angel’s frock pattern. I stitched in a few mods because I couldn’t help myself.

You can buy the pattern here if you’d like (afflink) and make one for yourself, too. Then we could be twins.

But alas, this post is not about the book or sewing or even the delight of wearing something still called a “frock” for three days straight. This post (unfortunately) is about Lyme disease.

Yes, again. 

I know. Right?

I was a little late to the tick-prevention protocol game this year (the one I outlined here), and foolishly ventured into to the woods one day early this spring without bug spray.

I knew better. Really I did. But sometimes life happens and we lose track of time and forget the things we should know better than forget. Lessons learned the hard way, again and again and again.

I ended up with a bite.

I removed the tick, took my herbs, and monitored for symptoms. I felt great though, and thought that perhaps I had dodged the bullet.

But then, a few weeks after the bite and quite out of the blue, I developed vertigo. I mentioned it on Instagram and some of you had some amazing and helpful suggestions (thank you!). I didn’t jump to Lyme as my first guess of what was going on, but got adjusted, and took some immune supporting herbs. My medical doctor suspected Lyme, however, so I reluctantly picked up a month-long supply of antibiotics.

I stalled on taking the first dose, hoping it was a dislodged crystal or an inner ear infection or a misaligned cervical vertebrae. But two weeks later I’m still too dizzy some days to walk straight or drive a car.

And the brain fog (and deep fatigue) happening here is real.

Other Lyme symptoms have begun cropping up as well, so yesterday morning, I held an antibiotic pill in my hand, thanked it for my healing, and swallowed that sucker down. It took me a week to give in and feel willing to head down this path, not having been convinced that it was truly Lyme or a Lyme co-infection, and wanting to extinguish my other options before willy-nilly obliterating my gut flora.

Is it Lyme? Maybe. The test isn’t accurate enough to bother with in my opinion (especially paying out of pocket). But the truth is, right now it feels right to go this route. To stop throwing the dice on whether or not it’s Lyme. Let’s try this, and see if it helps.

And with that, we begin.

With gratitude for having a Lyme Literate Medical Doctor; gratitude for knowing my body and knowing when something isn’t right; gratitude and for the miracle of antibiotics in our lives on the rare occasions when we truly need them; gratitude for a light at the end of this very dizzy tunnel.

In related news, it’s time to make some sauerkraut. Gallons of the stuff. Because my gut flora is going to need all the love it can get.

Here’s to healing, friends. Both mine and yours… whether physical, spiritual, emotional, or otherwise.

Here’s to the beauty and courage of healing–of every sort.

I’m over on Happy Healthy Family, the LüSa Organics blog today sharing an old favorite blog post: 25 tips for a wonderfully old-fashioned summer vacation.

It’s one I revisit often myself, as a reminder to keep things simple. Are we purists? Of course not. But simple fun forms the core of our time together as a family and our summer memories. I can’t imagine it any other way.

Find that post (with ideas for everyone!) here.

This is the longest backstory ever. If you want to see what we built this weekend, you can cut to the chase by scrolling to the garden building photos below! 

Two years ago, in over our heads with livestock and farm projects and weeds as far as the eye could see, we threw in the towel on gardening for the year.

I’ve never been quite so conflicted (yet ecstatic) to give up on a project that I loved before.

Our old garden was huge. Tilled out of a tired pasture with a major invasive bindweed and Canada thistle problem, it was a disaster that we could never get on top of. Established when we were still renting our land, we chose the only available site that wasn’t being rented out for pasture by another family, or planted in hay. We used the land that we could, but it wasn’t the right site and every season was a painful, uphill battle.

The invasives problem was real in the old garden, and I was weary of being pricked in the backside by thistle shoots every time I knelt down to pick a green bean, and so over the bindweed that sprung up overnight to strangle my lettuces to death.

I remember harvesting potatoes one year and literally crying, after digging up more old farm debris than produce.

“If we were the Ingalls we would DIE!” I sputtered through tears.

Oh, the drama.

So I called “game-off” on the garden plans, despite having already bought seeds and planned the crops for the coming year.

I suggested that instead we cover crop, rethink, and rebuild the garden.

And then? We exhaled.

Not gardening that first year was bliss. So much so that we took last year off as well. We found more time to forage, work on other projects, and be together as a family. My friend Mary created a CSA box just for us, and I’d pick up organic veggies on their Amish farm for a song once a week.

