Is it possible to stand is awe of the beauty that surrounds us – night after night – just staring open-mouthed up into the clouds?

Somehow more amazed in this moment that the last again and again and again?

Yes, I think so.

The last two evenings have been among the prettiest I've ever seen, the light on the hills and on the clouds drawing us out just one more time before sleep.

Had it not been for the children I would likely have missed it, distracted online in the house.

"Mama, look at the light on the hills!" they called.

I snapped shut my computer and we raced outside, together.

I was thankful they were paying attention, even though I was not.

Technically, we were pushing on past bedtime.

Technically, the kitchen wasn't quite cleaned up from dinner.

Technically, tomorrow was a full day and we should have gone to sleep.

But watching my children chase fireflies through the tall grass in the amber light made me want to whisper promises to them through the darkness that I'll never hurry them again.

That I'll never over-schedule.

That I'll never stress.

That I'll be distracted less and present more, lest I miss out on the magic just beyond my window.

I want to promise them that they'll never miss another sunset – another sky painted orange and glowing magically overhead – until they are grown.

Of course these are promises I'm bound to break before the week is out, but still I feel them in my soul.

And I'll work toward honoring them day after day.

Because anything that moves me from "should" and toward magic is good for us all.

The light on the hills never lasts.

Like most things precious the sunset is fleeting. You can drink it up now or miss it forever.

Last week was busy. Too busy. Our emotions were running close to the surface and small triggers were bringing out big expressions. Everyone needed a quiet day at home, some extra snuggles, and less distraction.

So we called off our plans and dragged our picnic blanket out under the trees. We lay on the grass reading books together. All day long.

It was bliss.

It was medicine.

Between chapters we would lay back and find dragons and rabbits in the clouds drifting overhead.

At noon we went inside to pack a picnic lunch and brought it back out to our blanket in the shade.

We enjoyed our day so much that the kids and I pulled out our tent and spent the night camping in the yard. Why mess with a good thing? We were loving our nest in the shade of the maple tree.

And though I'm often tired the next day after we sleep out, I'm never tired enough to wish we had stayed in.

Because summer – and childhood – is brief.

So instead of chasing an arbitrary number on the clock we chased fireflies, unconscious of the hour. Instead of hurrying through our pre-bed routine we danced in the darkness to the night music of frogs, insects, and birds; told stories; and laughed beneath the stars. 

And then I remembered that it had been a big week. We all needed rest.

So we tucked into our sleeping bags and lay down for bed.

And then – as if on cue – four silent, flickering paper lanters rose magically from behind the trees, drifting toward the stars from a neighboring farm.

Fireflies, stars, night music, and glowing lanterns. Magic beyond measure.

We fell asleep late but woke feeling connected to the earth and each other. We were rested and brimming with magic and joy.

Should we have gotten to bed on time? I think not.

Because this we will remember always.

Not a blow-out vacation or exciting trip to a theme park.

Nothing boughten or contrived.

Just fireflies. A tent. And the stars.

Simple, home-grown magic.

Presence.

Connection.

And freedom from "should".

I am remided again of how brief this moment is.

This sunset, this summer, this childhood.

And I am humbled and thankful to bear witness to the beauty and magic of it all.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

Edited to add:

As I re-read today's post I reflected on how for different personalities "should" has very different meanings.

For me it might be about following the rules (self imposed or societal).

For you "should" might be about playing make-believe with your kids or sleeping out in the yard. Or it might be about walking away from your career to mother full time.

My words today are about presence – not the specifics of how to parent.

I urge each of you to honor your truths, your spirit, and your soul's needs.

Not mine, your mom's, or your neighbors. Only your own.

And in the space you create find presence for the things that matter most. To you.

Because therein lies a life of meaning and joy.

Love,
Rachel

I originally shared this post last winter. This weekend, being Mother's Day here in the US it seemed like the perfect time to share again.

Let's do this. For ourselves, for each other.

It might make all the difference.

Love,
Rachel

So often we walk through life, insulating ourselves from the strangers around us.

We keep to ourselves.

We mind our own business.

We go it alone.

The chance for connection is there, just below the surface.

But we let is float by, unacknowledged.

We don't bring it up into the light.

And then yesterday something incredible happened.

A stranger stopped me at Goodwill to tell me that I was "a wonderful mother."

