Has it truly been two full weeks since I’ve popped in to say hello? Good gracious. In almost a decade of holding this space, I think that’s unprecedented.

Perhaps it’s simply that life feels like a bit too much of a flurry these days, and something has to be set down now and then to leave more time for the very best bits.

Since housekeeping was long ago abandoned, it was only logical that the blog would be next.

But such pauses are often temporary. And here I am this morning, with more stories and photos from our messy, quiet world.

In that same spirit that caused me to step away from this space for a time–that of capturing this fleeing moment and holding it close while we can–Lupine, Sage, and I slipped away for nearly a week at my family’s cabin up north.

I’m feeling the need to savor these fading days, now more than ever. And our annual cabin trip is a summer tradition. One that I missed last year for the first time, on account of the book I was writing, when Pete and the kids went without me.

I was determined to not miss it this season.

Pete stayed home to button up some loose ends and projects here on the farm, and the kids and I embarked last week.

There were wandering hikes to takes and raucous swims to have in the river. There were early morning foraging adventures balanced by a trip to our favorite up-north thrift shop. There were days bookended by iced coffee sipped on the dock with knitting after sunrise, and quiet evenings spent around the campfire, tired from a long day in the sunshine and fresh air. There were art projects and nature discoveries and read-alouds and long, deep nights of sleep.

There were all of the things that make this simple family tradition so very special to all of us.

We rolled back home yesterday (after spontaneously extending our trip by a day, like we so often do). And home, complete with Pete and our pets and our cozy beds is every bit as delightful as our time away.

Travel is good like that, isn’t it?

With leaving home and coming back delicious in equal measure.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, we have some unpacking (and, indeed, some housekeeping) to attend to.

Love,
Rachel

Glimpsing this sweet moment last night did all sorts of funny things to my heart.

Because most days lately, this swing hangs empty.

Yet it feels like only a heartbeat ago when, one summer evening, the four of us crafted it from a sturdy plank and our old climbing rope down in the barn. After we strung it up in the maple tree, it was rarely vacant.

The speed at which life and childhood unfolds is ever accelerating, and some days I’m just barely hanging on. There is such profound beauty in their growing, but it is tinged with a whisper of grief.

Because nothing has shaped me more than this chapter – never have I found more important work than this.

Never has life been more real, more delicious, more brimming with magic, or more raw.

I’m not sure I’m ready to let that go.

And I wonder… who will they be when they’re grown?

And, in the same breath, who will I?

I have played more rounds of hide and seek with my family in the past week than I have in the past eight months. There's something about the early spring thaw that brings out the little kid in all of us, and for that I am glad.

We can't get enough of walking to the creek, in particular. Putting down our to-do lists or projects or studies, and setting off to see what we can see. Are the beaver dams are holding? Is the dry gully running? Has the last of the ice finally let go?

Yesterday we heard the return of the sandhill cranes and also the first of the red-winged blackbirds. This is, perhaps, the earliest I remember hearing them in all of my life. It made for a bittersweet mix of delight and worry at the sound of their delightful calls. 

As I write this, Sage just woke, made tea, and joined us by the fire. His first question was, "Can we walk to the creek after breakfast?" 

Such is the nature of spring.

He's pouring over some wild edibles books at the moment, researching cattails and chicory and trying to find something we might harvest, though there's still ice in the valley. Spring fever of the very best sort. 

A few nights ago, before bedtime – when we normally curl up by the fire with books and yarn and colored pencils – the kids begged us to walk to the creek. It was late and we were tired, but the moon was calling, and the owls and coyotes had much to discuss, and childhood was slipping through our hands.

And so we said yes.

Yes to a moonlit walk through the last of the snow; yes to five rounds of hide and seek on the frozen ground.

When we returned to the house, my face hurt from lying on the ice under the bailer, awaiting being found; my belly hurt from our shared laughter; and my heart ached at the beautiful and delicious impermanence of it all. 

Spring reminds us to savor, does it not?

Savor, friends. This day, its simple gifts, and the deliciously fleeting chapter in which you stand. 

