I'm not sure what else to show you that can beat this view.

We're still right here, staring in amazement across the valley. We're still unpacking, staring in disbelief at how much more there is to do.

No, I haven't found my shampoo, but yes, a friend gave me some to get me by.

We are finding our groove and settling in.

All is well.

All is well, all is well, all is well.

Sure, there have been the expected – and unexpected – bumps in the road (like when the toilet overflows or the cat gets hit by a car…), but you dig out from under all of that. You find the plunger. You take the cat to the vet. You work through.

(We think our kitty will be okay. She's hurting, but resting and healing up. She used up one of her lives this morning, that's for certain.)

I'm tired, despite sleeping a ridiculous amount. I'm up early, watching the sunrise over this valley every day. I'm avoiding unpacking by knitting now and then, and also realizing just how time expands without the internet at home to distract me.

I'm also beyond grateful for the help of friends.

And I'm wondering what I was so afraid of.

Um, hello there.

It's me.

The girl who can't find the shampoo and is really needing a shower.

The one who caved and bought gluten-free bread two days in a row because I have no idea how to cook while standing on boxes of pantry goods.

The one straddling two houses – one emptying and one filling. (For the record, the latter is happening at a much greater speed. Ruh roh.)

But it is happening. It is all coming together.

Two words? Tired and happy.

Exhausted and elated.

Overwhelmed and thrilled.

(That's six words. I know. But they are sort of synonyms.)

The terrified part fled at the sight of all of the work that had to be done. Your words helped, too. Thank you for that.

The farm is beautiful.

The nights are so dark and so quiet.

Even our dogs are happier here. Jasper, our old-old guy who grew up in the country just can't get enough. He has found a sunny hillside and sleeps all day out in the fresh air. It makes me want to cry.

And the kids have to be cajoled out of their pajamas before they rush out into the pasture to play. They can't get enough either.

Pete and I are adjusting to strange little
differences of this new home.

Everything is different. The sound of the water in the pipes. The way the light plays across the floor.

And how the kids run out of sight for
hours on
end. What an amazing shift! I'm constantly needing to remember (when I
wonder where they've gone) that worrying does not serve me. I keep
reminding myself that all is truly well.

Because it is.

All in all, I think we're winning. One box
at a time, we're getting there. (I've even stepped over some boxes to
hang some art. That always makes it feel like home, doesn't it?)

Last night I needed a break. Finally. To sit down in the silence and feel this change in my bones.

So while Pete put the kids to bed I went into my craft room. By the grace of God found the skeins of yarn I purchased a few weeks ago for Sage's new slippers, and also the pattern and the right size needles.

I found them. In the middle of a move.

Amazing? I think so.

Because this is my craft room. Oh my.

I closed the door on that mess and sat down to knit a few rows. And in that silence I felt… normalcy. What a treat that was.

With that, I'm heading back to the farm to unpack another stack of boxes. My brain is a little too fuzzy to even proof-read this, so forgive the type-os and run-on sentences.

As far as blogging normalcy goes, as soon as I have internet at the farm I'll be more consistent here again. Until then, I'll pop in to say hello and give you an update on life when we come into town.

Thanks for being all kinds of awesome, friends. Thanks for going on this journey with us.

Love to you all,

Rachel

Thank you all for your kind, sensitive, supportive, and loving words yesterday. I read each and every comment and you touched my heart.

This morning we're back at the "old house" packing a few more things and checking email (no internet at the farm yet). I'm tired, but full of gratitude for all of the friends who have stepped up to help and for just how far we've come already.

As I type this Lupine just walked up to me – in the only house she has ever known – and said, "Mama, I want to go home." After one night Sage reported that he feels more at home at the farm than he ever has before. So it's good. Exhausting and scary but so very good.

Today I'm blogging over on Simple Homeschool. Come on over for a read.

Hugs all around,
Rachel

 

This day I am thankful for…

a weekend at home, creating, organizing, and enjoying life with my family;

cool dew on the grass;

chai in (and chickens on) my new favorite cup;

wool on my wheel;

my silly yet satisfying new creative outlet;

yesterday's rockin' $4 rummage sale score and

the $3 canner that came with the new jars – already in use;

and this early-bird by my side through it all. Each and every morning.

Life

is

Sweet.

 

Love,

Rachel

I was sound asleep when I heard my wake-up call. So loud. So bossy.

The four chickens (whom I neglected to close into their coop last night) were awake.

And they wanted breakfast.

All four were perched on the back steps and calling in through the screen in the backdoor. "Humans! Wake up! We're hungry!"

Dang. Bossy things.

As soon as I appeared all bleary eyed at the door they hopped off the steps, hustled across the porch, and waited (somewhat) patiently by the can of chicken feed in the yard. I fed them and they said "thank you" as best as they could, by jabbing at each other for the best spot at the feeder.

Time to go back to bed. But…

The cat was mewing for food. And then the dogs wanted to go out. And come back in.

And now? I'm up. A little early, but I'm up.

Time for a little tea and a lot of gratitude for the ordinary blessing that this day holds.

