We have power! Last Wednesday, PG&E and the electrician finished the project. It feels too good to be true, but indeed, when I flip a switch, the lights turn on.
Hallway lights!Flipping the breakers
It’s a temporary fix: they still need to change out our transformer, which will take some time. But thankfully we were able to come to this compromise: they turned on limited power to the house as long as we don’t have an AC unit. Given the weather has already begun cooling down, we figured we’ll be just fine.
Dad and Jake finished the porches this week too. We still have to get them inspected, and still have the driveway to complete, but once that’s finished we can get the house cleared for occupancy.
Finishing the porch
In the waiting periods between big tasks, we’ve been installing baseboards, assembling IKEA furniture, and moving small items into their places. Mom and Dad got Michael a Nugget play couch for Christmas and gave it to him early to keep him occupied while we work on the house. He absolutely loves it.
Despite all our unforeseen roadblocks, we’re hoping we’ll be moved in by the first week of October. We are all tired, but it feels like we’re on the very last lap of a huge race, nearing the finish line.
We had some much needed rain this week as well, and with the dark clouds came a glorious and vibrant double rainbow. We stood outside in the golden sunshine and the falling rain, getting absolutely soaked (but I think the pictures made it worth it).
Both the rain and the rainbow felt like a breath of fresh air after the stagnant heat and barrenness of summer. It’s a tad ironic: summer is usually associated with fruitfulness and life, but for us personally, it’s been a summer of grief and death. As we head into autumn and gardeners prepare their gardens for overwintering, I envision us sinking into rest as the earth does the same.
And as we leave this summer behind us, I am grateful: the light in the midst of the storm and the presence of the rainbow felt like poignant and visible reminders of God’s faithfulness and love for us. He will not spare us from the storm, but He will walk through it with us.
Well, we don’t have power yet. PG&E cancelled the morning of the scheduled installation due to the high temperatures. They’ve rescheduled for Wednesday. Please continue to pray for us! We will be glad when our dealings with PG&E are over.
To handle our disappointment, we’ve been painting baseboards, finishing the porches, and choosing the kitchen counters. I also found a large farmhouse sink and I’m absolutely thrilled. It’ll make canning and preserving much easier next summer. And we got a washer and dryer! Our house is looking more and more like a real house.
With COVID and its corresponding fatigue still making their rounds through the property, it’s been a difficult week. Brain fog has kept me from writing. And the closer we get to moving in, the wearier we seem to get. The 110+ degree temperatures of the past week feel especially fitting for this season of desert dryness: we’ve all found it especially difficult to recover from the events of this summer.
So it is time to rest and recover, watering the garden of our souls as we also tend our homestead. Gardening has taught us many skills, and one of these is pest control. There will always be pests trying to destroy what we’re cultivating, until Christ comes again.
This doesn’t only apply to our gardens. I’ve noticed a new pest rearing its ugly head in our lives: the pest of perfectionism. It’s been eating its way through us and leaving its casings of lies behind it. I’m sure you’re quite familiar with it: it’s most commonly recognized by its nagging whisper that eats away at you and shakes your roots.
We’ve fought perfectionism through many steps of this house process: it’s the desire for everything to be just right; to line up perfectly with our ideals. And when it isn’t just how we dreamed it would be, it’s the discouraging thought, is this even worth it? It takes the setbacks we encounter and magnifies them while dismissing the progress we make.
I’ve seen it eating away at my blog posts: is what I’m writing really worth posting yet? Couldn’t I do better? I’ve even seen perfection start to worm its way into my parenting: a doubtful whisper telling me I’m not a good mother because I’m not perfect. Because I make mistakes. Because Michael is different than “other babies” in X, Y, or Z and maybe it’s something I did wrong.
To fight this invasive pest of perfectionism, I’ve found a simple phrase works wonders: good enough. I can be a good enough mother, writer, maker, and homesteader. I can work to be better while also fighting perfectionism’s lies that my mistakes invalidate the progress I make.
When I was a kid, I would often sit in the back of the room during my mother’s parenting seminars. Something she said stuck with me: “A perfect parent isn’t”. It’s a twofold truth. Not only is it impossible for us to be perfect parents as sinful human beings, but even if we were, it would not properly prepare our children for the sinful reality of the world around them.
A good parent repairs. (This is also true of a good spouse, or a good friend). When the relationship is broken, we apologize, make amends and reconnect. A good writer edits. When the words aren’t right, we coax them to convey the truth as clearly as they’re able. And a good homesteader repairs the damage pests make while taking precautions against them in the future.
So we’re defying perfectionism and embracing the unique and good enough aspects of our lives: the crooked stitches in handmade garments, the paint splotch in the corner, the porch railings that came out slightly different than we’d envisioned. All are evidence of a job well done — not perfect, not slipshod, but good enough.