Last week I hastily filled a backpack with clothes, grabbed a laptop loaded with work and a basket of knitting, then climbed into my parent's camper for an impromptu cross-country road trip. Pete and the kids stayed home to tend animals and keep our home and life humming along in my absence. 

In the child's role for the first time in decades, I was the passenger once more: riding in the back and watching the scenery unfold alongside the highway. It would be my longest time away from my children ever, and my first time crossing as state line without them. In all we would cross four, heading all the way to Texas in just 3 days. 

The last time I drove to Texas (unbuckled and riding in the covered back of a pick up truck, as one did in the '80's) I was 9 years old and we were heading to Houston for a family wedding. 35 years later the cast of characters was much the same, but our reasons could not have been more different, as we headed south to attend an untimely funeral and to be there for our family whose lives had been upended by grief.

Though I did not know the young man who died, I did know those who loved him, and wanted to be there for them. That is one of the reasons that we gather: to support the grieving, to remember what it means to be a community or to be a family. I wanted to do what my grandma would have done and stand with them in their sorrow, for whatever comfort that might bring.

Before leaving home, I found a sweater that my grandma once owned, and packed it to wear to the funeral. It was the closest I could come to her, some kind of a matriarchal talisman, symbolically pulling her closer when her family needed her most. 

My sister flew in to meet us, and there were were, the four of us once more, packed into my parent's little camper and remembering what life was like when we were small.

In Texas we reconnected with aunts and uncles, cousins and second cousins – some of whom we hadn't seen in decades. We shared tears and laughter, stories and grief, and more hugs than I could possibly count during our brief stay. 

And what struck me most profoundly was this: we are so very different, my family and I. In our lifestyles, our values, our beliefs, our politics. But in that moment of reconnection and sorrow, none of those things mattered.

Because beneath all of it we’re family, and we showed up when we were needed. And that was more than enough.

Back in Wisconsin after a whirlwind 7 days on the road — my thoughts ping-ponging between my family in Texas and my family at home — I returned to tackle-style, bone-crushing hugs and peals of laughter from my own kids. Instead of unpacking my things we spent yesterday morning on a family date to our local coffee shop. We spent the day playing board games, sharing stories, and cuddling up beside the wood stove. Then last night, when the boys had run to town, Lupine and I bundled into our snow clothes and trundled outside in the darkness and falling snow for sledding by headlamp until long after bedtime. 

And I savored it all.

Because more than anything, this trip left me feeling profoundly grateful for the things that matter most: my children, my parents, my partner, my family – and our simple, joyful life. So much more than I did just one week ago. Perhaps sometimes it takes a dark reminder to illuminate how fortunate we really are.

Life is fragile, loves. Hold your dear ones close. Love them with abandon and without condition. Make time for each other. Go sledding; tell stories; look into their beautiful eyes. Do all the things you have longed to do but have been putting off.

Make the time, do the things, and above all hold them close. Because the only thing certain is today.

And I'm certain you won't regret it if you do.

Sometimes words fail me completely.

Today is certainly one such time. So I'll just dive in anyway, and hope to find them as I go.

Nearly three months after his diagnosis with anaplasmosis (and later kidney failure from this tick-borne disease), my beloved Charlie gave up on his fight with illness. He waited for me to wake yesterday morning, then quietly died in my arms on the hill beside our house.

It was a long and painful fight that led us there, and I'm thankful for him that his suffering is finally over. But the other truth is that I can't recall a time when my heart has felt so irreparably broken. Perhaps things are harder to understand when they come out of sequence. Maybe if he were old this would somehow be easier to accept. (Charlie was only 4.) Or maybe it wouldn't make a difference at all.

I do know that my house has never felt so lonely as it did last night, when – with Pete and the kids still in town – I returned alone to an empty house. 

My Charlie. He will be missed. Oh, my will he ever be missed. My constant companion, my side-kick, and yes – my very best friend. 

Safe travels, sweet Charlie. May many rabbits await you in the tall grass on the other side. 

You've been asking me for years: to create a booklist of my favorite reads on a variety of subjects. Books to inspire the leap into homeschooling or a first foray into herbalism; books to nurture a slow and mindful childhood and books for Earth-based celebrations. And when I saw my friend Ginny had set up an Amazon Bookstore I thought it was a lovely idea! Such a simple way to gather each of these categories together in one tidy place.