There is chai in my cup and two big pots of milk are warming on the stove. (One for yogurt and one for cottage cheese.) The sun is shining in through the windows and it promises to be another beautiful day.

Today. I'll make laundry soap. And do the wash. Then hang it to dry in the sun. (My favorite chore of all.)

Today. I'll make tinctures and syrups for my man who's sick with the flu in high summer. Poor guy. The flu. In summer!

Today. We'll eat more spicy chicken soup. (Don't worry, hens. I'm not holding a grudge about the early wake up. We'll dine on a different bird.)

Today. I'll knit and sew and cook and clean.

Today. When I'll turn off the computer and immerse myself fully in today.

And so it begins, like always. Another perfectly ordinary (yet somehow extraordinary) day.

Today. What will it bring?

 

Remember how happy I was this morning?

Um, yeah. Double it.

Have a magical weekend sweet people.

Love,
Rachel

It's hard for me to explain how happy this makes me.

We have chickens again!

As some of you know, we've been living in town for the past six years after living in the country since 1995. We are country people, temporially living in town.

And in the country we always had chickens.

Today a friend is moving away and needed a new home for her girls. So early this morning Lupine and I set out to pick up the four we were adopting.

And after an eventful and perilous chase of the Americana up and down our quiet street this morning (a chase that ended with me taking a slapstick flying leap into the neighbors bushes to finally catch her) the four ladies are tucked contentedly into our borrowed coop.

I am so happy.

(Squeal!)

Now all we need is the farm! Universe, I'm ready. Bring on the farm!

Love,
Rachel

Take a moment to linger over each picture below. It'll be like you and I are taking a walk through my garden. Take your time. Breathe. Savor. Imagine the hot sun on your shoulder and the breeze cooling your skin.

Welcome.

Come into the garden…

And now we're back inside, eating raspberries and drinking sun tea. I'm so glad you came.

It's nearly summer here in the North.

Last night we slept with the windows open and the blankets pulled off of the bed, a fan in every window. We have central air, but somehow I feel like we're missing out on the change of the seasons if we pump cold air in, rather than revel in the sticky heat when summer rolls into town.

So it's been sweaty. 90 F sort of sweaty outside, and 86 F sort of sweaty in. Summer has arrived and in a few days it'll be official.

Hot, sultry, sublime.

Summer.

After four days away my garden turned to an impenetrable jungle. Green chaos held back only by the strength of our fence.

Have you had the experience of being away from your child for a couple of days yet? If you have you remember the realization upon their return that they are different. They have grown. Physically. Intellectually. In just a couple of days you feel that they are different than when you said goodbye.

Coming back to the garden was like that, only greener.

Everything was different.

Without my help the stinkbugs had left the cucumbers, the sunflowers had opened, and all manner of growth had occurred. The lettuces had bolted and there were zucchini. Honest to goodness zucchini.

While I appreciated the display of independence, I wasn't sure we'd bounce back from that chaos.

But after a couple of hours of pulling weeds, some harvesting of gigantic peas and lettuces, and staking the tomatoes and it looks just as good as before we left.

Well, almost.

And oh, the volunteers. (Some might call them "weeds".) The garden is brimming with so many plants that arrived uninvited.

As I looked through the photos I made yesterday I realized that not one of my favorites was of a plant that came about with human help. Yes, I've planted plenty of the standard garden faire. Kohlrabi, peas, beans, zucchini, cucumbers, broccoli, tomatoes, and kale (among others).

But every plant above came on their own accord. They chose me, rather than the other way around. We liked them and we let them stay.

All volunteers. Sunflowers. Dandelions. Chamomile. Jewelweed. Raspberries.

Such a metaphor for life, isn't it? We plan and we plant and then let the magic happen. We'll reap what we sowed, and so much more.

Thanks for showing up, garden friends. I treasure you. I treasure you for your food and your medicine and your beauty – and the simple surprise of your arrival.

Love,
Rachel

I'm not even sure there is much I need to say about this. Because photographs of a gigantic wooly rabbit are about all you need, really.

Since our farm fell through (for the time-being anyway) I decided that I wouldn't let that stand in the way of me having a wool-bearing animal. Sheep in town? I don't think so.

So instead I got a German angora rabbit.

He is sweet as honey and quite shy. (Though after three days now he's really warming up to us.) The dogs are fascinated (Olive in particular), so I'm keeping a close eye on her to say the least.

We built the hutch ourselves (no, we don't have plans). I pinned a few on my farm Pinterest board, and then we just picked features we liked and got to work. Rabbit hutches abound on Craigslist, but we decided that making one ourselves was a better homeschooling project. And it was! I think it's beautiful.

Angora rabbits produce a surprising amount of wool, which is removed weekly (or even daily) by brushing and also by shearing every three months. Our bunny was due for a shearing when he arrived, and we got to work yesterday. With scissors in hand, we hacked away at his beautiful coat.

And today? He's looking a bit rough-around-the-edges, but hopping happily around his mini-pasture and looking for scratches and snuggles from us all. And I have a bag full of the softest wool ever, ready to spin.

Now we just need a name for our furry new friend…