Despite the punishingly high temperatures, we’ve been using this long Labor Day weekend to make progress on the house. The front porch and back porch are framed and just need the railings and a coat of paint, and they’re chipping away at the side porch steps.
We have the electrical installation scheduled for Tuesday. It’s quite an ordeal. We will be without power or air conditioning for a large portion of of the day, and the high is projected to be 114 degrees…so pray for us!
This week we won’t be able to make much more progress given the heat. But, when the porches and the electrical are taken care of, all that stands between us and moving in is the driveway inspection. The end is in sight.
My parents’ 29th anniversary was this weekend. To celebrate, we had a charcuterie board and steak dinner. I made a Manhattan cake (a cake inspired by the cocktail with whiskey, bitters, cherries, and oranges).
I’m so grateful for my parents and their marriage. Throughout my entire childhood, they modeled sacrificial love and showed us what a marriage should be: laughter, grace, tears, repair, hugs, kisses, inside jokes, and above all, unconditional love.
The celebration was small but beautiful. It was a light in the midst of a dark summer. We are all still weary: I’m slowly recovering from COVID, and we suspect Michael now has it too (but we aren’t going to try to stick a swab up his nose to check). He’s been unhappy and uncomfortable, which has led to very difficult nights this week.
It’s amazing how sleep (or lack thereof) can change our perceptions and moods. When I’m especially sleep-deprived, I often find myself thinking of the illustrated version of Pilgrim’s Progress I read as a child, with Christian falling into the Slough of Despond. With illness and exhaustion and a sick baby, it certainly feels as though I’m slogging through a swamp and despondency can become overwhelming.
But because of that, I’ve been thinking about hope, one of the cardinal virtues (faith, hope, and love). One of my favorite books on education is titled Tending the Garden of Virtue. I love that metaphor of virtue as a garden: all gardeners know the work that goes into gardening. For life to thrive, we must tend to it. We can’t just hope healthy and fruitful plants will spring up. We must water, weed, prune, and till.
Gardening is also an inherently hopeful activity. We hope the seeds sprout and the flowers blossom. We do our best labor to cultivate, and then we wait.
This season of our lives has been full of waiting, and full of death. But I have been trying to more mindfully tend my own garden of virtue — particularly my hope. I remind myself that seasons change, and while in this season there is much in the ground, and much in darkness, this darkness won’t endure.
In the midst of the grief and the waiting, hope is here. I see it in my son’s smile, and hear it my husband’s laugh. I water it in our garden every morning. And, by looking for it in all of these beautiful things, I cultivate it within myself.
Because where God wants you to be, God holds you safe and gives you peace, even when there is pain.
Henri Nouwen
The Orthodox liturgical new year is celebrated on September 1st, and I love the way the seasons of the Church help us reflect on the seasons in our lives. There’s something about new beginnings that makes me pause and reflect, and as we near our hopeful move-in date, I’ve been contemplating the past year and all the many changes that came with it. Our move was only a bit more than a month away from the liturgical new year, and it really ushered in a new season in our lives. Looking back, I can see God’s provision for us in so many ways. Most of all, I am grateful for the ways He helped me grow this past year.
In early 2021, I remember doing dishes and looking at the icon of Christ hanging over my pots of herbs, and realizing He was telling me it was time to grow our family. It wasn’t a large, powerful revelation with visions or strong emotions. Just a gentle realization and a sense of peace about it, even in the face of all the unknowns.
Next month, we discovered we were expecting. That sense of peace remained even as my world was turned on its head. I adored my job as associate dean and history teacher, and thought I would never leave. Suddenly, we were signing a purchase on a prefab home, leaving our little house by the sea, moving back to my childhood property, and adding to the small homestead my parents and grandparents had already started.
The studio we live in while we wait for our house to be finished
The months that followed were incredibly difficult. Pregnancy nausea was intense and lasted for more than 28 weeks. We lost one of our closest family friends to cancer. Our house hit delay after delay due to COVID and supply chain issues, pushing our timeline further and further. My parents and I learned to co-exist as a jumbled household as we moved into the small studio in the back of their garage and shared their kitchen (and often their living room).
And under it all was this aching loss of identity. My body was changing to grow my son, and felt alien to me. I was back in my childhood home after being married and independent for two years. I was unmoored from a full-time job for the first time since high school.
And yet, in the midst of all the chaos there was peace — that same peace I had felt while doing the dishes and looking at the icon of Christ. I knew we were where He wanted us, even if I wasn’t sure I wanted to be there. So, fighting through nausea and fatigue and chronic pain exacerbated by pregnancy, I decided to pick up knitting as a way to focus on that peace.