I stumbled around, searching for grace, and tried to quiet the knee-jerk dismissal of her compliment that was bobbing to the surface.

Blushing, I thanked her and we walked away.

We ran into each other again and she repeated her praise.

This time I was ready. My acceptance came easy.

"I wish everyone spoke to their kids that way," she said.

"Yes," I said, "but we all have different personalities; different fears; different life experience."

"Different stresses," she added.

And before I knew it we were deep in a conversation about parenting, compassion, non-judgement and respect.

She talked about her own childhood.

We connected.

And I don't even know her name.

Later that day in a moment of struggle, one of my kids told me that I was "the worst mom in the world".

I held the space for my child, allowing a full expression of big emotion.

And in that messy moment a stranger's words were in my head.

I am a wonderful mother.

And I thanked her again in my mind for having the courage to tell me so.

Somehow her words helped me do better in a difficult moment.

For that I am so thankful.

Each day we have the chance to connect instead of walk on by.

We have the opportunity to lift someone up.

We have the power to choose compassion instead of judgement.

Even someone you've never met before and will never see again.

Someone who is struggling to keep her head above water.

Or another who's brimming with grace.

What would change if you chose to reach out?

To connect.

Uplift.

Support.

To reach into the space between strangers and create community, if only for a moment.

Because if you listen just so, the screaming baby at the grocery store isn't an irritation.

It's an invitation.

A chance to give of yourself.

Your empathy, your compassion, your arms.

I once offered to hold a crying baby at the coop. And that mama, three-fourths of the way through a day of wrong-turns and struggle, looked me in the eyes and began to cry.

And then she said yes.

Thank you – yes.

Because it was so hard that day.

And when you notice a parent being patient or kind or compassionate – pause and connect.

Tell them.

Let her see herself as you see her.

She might just need to hear it today.

My challenge for you is this:

look into the eyes of a stranger and lift them up.

Release judgement and find compassion.

Reach into that space between strangers and create community.

Because we need each other.

It's just that for a moment we had forgotten.

Your choice to connect could change someone forever.

And yes.

It might just change you, too.

Love,
Rachel

More inspiration here and here. You'll love these. I promise.

And this post from my own archives might be something else you need today.

You know the saying, "dance like nobody's watching"?

I have my own version.

Okay It's totally different.

But it's still worth remembering.

Mine conjurs an image that's a little less Woodstock and a little more Mr. Rogers.

It's one that I can lean on in my hardest days.

"Parent like someone is watching."

When things get real – like they so often do – just pretend you are not alone.

Simple, yes.

But more powerful than you might think.

Imagine that in the room with you is someone you respect.

Not anyone who would ever judge you, but someone who's attitude, opinion, and parenting is an inspiration.

Someone who helps you tap into your own patience and compassion.

Whether fictional or real, imagine them at the edge of the room.

Your sister. A friend. Or heck, Mr. Rogers himself.

Then parent like they're watching.

And watch as you find a hidden well of patience and kindness that you didn't even know was there.

Because here's the thing.

When I'm around like-minded friends or even strangers I can rock this.

I'm on my game.

I don't act like a bully or cave to constant distraction.

And when things go haywire I rise when I could dive.

Just knowing others are there gives me the strength I need to draw on.

I suppose that is community – in one form or another.

It's connection.

Support.

And yes, accountability.

To see ourselves more clearly through the eyes of another.

To feel like we are not alone.

The truth is, you are not alone.

We are all walking our own paths, but they are parallel.

We're each there doing our own work, just out of each other's line of sight.

And we have up days and down days.

Magical days and disasters.

We all struggle sometimes.

With patience.

Kindness.

Or presence.

Today I was briefly a jerk to my kids.

They both needed compassion and I was shorter and less tender than I could have been.

And then I realized that I might have acted differently if someone was watching.

Not because anyone else matters more than my child, but because I would have been more self-aware.

It was awakening.

Because my kids are more important than that.

And yours are, too.

 So today – wherever you are and whatever goes down – parent like someone is watching.

Someone you adore, respect, and love.

Someone who matters more than anything.

Parent like someone is watching.

Because someone is.

Yes. Of course.

Someone is.

Parent like your child is watching.

Because indeed. And of course.

They are.

Love,

Rachel

I don't know if you will remember.