My old garden was taken over by nettle, which (in my book) is the best crop ever to beat back the thistles. I harvest in the old beds every morning throughout the spring, filling my larder with dried nettle for the coming year. Later in the year I harvest catnip, motherwort, mullein, and burdock from what was once our garden.

The perfect ending to a long-frustrating site.

But then, two years after quitting, a funny thing began to happen.

We all missed the garden.

The kids (who previously lacked enthusiasm when it came to all things gardening beyond snacking on sungold tomatoes and fresh cucumbers) in particular started pleading:

Can we plant a garden this year?

It felt like some sort of accidental parenting win: kids hate gardening? Quit. Then they’ll magically become passionate garden enthusiasts.

Of course, we said yes. We had only meant to take one year off, not two. If we pushed it to three it might be time to move back to town.

To escape the bindweed and thistle, we decided raised beds were in order, and far away from our old garden plot. And to prevent our annual garden overwhelm, we also wanted to start slow: one small raised bed each. Then if we love it, we can build four more next season, or throw caution to the wind and broadfork some beds right in the earth.

So last week we got to work:

Pete, Sage, and Lupine built four 4 x 8 cedar garden beds. Our whole farm is hills, so they were set level on the hill above our house, then filled halfway with tightly packed organic hay we harvested (from the very site that our new garden now stands) when we had sheep.

We used hay to save money on the compost we filled the boxes with, and provide drainage. We figured it’s sort of a raised bed/hugel bed/bale gardening hybrid. I’ll let you know how it goes.

Everyone was so excited we could hardly stand it. We had two cubic yards of organic compost delivered, and topped each bed to the brim with that, leaving just enough leftover for a few mounds outside the beds for pumpkins, melons, and zucchini. (Because, as it turned out, Sage and I couldn’t limit ourselves to a 4 x 8 after all.)

Conveniently, Seed Savers was running their annual organic heirloom plant sale just across the river in Iowa on Saturday so we paused our work and headed over for starts and seeds, then got busy planning  and planting our beds.

To add to the charm, Lupine crafted our garden markers from some mulberry and pine branches.

I’m not sure when gardening felt like less of a chore and more like unwrapping a present than this. The new raised beds are beautiful, self-contained, manageably sized, and – at least for now – weed free. We plan to use the Ruth Stout deep mulch method, as recommended by my gardening friend Genie, to keep the weeds at bay (afflink).

We’ll harden off our starts this week, then finish planting. And then? We’ll spend some time this summer with our hands in the soil once again, but this time without so may thistles.

How excited I am for the coming season!

Are you a gardener? What are you most eager to plant with your family this season?

This week has been one of those ordinary but brimful weeks that spring is made of.

The snow finally melted, and our winter doldrums with is. We find ourselves eager to make, explore, and do – day in, day out.

Because: spring!

I threw together my version of the Blood Moon Tonic found in the current issue of Taproot Magazine (HEAL), (more about that here) and Sage whipped up a big, beautiful batch of organic marmalade, then taught himself to water bath can, all while baking a loaf of Einkorn bread, impressing me and everyone else.

The marmalade is delicious and being consumed far too quickly for my sugar-loathing sensibilities. (The bread was gone within hours.)

Because this spring was so hard-earned, I’m feeling desperate to make medicine. Each day you can find me hovering around my nettle patch and cheering their growth onward (Totoro style).

In the meantime, I’m making lots of herbal shrubs and vinegars and syrups to get me by until the spring herbs take off.

Inside? there’s lots happening there, as well. Though we moved into our little house some five-plus years ago, we never got around to painting or reworking most of the house. Our bedrooms, for example, have never been painted.

The trouble is, our house is small. There isn’t adequate space to move anyone out of a room without them having to sleep in the yard, so we have long felt stuck as to how to make space in order to paint. We’ve painted the kitchen, bathrooms, and hall, yes. But bedrooms? We just didn’t know how to make that work.

Finally this spring Pete and I came up with an overly complicated plan that we think will work, and the kids temporarily gave up their bedrooms to make it happen. Lots of belongings have been moved to the barn and the basement, and yesterday it was time to get started.

First up? Wallpaper removal! At long last. Next we’ll learn to patch, skim coat, and put of a much needed fresh coat of pain. Commence our spring homeschooling life-skills unit!