The first time I made a pair of socks, I swore I would never do it again. I don’t want to admit how long it took me to slowly and clumsily piece together a single sock, riddled with mistakes. Heavily pregnant, I gave up halfway through the second and stuffed it away in a project bag. I didn’t pull it out again until postpartum (and only because because my pride didn’t let me stop so close to the end). I finished my first pair of socks bleary-eyed and bleeding, holding my sleeping baby through his naps.
Months passed, and I grew into motherhood the same way my son grew: subtle changes, some painful growth; jerky and uncertain movements. Together we grew — but while I loved my son more than my own life, I still struggled with my new vocation of motherhood.
And I still struggled to see why anyone would want to knit socks. Why would anyone dedicate so much time and effort to such a small and mundane object? When you knit a sock, you pour a sweater’s worth of time and stitches into something that goes on feet and hardly anyone ever sees. And you do it twice.
Then, when told Jake I wanted to knit him something and asked what he would like me to make, he answered innocently: Socks. This is how you know I love the man. I cast on a pair of socks. I had another project on my needles too — a gorgeous slipover vest that often took precedence. Sock progress (sockgress) crawled.
Then a sleep regression hit, along with teething. Michael would only nap in my arms, and knitting a large and cumbersome object while holding a sleeping baby isn’t a great idea. So it was back to the socks. And as the heel formed beneath my needles, I realized my struggle with motherhood and my struggle with socks weren’t that different.
I had been used to all my work being external: checklists and accomplishments where everyone could see them. They were like knitting sweaters: beautiful, visible, and easily noticeable and praised. Now I was doing internal work: in myself, in my family; in my son. That work was like knitting socks: beautiful, invisible, not really remarkable or noticeable by anyone except God and my family.
Both types — the external work and internal work — are beautiful and worthy. In this season of my life, my vocation is mostly internal. And now, watching my husband and son play together in their matching socks is a reminder that internal work can be just as rewarding — perhaps even more so.
I continue to find knitting as a source of peace in the midst of life’s storms. I look at the work on my needles (especially socks) as a physical representation of the quiet work set before me. I lean into it, this internal-yet-others-focused vocation of wife and mother and writer and homesteader.
2022 has been difficult, but I see this as a chance to look towards new beginnings, and God-willing, an autumn full of healing and rejuvenation. And I look forward to whatever growth this next liturgical year brings. As my one of favorite prayers, the Akathist of Thanksgiving says, “Glory to God for all things”.
It’s been an interesting week. We had a health scare with my aunt and she spent a few nights in the hospital, but she is now home and feeling better. A part of the well broke at the Grand House and flooded their backyard, so my grandparents were without running water for a day while my dad and the plumber fixed it. And then I tested positive for COVID this weekend after starting to feel ill Friday night (so long, 2.5 year streak). But aside from those setbacks, all seems to be well. Illness is forcing me to move slowly and rest, whether I want to or not. Routine and normalcy are settling back into our lives.
I’ve been gathering photos of little things I find beautiful in the day-to-day, like a child collecting shells at the seaside. I consider it an exercise in gratitude. So this post will be quite photo-full as I share with you the ways I’ve been resting and the ways I’ve found beauty and gratitude in the midst of it all.
Despite blistering temperatures, our garden is persevering. The carpenter bees love our blue potato bush and I watch them nosedive into the blossoms every time Michael and I water.
Michael is sprouting his second tooth and is exploring the world around him more and more (and turning my hair grey in the process). But he’s so dang cute, I don’t even mind. He’s excited to have his best friend grandpa back in his daily life.
Earlier this week before I got sick, we were able to attend the last local farmers market of the season and stock up on some of our favorites. Highlights included a delicious and vibrant beet hummus with homemade pita chips and a bottle of pomegranate mead.
We also had a lovely date night for the first time in a long time. My parents watched Michael while Jake and I went to our favorite restaurant. I love the depiction of the Annunciation in their outdoor seating area.
Given the way our summer has gone, I’ve had to surrender my former hopes for our house timeline and reset my expectations. We are all exhausted, fighting illness and grief, and moving slowly with very little time and few resources. I thought we would be moving furniture and finished with essential projects by the end of August. Now, we’re aiming for the end of autumn.
But there’s a blessing in this: autumn is my favorite time of year. I love the coziness it brings, and the spices and soups, and the hand-knits worn against the morning chill. We’ll be able to start our life in Caedmon’s Cottage doing some of our favorite things: baking, preserving, knitting, and preparing for winter.
In the meantime, we have a tentative date for electricity (more on that in a later post!) and we’ve been working on completing the front steps. Jake has every Friday off work through September, giving him a full day to work on the essential house projects.
We’ve still got a long list of all the things standing between us and moving in, but we have learned so much patience and flexibility throughout this entire process. And there’s a great sense of satisfaction when we complete a job.