But I know that I will.

Always.

The way we tied each other's apron strings and sat in the sunshine on the kitchen floor, choosing a recipe that everyone would love.

Red velvet cupcakes colored with beet juice.

Perfect.

The way we laughed as we tiptoed around the kitchen, gathering ingredients.

How we whispered and we wondered if the boys would find us out and uncover our mission to make cupcakes without their knowing.

Our sweet secret.

The way you smiled when you licked the frosting off the beater.

And the way you saved one for Sage, because you always want to share.

Simple pleasures and a big open heart.

The way your sleeves always manage to drag through the batter, no matter what we're making, and you bring them to your mouth to "clean" up.

Better a life lived messy than a life not lived.

Everyday a delicious mess.

I don't know how much you will remember of so much of what we do – together – but I know that I will.

Forever.

Perhaps this time we spend present and connected will give you strength. Comfort. Confidence.

Perhaps it will imprint on your soul and you will be present for yourself and for others as you grow.

Or perhaps this time is simply a strong, stable base on which you will stand as you leap, leap, up and away some soon day.

I hope so.

But for me it's more self-serving than that.

It's simply this:

I'm crazy about you.

And you are growing up before my very eyes.

So I will drink up every moment of your magic that I can while you're still here to share it with me.

Nothing could be sweeter than this.

Nothing.

So even in the midst of busy I will make time.

Time to laugh and love and be – simply be.

Together.

Each morning I will put down my work and snuggle with your brother as we talk about things that matter.

Like books and model trains and melting snow. Like everything and nothing.

And every day I will put down my distractions and look deep into your eyes.

You will talk. And I will listen.

And each night while you both are sleeping I will tiptoe in and kiss your scarlet cheeks and tell you how much I love you.

Immesurable.

And when you ask if we can make cupcakes I will say yes every chance I get.

Because it won't be long before you won't have so much time for or interest in cupcakes.

I could have spent this hour checking email. Making a phone call. Or cleaning off that crazy counter.

But I didn't.

Instead I was right here, looking deep into your blueberry eyes, and laughing at our secret work of cupcakes.

And I will always remember.

And just in case – just to be certain – let's do it again tomorrow.

While we still can.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

 Welcome friends. Thank you for stopping by! If you liked this post you'll love Fleeting.

You can find more posts on motherhood and mindfulness here.

You have a superpower.

And every day you get a chance to use it.

It's the power to change the world.

By choosing play over pressure.

Peace over violence.

Kindness over power.

Compassion over neglect.

Forgiveness over blame.

Every. Single. Day.

As a parent you possess the power to change the world.

One day at a time,

one child at a time,

one interaction at a time.

And the world transforms.

But that does not mean you will be perfect.

You will falter.

You will yell.

You will curse.

You will break.

You will forget just for a moment how amazingly powerful you are and you will return to shame, anger, manipulation, and control.

It happens.

To all of us.

In our own way we each create own reasons for regret.

And then?

And then you have the chance to choose forgiveness again. This time for you.

Compassion. Understanding.

Second chances.

Unconditional love.

No one is perfect.

Not your partner, not your child, not your mother. And not you.

We're all stumbling along, learning as we go.

Doing our best.

We are all flawed.

It's part of the plan. It gives us good work to do with our time here on earth.

Allow yourself your imperfections.

Allow them to your child as well.

And yes, allow them even to that other mother you see on the street who's come undone and is yelling and pulling her little one roughly along.

She needs it most of all.

And then, remember your power.

Your superpower.

To shape the world, for good.

It takes courage to forge a new path.

To reach for peace when you were taught reach for power.

To reach for compassion when last time you faltered.

To reach for understanding even in frustration. Or exhaustion. Or anger.

You have the power to change the world. And also to change yourself.

And the harder that is for you, the more deeply I honor your work.

Onward, mama. Onward.

You carry the world in your arms.

It's your superpower.

Love,
Rachel

Late last week I started to find my groove with my book-writing.

I had finally nailed the structure and bones of my work, something I had been juggling for months.

(Okay. Years.)

But I got it! I finally found a way to organize my thoughts and share what I have to share.

I was stoked.

So on Saturday I snuck into my writing studio/craft room to carve out a little writing time. I was ready to get to work.