And because that wasn’t quite enough to round out our week or our day, Lupine begged for a hike to the top of the ridge yesterday. How could I resist? After stripping wallpaper for a couple of hours it felt like the best possible end to our day.

Or was it the end?

Because I don’t think I mentioned the rabbits. Oh, the rabbits.

You see, Lupine heard a kerfuffle in the barnyard as I was putting a late (and somewhat lame) dinner on the table after that overfull day. Pete went to help her to see what was going on, and they found that our barn cats had pillaged a rabbit nest.

Because of the size and constitution of her heart, this meant that a baby rabbit rescue was undertaken, leading to a hastily eaten (cold) dinner eaten while researching the best way to get these scared babies back to their mama.

Which we did, thank goodness. Just before collapsing, gratefully, into bed.

Oh, spring! Welcome back to you, dear friend.

I'm one for never looking up a weather forecast, for any reason. Ever. Fortunately I married a man who does it often. (Sometimes I suspect for entertainment purposes only.) Thankfully, he filled me in that there was snow in the forecast. Lots of snow.

And then it hit. A March blizzard, enough to close schools and make our winding valley road uninviting to car travel. (Skis might have been a decent option until the plows went through.)

Snow! A blanket of it. Perhaps the loveliest snowfall we had all winter. 

Lupine, however, was not a fan. She went through the house, pulling shut the curtains. She took blankets, towels, and bedsheets and taped or tacked them over the remaining windows without curtains. This girl was determined to not look at another snow day until November.

Of course by day two the beauty of it all won us over (yes, all of us), and before I knew it we were bundled up and headed outside to throw snowballs, build forts, and hike to the creek and through the forest to take it all in.

In all, it snowed for two breathtaking days. Today, I believe, the thaw begins, and – with any luck – the maple sap will start to run once more.

And though spring is my favorite season, I am certainly grateful for this last round of winter. 

Magic… everywhere.

 

 

One week later, we worked our way across the state, making our way toward home once more.

Away from this river that I know more deeply than perhaps any other place; away from these winding wooded trails that I skied as a kid myself.

Back home to Pete and our creek and this cozy home in this snug valley that holds us ever in its embrace. 

I don't take the flexibility for granted that allowed me a week with my kids to ski and snowshoe together in the Northwoods. Not anymore, anyway. I suppose I did when they were small, but today it all feels so different. 

These days are fleeting indeed. And I am grateful beyond words for each day that I am fortunate enough to be standing here, savoring it all, with my kids standing close at my side. 

 

This winter, Pete, the kids, and I got passionate about hygge. What is hygge? I'm so glad that you asked! 

Hygge: 
/HEW-gə/
noun 

A Danish word for coziness, warmth, and comfort that inspires a feeling of contentment and well-being. 

"Hygge is the warm, contented feeling of gathering with loved ones around the wood stove. It is flickering candlelight, warm and wonderful scents, and community. It is finding delight in life's simple pleasures."

And it's that feeling that we've been cultivating all winter long. 

Since we didn't plan a winter trip to our favorite deserted beach this year, we decided the cabin was the very best place to get our hygge on. And so on a whim, we packed our bags, loaded up our skis, and headed north last weekend.

And it's been a delightful week.

Every day we've been outside, beneath the bluebird skies and on the icy snow. We've been snowshoeing, skiing, and racing up and down the river on a half-inflated inner tube. We have worked our way through much of a 1000 piece puzzle; repaired a broken ski boot miles from civilization; and eaten homemade chicken soup (and cake!) on the side of a deserted ski trail. There have been mugs of hot tea, piles of blankets and afghans, and endless audio books. (We're all hopelessly hooked on the audio version of this book. So good!) (afflink)

Lupine and I have been doing some serious knitting and Sage has both made homemade egg noodles and baked a cake containing some three full sticks of butter. For. Real. 

I did bring along their spelling lists, yes, but alas, none of us are feeling it at the moment. (Spelling lists, as it turns out, aren't very hyggely.)

As our week here winds to a close, I'm hopeful for another ski (or two), a late night peek at the stars, and a few more hands of rummy before we go. I don't take for granted the fact that our forgiving schedules, our self-directed lives, and their slow-paced childhoods afford us the freedom to slip away, and make time for this.

For rest, for laughter, for play, for quiet, for memories in the making.

Oh, yes. Our hygge game is strong this year.

