The work at hand.

“Every bit of life comes with instructions, when we are attentive enough to notice.” 

- Karen Maezen Miller

My rhythm is not that of a mama with young kids anymore. While I do struggle with some grief over that stage of my life falling away what has grown from the composting of time is a rhythm of my own.

Rising early, now before the sun, with only myself to greet sleepy puppies who assure me that it is much to early to begin.

They patiently wait while I get the coffee grounds and water in the pot and then they fall back to sleep in new places as I do a tiny bit of computer work.

Then my wooden spoon, cutting board and enameled soup pot. I cook in the mornings. Sometimes for supper, occasionally a big breakfast, mostly from foraging what I have. Like an anxious anticipation to put together little bits that have been waiting.

Ever since my sweet friend Persephone had me and my kids in her own kitchen and without any fuss at all whipped up a gluten free chicken biscuit bake for our lunch, I have been foraging to create it as often as I have a couple potatoes laying around and chicken stock just boiled.

Today I will feed it to us for lunch and this will become a prompt for Scavenge and hopefully I will pass on the joy of how easy it can be to create such delight in the kitchen.

As I start my second cup of coffee the sun is up, Dave is out with the dogs, I am washing dishes and hurrying to wake up the kiddo who prefers me over his alarm clock. 6:45am and I am sitting on his bed listening to his morning story of how a huge beetle fell on him last night and then he lost it.

There is green tomato chutney to simmer on the stove and five kids will sit at desks scattered through out the house and I station myself in the center of it all. I don't intrude on them, I let them flow in to me, when they need to update me on what just happened. When they need snacks. When the one that likes me to wake him up also likes for me to put in a hot lunch for him to have on his short break.

I talk with Eli on the full moon about how he used to always know when it was a full moon even when he had no way of truly knowing. His body would fill with a certain energy and while he was an amazing sleeper, it was the one night he couldn't fall asleep with ease. He would need to run around and let off energy and I loved those nights with him.

And. He doesn't remember. Barely six years ago. He doesn't remember and part of me is still tethered to that boy so tuned into the moon. I want him to run up the stairs and tell me he can't sleep. But he doesn't think about the moon now. Thoughts clouded with the things boys of fifteen think.

Still, I gather them all up and we eat pizza under the harvest moon. We talk with Chloe into the night about college and gap years and our dream of having a real homestead once the boys graduate. 

I'm just noticing. In all of this time together, it would be so easy to stop noticing and try to control anything we could get our minds mixed up into.

The work at hand isn't complicated. Just be there with them. Anchor into the center and let them create a rhythm of their own.

Sending love and the smell of roasted vegetables clinging to a rich sauce and the gift of noticing.