And just then a small, seven-year old girl appeared in the doorway. Not missing a beat she bounded into the room and announced, "Mama, let's sort buttons together! Wouldn't that be fun?"

And I paused.

And I took a breath.

And I looked at the outline laid out before me and thought about the writing I wanted to do.

The words "presence and distraction," "play" and "connection" leaped off the page.

Yes. That. The very stuff of what I was writing was dancing into my experience to ask me how serious I was.

Was I serious?

And if so, about living it or writing about it? 

I closed my computer.

"Yes, baby. Sorting buttons together would be so fun. There is nothing I'd rather do right now that this with you."

I meant it.

It was Saturday. It was time to sort buttons.

It was time to close the computer. There would be time to write later on.

I hugged her, kissed her head, and we set to work.

Later that night as we sat down to dinner we shared the sweet spot of our day, as we often do.

My sweet spot?

Yes. Of course it was.

And yes, it was Lupine's too.

Sorting buttons.

Something I would have missed if I'd hurried along toward my own destination.

On my adult agenda.

And while I'll have many more opportunities to write, I'm not sure how many more Saturdays I'll get to spend sorting buttons with my girl.

Sorting buttons, it turns out, was the most important work before me.

This I know is true.

A proper midwestern winter's worth of snow is rapidly melting outside my door.

January and February's weeks below zero were put in their place yesterday by 40 F and sunshine, followed today by wind, ice, and rain.

Just to keep us on our toes.

I'd love to say something about how I'll take a real Wisconsin winter like this year any day – but why bother?

That I've loved every moment of deep snow and cold and would rather not have rain – but why get stuck?

"The only thing constant is change," as my mama always told me.

So today we tried to embrace what is.

We hunkered down in the house, playing and crafting, and watched as the snow retreated a little further with every hour.

When we ventured out in the rain we laughed as we slid on the ice to the barn.

Yes, it was cold, wet, and messy. But it's what we've got. So we embraced it.

Sage doesn't want to see the snow go. He'd keep it winter forever if he could.

So he draws the curtains shut and tries to think about something else.

Me, I'm thinking about the garden.

Ordering seeds; growing starts; tapping maples; planting berries.

Because spring – of course – will come again.

It always does.

Sometimes early, sometimes late, but it comes.

Everything in order.

Everything in time.

There's comfort in the certainty of it all.

Because ready or not, the snow will melt, the sap will rise, and the pastures will grow green once more.

And so we surrender.

We embrace what is.

In seasons and in parenting and in life.

Everything is in order.

Everything in time.

Ready or not.

So I'll be here now – wherever we are.

In this seasons on Earth, with my kids, and in my skin.

I'll embrace the smallness that still surrounds me, while I celebrate every step towards bigness that comes with growing up.

And I'm honored to witness their journey all while I experience my own.

Because my season as well is shifting.

This week I noticed. Grey hair. Age. Growing older.

But not with judgement. Just with observation.

With kindness. Acceptance. And wonder.

Everything in order.

Everything in time.

Ready or not.

When the snow falls we'll put on our skis and explore the sparkling world beyond our fence line.

When the rain pours down we'll grab umbrellas and laugh as the wind turns them inside out.

And when the sun shines we will plant our seeds and tend our garden and bring home the harvest once again.

~ * ~ * ~ * ~

P.S. Thank you to whomever nominated Clean for the Favorite Family and Kid's blog at Apartment Therapy.

Would the rest of you be so sweet as to share a vote with me as well? You all can still cast a vote my way through Friday. I'd be honored.

Just go here, log in (Facebook or Twitter are both quick) and then click "Clean".

Voting has ended. Thanks for sharing the love, ya'll.

Thank you! 

Love,
Rachel

Yesterday morning during farm chores the kids had a disagreement.

A big one.

Both of them wanted the favorite job, neither was ready to budge.

I value the skills that develop during these moments, so I let them work it out, instructing them to put down the pail until a decision they both felt good with was found.

Almost always this is a wonderful way for them to navigate their struggles.

Almost always.

Yesterday it just wasn't happening.

Though clever, viable ideas came into the conversation, both held fast to their own, not able to open to another's idea.

It was maddening (for everyone).

Finally I completely and utterly lost my cool, yelled, acted like a monster, and went inside.

Even Pete lost his patience.