 

P.S. Care to follow along? Lots more images here…  

 

 

It's a rare treat for me to get one of each item from any Treasure Box collection. We're on our 12th seasonal box already (how is that possible?!) and I've certainly snagged a few favorites that I just can't live without. But I've missed a few gems as well when the boxes sold out before I had claimed mine.

Not this year.

This spring I'm bound and determined to grab one of everything to enjoy for myself! Because this box is one of my favorites yet, the just right mix of practical and indulgent with the smells, textures, and functionality you've come to expect from all things LüSa.

It is entirely possible that when I took Sage to town to meet his friends last night, I swung by LüSa at 9 PM to grab an item from this box that I needed, stat.

This week only, enjoy a free bonus item with every Spring or Annual Treasure Box you buy! To claim your bonus, simply add a note of "Clean Blog Treasure" and I'll tuck in an extra item, with my thanks for supporting what we do.

Want a sneak peek? Sure enough. The video above includes a surprise (or three). Though I won't say which they are. Enjoy! Also, this is my first every attempt at a video. I think it's pretty fun. (Pats own back…) What do you think?

And with that, the weekend is calling. Make it a good one, friends!

~ Rachel

 

 

The fine print: if you combine this offer with our current weekly email promotion, we'll include a smaller/lighter weight extra for your second bonus to keep from shipping too heavy of a box. 

 

We didn't intend to go skiing.

But once we got to the barn and gathered our gear for an upcoming ski trip, we couldn't help ourselves.

The sun was setting, the amber light splashed across the hills, and the snow called us out into her fleeting magic.

Before Pete came home from work we set off toward the creek, the kids on their skis for the first time all winter.

Spontaneously, joyfully, like one giant shared exhale.

Each year we cobble our gear together from skis and boots and poles we find at thrift stores and rummage sales. Then the shell game begins, as we match up bindings with boots, screwdriver in hand, moving bindings from last year's skis or the year before to the new, bigger set, and hoping we don't break anything along the way.

Tight budget, meet our love for skiing. 

It's a little cobbledy, but we make it work.  

And so finally (though it's already February) the boots-and-bindings game was won, and we headed out into the golden light.

We quickly found our groove, taking turns cutting the trail toward the woods. We stopped mid-stride to listen to the barred owls in the hills, and shared a few laughs as the following barn cats set to work attacking our skis. 

Pete came home as Sage and I headed inside, and he set off on foot beside Lupine for one more loop around the pasture. 

My kids have sensitive hearts, as do I. We largely avoid the news, opting instead to spend our time here, listening to the crunch of snow beneath our feet and the owls chatting in the forest. 

Today, of course, after reading the reports from the past days, my heart aches looking at these photos.

My kids. Our life. This safety and privilege and ease.

Another school shooting; another troubled man-child with a gun in his hands.

Like most of you, I don't know what to do with it all. I can't even begin to make it fit in these pictures of what I think childhood should be – simple, safe, and free from adult-sized worries and fear. 

 

I wrote the words below after hearing about the victims in Florida, and reflecting on story after story that we've heard for two decades; stories that are so much the same and so thick with incomprehensible grief. 

Today my kids, Pete, and I will tap our maple trees. We will stand out beneath these hills, the warm sun on our faces, and we'll savor the safety and magic and normalcy of our days.

But my head and my heart will be with the children who are loading onto buses this morning, heading to school for another day, and with those who's days were stolen. 

Here are my words from last night…

I have searched all day for the words, but they refuse to come. Yet I can sit in silence no longer. At risk of adding to the noise that is already hurting our heads and our hearts, here is my voice:

As a child, my greatest fear was of a house fire. My dad modified my bedroom window with a fire escape; I modified my childhood. A braided necklace for my teddy bear, slipped over my wrist each night before sleep; a shoebox filled with treasures close at hand beneath my bed. Quiet rituals and prayers, whispered to myself before sleep.

Today we have modified childhood so much that it is hard to recognize. Active shooter drills exist alongside fire drills in our schools. The new normal; the new real and terrifying threat that we face. That our children face. 

There is no box big enough to hold the fears that our children must carry.

This is our country. What have we done?

America is broken. 
She does not need our prayers. She needs our action.

We owe it to ourselves. 
We owe it to our country. 
And most of all, we owe it to our kids.

Nothing else makes sense.