Encouraging: a saint on sadness.

February 4, 2017 § Leave a comment

I came across this blessed gift of an article this morning and wanted to share it with anyone (everyone) wrestling with sadness. It reminded me immediately of that list of Life Rules I scribbled down a while ago and made me curious if I have been faithful in following them.

Please do read the article (here’s the link again), as it’s far more eloquent, comprehensive, and smart than my list, because…well…it’s written by a saint. But here’s what resonated with me the most, especially in light of everything this blog — and my whole life — has ever been about:

Our bodies, brains and hands and eyes and stomachs and quads and intervertebral discs, are essential to the purpose of our lives. They are not in the way of our spirits, some temporary torture chamber from which we must be liberated or some hideous distraction that we are tasked to ignore.

When I was coaching, I would always ask, “If your body were not an obstacle, what would you do with it?” The answers that would come on the first day were typically harsh. There was this view that being fat, sick, depressed, exhausted or broken in any way disqualified the body from serving any purpose. The body needed to be punished, pushed out of the way, so that the “real person” could finally break out and grab hold of their true destiny. But every single time, without fail, as I saw people care for their bodies (often through the the sneaky trick of calling it a “challenge”, discipline words) — feed them good food, give them good rest, soak them in sunshine, expose them to beauty — their answers changed.


The question was never, “If your body (pain, weakness, depression) didn’t exist, what would you do with your ‘real life’?” It was always, “If your body were not an obstacle, but an integral part of the story, an asset, what would you do?”

I still set my body up as an enemy all the time. I shout at my body, curse my brain, slap myself with rules and challenges and strict discipline. Sometimes, a little discipline is what I need, but more often than not, I just need a shower or a poem or a very long time in the garden. Maybe a pot roast?

And all of it is prayer. All of it is setting my face like flint before the Lord.


Missing the point.

February 1, 2017 § 1 Comment

I don’t pay attention. I am hard headed, heavy headed, neck bent, eyes on the ground right in front of me. The mess being made, the battle being fought.

I keep a record of of my wrongs, this swirling, non-chronological mass of mistakes, things done and left undone, and call it my True Story. I go over it every day, all the times I should have died, all the wounds that I’ve been given, all the wounds I gave: the monster of depression and mania that never stays dead, the decades of medication gnawing at my brain and liver and thyroid, the father who crushed my heart, the weapon of my words against my mother, my silence, my absence, my refusal to love others, the shame of obesity, the absolute impossibility of motherhood, the deadliness of my temper, my razor sharp tongue, the pounding disappointment of pain in my body, the unending tangle of marriage, and the persistent drip of my daily failure.

But what of the victory all around me? What of the vast landscape of victory behind me, the impassable mountains climbed, hideous dragons slain, opposing armies crushed and swept out to sea? What of the children, sitting at the breakfast table, sewing doll clothes as the sun comes up?



January 27, 2017 § Leave a comment

Leona plants an Oregon White Oak acorn at her new 4H club in hopes that she’ll have a fair entry in August.

I spent the last two weeks planting seeds. Not in the ground, not yet, too wet, so very, very wet, but in my kids.

Play dates with potential friends, art classes, 4H clubs (one not great, one so great), meeting with new doctors, new neighbors, and hiring sweet babysitters who, according to Bea are “joyful without pretending”.  

The school rhythm is established. The house is our home. We have a pew at church.

Four of the five older hens are laying, and in just two weeks the five “chicks” will be four months old and ready to join the flock. We’re only a week out from 10 hours of daylight.

I’m up what feels like too late most nights in deep conversation with my almost 9 year old and too early cramming PNW gardening books into my brain. Both leave me feeling profoundly incompetent.

Somehow I thought we’d have more time to float, to be in the in-between. But we are here now, firmly rooted, and everything is growing so fast. 

This is the part where I just trust that everything is planted in the right spot and, even if it’s not, do my best to keep up.