Because yeah, some days are like that.

Even here.

When the kids came in we were all hurting.

There were tears.

Raised voices.

Sadness and anger and frustration and pain.

And then – somehow – we found grace.

We each got over ourselves and our need to be right.

We listened to each other.

We connected.

We apologized. (All of us.)

And as we gathered around the table for breakfast we found the space within ourselves to truly listen to one another.

As we joined hands in a circle, we acknowledged what went wrong. In ourselves and between us all.

We healed.

And then as we cleared the table and washed dishes together, each of us made a promise.

"To seek solution."

"To not yell."

"To be more patient."

"To not call names."

Small, simple, important promises. That all of us can keep.

And yesterday when struggles arose (as they often do) we recalled the promises we made.

And we honored them.

We searched for solutions together when challenges arose.

We stopped yelling – despite our desperation to be heard – and discovered that others were truly listening.

We were all more patient then before.

And no one called names.

Would I do things differently if I could replay yesterday morning's drama one more time?

Of course.

But were we able to find some real healing and evolution within a hurtful and messy day?

Most certainly.

And that, I suppose, it was growing up is all about. No matter your age.

Have a beautiful weekend friends.

So much love,
Rachel

Edited to add: This morning was rocky, too, for one of our crew.

I felt my patience thinning, dealing with the same big and uncomfortable expressions.

Because come on. Let this day be easy.

And then, through the big feeling that were flowing we found what was really going on.

There was hunger. (Breakfast after chores? What was I thinking?)

And fear. (I think I lost my…)

And the feeling that someone wasn't heard. (Why do grownups always want thier way?)

And so we started again.

The journey we'll always be on, as we reach for more and deeper compassion.

More and deeper understanding.

More and deeper connection.

May it always be so.

So often we walk through life, insulating ourselves from the strangers around us.

We keep to ourselves.

We mind our own business.

We go it alone.

The chance for connection is there, just below the surface.

But we let is float by, unacknowledged.

We don't bring it up into the light.

And then yesterday something incredible happened.

A stranger stopped me at Goodwill to tell me that I was "a wonderful mother."

I stumbled around, searching for grace, and tried to quiet the knee-jerk dismissal of her compliment that was bobbing to the surface.

Blushing, I thanked her and we walked away.

We ran into each other again and she repeated her praise.

This time I was ready. My acceptance came easy.

"I wish everyone spoke to their kids that way," she said.

"Yes," I said, "but we all have different personalities; different fears; different life experience."

"Different stresses," she added.

And before I knew it we were deep in a conversation about parenting, compassion, non-judgement and respect.

She talked about her own childhood.

We connected.

And I don't even know her name.

Later that day in a moment of struggle, one of my kids told me that I was "the worst mom in the world".

I held the space for my child, allowing a full expression of big emotion.

And in that messy moment a stranger's words were in my head.

I am a wonderful mother.

And I thanked her again in my mind for having the courage to tell me so.

Somehow her words helped me do better in a difficult moment.

For that I am so thankful.

Each day we have the chance to connect instead of walk on by.

We have the opportunity to lift someone up.

We have the power to choose compassion instead of judgement.

Even someone you've never met before and will never see again.

Someone who is struggling to keep her head above water.

Or another who's brimming with grace.

What would change if you chose to reach out?

To connect.

Uplift.

Support.

To reach into the space between strangers and create community, if only for a moment.

Because if you listen just so, the screaming baby at the grocery store isn't an irritation.

It's an invitation.

A chance to give of yourself.

Your empathy, your compassion, your arms.

I once offered to hold a crying baby at the coop. And that mama, three-fourths of the way through a day of wrong-turns and struggle, looked me in the eyes and began to cry.

And then she said yes.

Thank you – yes.

Because it was so hard that day.

And when you notice a parent being patient or kind or compassionate – pause and connect.

Tell them.

Let her see herself as you see her.

She might just need to hear it today.

My challenge for you is this:

look into the eyes of a stranger and lift them up.

Release judgement and find compassion.

Reach into that space between strangers and create community.

Because we need each other.

It's just that for a moment we had forgotten.

Your choice to connect could change someone forever.

And yes.

It might just change you, too.

Love,
Rachel

More inspiration here and here. You'll love these. I promise.

And this post from my own archives might be something else you need today.