My heart is feeling so full that the first snow began to fall on a day I'm cozy inside. I've been crafting for two days straight, holed up in my sewing room while the world rushes past outside. In the past few years, I've really felt this transition from fall to winter to be quite magical as it is when you're able to flow with the natural rhythms of the season. My favorite winter-time tradition is drinking hot chocolate spiked with Bailey's and Chambord and this year, I've thrown Rumchata into the mix too. As we draw closer to the holidays, I'll set up our handmade wooden Christmas tree and hang our ornaments, turn on Christmas music and bake dozens of cookies, sew a new batch of gift bags out of leftover fabric. It's so much more enjoyable to approach the season with intentionality and grace in our steps.
I awoke this morning before dawn, our bedroom air still heavy with sleep. I took straight to my studio, a pen poised over an empty expanse of notebook. Grounded-ness. In mornings like these and weeks like these, it is not enough to remind myself over and again what constitutes home. I return to words allowing them all to tumble out, arranging them just so until finally they fit and make sense. I return to our urban farmhouse where the energy and passion enlivens and recharges me. And that garden, those chickens, a few minutes barefoot against the earth, fingers dug deep into the dirt. It's all I need to return to myself, my heart.
Two lively little girls slept over at our urban farmhouse last night. Adeline, our niece, and Johannah, our cousin's daughter chased chickens, played soccer, and read stories until they were tuckered out and tucked into the "big bed," a queen-sized air mattress in my sewing room. Well after they were supposed to be sleeping, I was being called into mediate. "Kelli! Addy keeps talking to me and waking up Mossimo!" "Kelli! Addy licked me!" "Kelli! I have to go potty!" I'm certain that I fell asleep long before their energy wore down.