January 15, 2017 § Leave a comment


January 13, 2017 § Leave a comment

I use the fact that I’m married to a professional computer genius to suck at computers. I never update my phone or restart my computer, and I always have a backlog of at least 6 months of photos stuck somewhere (What even is the cloud? Why is mine full? Will it rain? Should I be worried?). I always assume that he’s just going to fix it at some point, surely before I get to the point when everything breaks. Just like he’s going to take care of that low pressure light and oil change in my car, the one he never drives, before my children and I careen off the highway after a blow out or the engine explodes. Logical. Responsible. So grown up.

Whenever I decide to make a reappearance on the blog, my technical laziness reacts with my vicious perfectionism and bites me in the ass. My choices are to a) figure out how to fix all the technical problems myself (aka, break everything and cry), b) wait for my husband to fix everything and then not understand how it works (and cry) c) move forward with the limitations I have and accept that my blogging will be subpar.

Options a and b mean that I continue to blog as I have done for the last 9 months, in my head, which is not called blogging, it’s called talking to yourself.

Option c means blogging. I’ll speak for you and say you really don’t care about the quality of my writing or photography. There’s no way for you to care at all if I’m not actually blogging.

So here’s what I want to do, and y’all, don’t hold me to it, because I am but dust: I want to be a crappy blogger. I’m going to post bad photos from the wordpress app on my phone and just crank it out. I can barely keep the poop in my two year old’s pants, still haven’t figured out the light switches in the new house, can’t keep my dog from eating all the duck poop, and need to learn how to muck a pond while wearing men’s size XXL waders. I don’t have time to “create content” or mull over saved drafts if I actually want any blogging to be done. I don’t have the patience or character to be good at photography, writing, or the internet. 

I don’t know how to solve my technical difficulties, or my existential ones, so I’m just going to press on within them.

Pretend I’m your grandma. Pretend I’m that 87 year old lady who’s always accidentally posting Google search terms as her Facebook posts but never notices. I just want to show you pictures of my chickens and marvel at the miracle of pressure cooking. I just want to visit with you and I only know how to push the one button to do it. Set the bar there, and this will all be far more impressive.

Let’s start at the very beginning…

January 8, 2017 § 1 Comment

My name is Rachel.

I live on an eleven acre farm in western Washington, on the Kitsap Penninsula. I have 1 husband, 3 daughters, a standard poodle named Davy Crockett, a barn cat named Ninja, a duck named Duck, and 11 chickens whose detailed roster I’ll provide later.

We moved here from downtown Austin, TX just 11 weeks ago in a whirlwind of obedience, hard work, and ridiculous grace.

This is our house:

This is our barn:

This is my kitchen sink:


January 4, 2017 § 2 Comments

There is a lot to say, but that is a poor excuse for not saying it. When I started this blog, I did it with the intention to be generous with my story. I confess, generosity doesn’t come easily to me. I have always struggled with fear that there wouldn’t be enough for me — time, food, love, space, money, acceptance. But the truth is, I have never actually experienced an actual lack of any of those things.

I live, have always lived, in abundance. I wrestle with, have always wrestled with, the lie that there will not be enough.

This is a placeholder post, a wedge, an acknowledgement that there is enough time and space to tell the very large story of the last 9 months.

Since I last wrote here, I’ve used Instagram and Facebook the way they ought to be used. The story can be pieced together in pictures. You are welcome and encouraged to try. And I do intend to share the stories that go along with the illustrations…eventually. They’re written, as usual, in the stacks and stacks of notebooks someone will oneday find my body crushed beneath.

But I don’t want to lose ground by continuing to say that I can’t blog about life in real time just because I haven’t been.  “A person can’t jump from walking down the stairs with a half-broken back and questionable sanity at the downtown YMCA in Austin, TX to hauling a half ton of horse manure in the snow at her farm in in the Pacific Northwest without copious amounts of explanation!”

Or can she?

It’s more like will she?