So last night before bed, I set up the LuSa Mama Bookstore and created a few collections, just for you. It was such a delight to look through my bookshelf and recall our favorites from when the kids were small and note which books never made it into the donation box, desipte our having outgrown them.

Currently I have divided the collections up into the areas I receive the most request for suggested reading. I'm open to additional suggestions as well! I began with the seven categories below –

Homeschooling - books I love for beginning (or reinspiring) your homeschooling journey;

Herbal Exploration, books to inspire the budding herbalist; 

Peaceful Parenting, encouraging you to parent from the heart;

Favorites for Young Children, our very favorite read-alouds from years gone by;

Books for Older Kids, from craft and science to how our bodies work, these are books we have enjoyed in more recent years;

Raising Global Kids, books to take your family beyond the bounds of your own culture and community (I'd love your suggestions for more titles here!);

and Earth-Based Family, secular celebrations and nature-based traditions.

I will add more categories soon, including homesteading, holistic health, and crafting. 

The way the bookshop works is that if you purchase through my link (or alternately buy anything else on Amazon within 24 hours of clicking through) I receive a small commission. You, of course, pay the same amount as you would have otherwise.

That being said, if you simply use the bookstore as a shopping list for your local independent bookseller, all the better! Local for the win, I say.

Do let me know what you think, and what I'm missing! I'll add a link to the right as soon as I can so you have an easy way to find it when you need it.

Love,
Rachel

This morning when I woke, instead of having to coerce Charlie off of his bed and outside for a slow and cautious walk up and down the driveway, he stood up and wagged his tail (actual wagging!) when I got out of bed. He followed me downstairs with an unexpected spring in his step and asked to go outside. When I opened the door, out he shot and set off by himself on his morning walk as I scrambled to find my shoes. 

It's been weeks since he has acted like this and I'm taking it as a good sign. Indeed, as I type this he is off on his second unapproved walkabout on the hillside above our house, sniffing for rabbits (despite me trying in vain to call him home).

He's still just barely eating, but we seem to be making progress in all other areas. Keep the good juju coming! And thank you, each of you, for your emails, comments and love. You're so kind.

In other news (is there other news, I asked myself? I've been pretty Charlie obsessed these days) the latest Taproot issue arrived yesterday. Lupine was tickled to see herself smiling out from those pages, and she set to work immediately on cutting and coloring the pull-out page of two farmers and their tiny house. How refreshing to have this publication to turn to that reflects our values and our lives. What a treat that is for us all.

And with that, I'm off to search the hillsides for a roaming dog who could barely stand just four days ago. I'll take this new problem over the last any day.

Enjoy the sunshine and your own roamings this morning, friends. Oh, and if you see Charlie, would you kindly send him home? I have a nettle, liver, and yogurt smoothie ready that I'm hoping he will eat. (Come to think of it, maybe that's why he has wandered off…)

Oh! I hear barking from under the trees!

I'll take that as another good sign.

Love,

Rachel 

Edited to add: he's home! Thank goodness. For so many things.

Last year was the first time I thought to offer up summer camp to Sage. (I know. He was 13.) Parenting fail, perhaps, or maybe just a different path and a different reality. Regardless, I finally jumped on the bandwagon and offered up camp. 

What he chose, of course, was nothing that resembled the swimming and archery and arts and crafts and a cabin in the woods that you might expect. What he chose was to hang with a bunch of grown-ups and forge hot steel in northern Wisconsin. 

And last week we set off once more to do it again. 

The story I wanted to tell you is about blacksmithing and all of the things that Sage and the others created there in the forge. But that feels a little disingenuous to me, as it wasn't the dominant thread of the weekend. Because in the midst of us going to blacksmith, there was a lot going on at home. 

So in the interest of honesty, here goes.

Charlie, my dog, was very sick and I worried he might not survive the four days we'd be gone. He's not an old dog, just 4 years old, but his kidneys were shutting down from a Lyme disease co-infection. Kidneys are important, as you know, and we were seeing the toll your body takes when they don't function.

