For the better part of a year, I've been walking past the same barn at the end of our road. It's pretty picturesque with a wide rolling hill, mountains in the distance and a wreath that hangs on the loft in all seasons. When we moved to this neighborhood in February 2020, those first walks past the barn were full of promise: a beautiful year lie ahead in our new home. But when our four walls became a quarantine prison only a month later, the walks to the barn turned into a respite from monotony . . .
My word of the year is liminal. Yeah, I know. It's weird. Why couldn't I have chosen something like rhythm, contentment, peace, joy? I would have liked to. But for about a year now, and certainly over the last six months or so, I've felt a shift. In several areas, I felt as if I'd come to the end of one season and should prepare to begin another. So I've named 2021 my threshold year. My liminal space. ~I took Winnie to the doctor yesterday for a 4-year check up. By the middle of her . . .
I write a lot over here on simple rhythms and spacious margins, but it wasn't the original intent of this space, nor was it a practice that came naturally to me. In 2016, my family was going in so many directions—I was working full time as a marketing director with some evening and weekend hours; my children were attending a private school we couldn't actually afford; we were hosting a 15-year-old international student; every child was in a sport or extracurricular activity; my husband was . . .
Last December, I made my first ever vegan chocolate cake for a couples' baby shower. Our friends Sarah and Cody were welcoming a daughter in the spring and I volunteered to make a series of small cakes for our plant-based pals. An adventurous baker I am not, but I do have a gift for making things look pretty, and I decided that my little cakes would live up to the elegant shower we were throwing for our friends. I followed this recipe to a tee—subbing in applesauce, almond milk and vegan . . .
I turned the calendar to December yesterday and sat with that for a while. This month, we will have been under a global pandemic for 40 weeks; the gestation we never expected. We feel the groan of labor pains crippling us, doubling us over, whispering that we won't make it through the isolating winter ahead. The silos we've been confined to are sealed. And yet. A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices. Just when everything is bearing down on us to such an extent that we can scarcely . . .