Pete and I talked about trading places and me staying home instead, but there were pasture rotations for cows and sheep on the docket, and IV fluids to administer and I wasn't sure I'd be able to handle those things on my own. So with the heaviest of hearts and all the optimism we could muster, Sage and I said goodbye to Charlie, Pete, and Lupine and set off for the forge.

By late afternoon on Thursday we had arrived and made camp. Sage was in his element and we settled into the groove of our blacksmithing weekend. But all the while, my heart was with Charlie and my mind was on his condition. Unlike last year, I never lifted a hammer. (The dinner bell/triangle I made last year is still without a striker.) To distract myself I knitted a few rows, carved a bit, and took some photos. My weekend buddy (the host blacksmith's young daughter) would occasionally ask me, "Did your dog die yet?" "No," I told her. "Not yet. But maybe tonight."   

Finally on Friday night things became rather dire at home. Charlie had taken a turn for the worse and Pete was sure he was nearing the end. I told Sage that I just couldn't be away any more. If Charlie survived the night we would leave early the next morning to either say our goodbyes or do what we could help him heal.

Early that morning I called Pete, certain of what he would say, but amazing us all, Charlie was still hanging on. Sage and I packed up our gear and hurried toward home.

We were a sorry sight on the highway that morning, me worrying about my dog and feeling bad for pulling Sage away early; Sage being disappointed to miss half of his gathering and worried about our dog.

Back home I was beyond grateful to see Charlie's sad puppy dog eyes staring up at me. We are grateful for each small glimmer of hope that he might still rebound, and for brief moments of improvement. I can see that he's still in there. He's just working hard to keep his head above the surface.

We're doing everything that we can for him from pharmaceuticals to herbs; acupuncture to reiki; massage to visualization. 

I'm not sure why I felt compelled to share this with you, except to say that no, life doesn't always go according to plan. And while I was very disappointed for Sage, missing out on 1 1/2 days of his annual event, I think there are good lessons in putting down what we want in order to care for someone else in need.

And also, sweet friends, Charlie would welcome all the kidney-healing goodness that you can send his way. Lots of light and healing energy for this sweetest of dogs. I'm feeling optimistic that he might still come back from this, but we could use some good mojo reinforcements. Thanks friends. Life is messy, isn't it? 

Love,

Rachel

A friend once joked that she wasn't taking her kids to a theme park because she "didn't want them to grow up thinking life needed to be that exciting". And while it was said in jest (though let's be honest, there are plenty of reasons that a sound-sensitive introvert might wish to avoid theme parks and similar places), there was a shadow of truth inside.

Because we set the bar with our kids everyday. We teach them what to expect. And so if we as parents tend to equate fun with something big or splashy or expensive, well, perhaps that's what they will grow up craving, too.

More than a decade later, her comment is still with me. It resonated. And not because I think any harm would come of a theme park visit. I don't believe a rollercoaster now and again will spoil my kids. Rather it was what she implied but did not say.

That she hoped her kids would grow up to relish the small, ordinary pleasures of childhood. That life happens not in the pinnacle big ticket moments, but in the simple quiet corners of our lives. No airplanes or wristbands required. 

What resonated for me was the idea of raising kids who grow up savoring the ordinary.

And while my kids don't necessarily ooze gratitude constantly (who does, really?), they do take authentic delight in small, simple pleasures, like rolling our sleeping bags out on the ground, making ice cream for no reason, or taking a walk in the woods.

As a bonus, all of this is in budget. Can't afford the theme park, the water park, or the county fair? You're still good. Because you probably can afford a game of cards or finger painting or mud-pie baking with your kid.

And so this weekend when I gathered supplies and set off without a word into the orchard to light a campfire, well, it wasn't long until everyone was gathered around me there. Lupine with a knife for whittling, Sage with a DIY rocket stove project, Pete with his newly-restored, broken-arm worthy slide guitar, and me with my knitting.

And there we settled in for the evening.

It was simple, it was free, and it brought us together and delighted us all.

Now those are family entertainment goals that I can get behind.

(As my inner introvert silently cheers.)