And finally, I’ve found immense comfort in this icon of Saint Patrick’s Breastplate.
It’s from Mull Monastery in Scotland, and it hangs by my nightstand. I see it before I go to bed, and when I rise from sleep. It reminds me of the Lord’s encircling presence as I go throughout my day.
So this week, I encourage you to take a photo of something that helps you remember to rest, or something you find beautiful, or that reminds you to be grateful. Share it with someone you love. It might be an unexpected blessing — for you and for them.
Growing up, one of my favorite books was A Swiftly Tilting Planet, by Madeline L’Engle. I read it over and over, and I still return to it in times of turmoil. It is a powerful fictional example of spiritual warfare and the triumph of good over evil.
One of the things that it taught me was the power of prayer against demonic forces. In the book, the main character Charles Wallace is given a rune to battle the evil forces that try to stop him from saving the world.
In this fateful hour I place all Heaven with its power, And the sun with its brightness, And the snow with its whiteness, And fire with all the strength it hath, And lightning with its rapid wrath, And the winds with their swiftness along their path, And the sea with its deepness, And the rocks with their steepness, And the earth with its starkness: All these I place, By God’s almighty help and grace, Between myself and the powers of darkness.
St Patrick’s Rune
L’Engle borrowed this rune from Saint Patrick. I memorized it because I was a nerdy middle school student, and it was one of the best decisions I’ve ever made. This rune and Saint Patrick’s Breastplate continue to be prayers I cling to when overwhelmed by darkness or chaos or grief.
This past Thursday we buried my uncle. It was one of the hardest days of my life, with the funeral, burial, reception, and the different difficulties that came with all of them. Grief and suffering do ugly things to us, if we let them. They are so easily twisted into despair, tools for the demons, and barbs against those around us instead of steps towards our sanctification.
On Friday, Jake and I carved out a beautiful day in the middle of all the pain and heaviness of grief. We went to our tiny local zoo — Michael’s first time at a zoo. Watching his delight at the animals and wandering around the quiet exhibits brought such a sense of peace to us.
When Michael fell asleep in his stroller, Jake and I were able to walk under the old oak trees and breathe in the beauty of the park. The trees reached their leaves to heaven, and the squirrels argued in their branches, and ladybugs danced at their roots. There I was struck by the rune from my childhood: the rocks with their steepness and the earth with its starkness.
So in the face of the ugliness of grief and this brokenness of the world, I held to this rune and Saint Patrick’s Breastplate. I continue to hold both of them, and the beauty all around us, as a shield against despair and against the snares of the Enemy.
Our world is quick to scoff at the idea of immaterial forces beyond our ability to see or fully understand, but as Christians we know that there is more to our world than mere materialism. Spiritual warfare is real, and manifests in many ways. And there is nothing the demons want more than to drag us down with them.
So if you have experienced spiritual warfare in the form of grief, or suffering, or heaviness of heart, know that you are not alone. I hope you too can use beauty as a shield, and that an old rune from a simple children’s book can give you as much courage as it has given me.
As most of you are probably aware, I’m an Orthodox Christian, and icons play a large role in our faith tradition. At some point, I will probably write a post on the rich tradition of icons and how they can be valuable assets to our prayer lives and a manifestation of the spiritual realities that surround us.
But this is not that post. Instead, today, I just want to share with you an icon that is near and dear to my heart, especially this week as we prepare for my uncle’s funeral.
Over and over again, in the midst of heartache and anxiety and exhaustion, I find my eyes drawn to this icon. These are some of the meditations I’ve had during this past year as I stood before this icon with greater sorrow — and greater joy — than I had ever felt before.
This particular icon is from a Greek monastery in the early 16th century. If you’re interested, I purchased it here. It depicts two well-known stories from the Gospels: Christ rebuking the sea and casting out demons into the herd of pigs.
On that day, when evening had come, he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. And other boats were with him. And a great storm of wind arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already filling. But he was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care if we perish?” And he awoke and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” And the wind ceased, and there was a great calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you no faith?” And they were filled with awe, and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even wind and sea obey him?”
Mark 4:35- 41
When I look at this icon, I am reminded that Christ is present even in the midst of my most turbulent passions and anxieties. I do not have to fear the waves: they obey Him, as do the demons. At the center is Christ. He is the eye of the storm; my stillness and my joy.
Christ is in this icon twice. He sleeps in the stern, eyes closed and hand tucked against His face. Mark tells us in his Gospel that after he rebuked the wind and waves there was a great calm: the same calm that is here reflected in Christ’s face. It reminds me that Christ is doubly present with me in the storms I face. He is my peaceful anchor, sleeping so that I too can sleep, despite the chaos. He is my refuge, safety, and protection.
Christ also stands in the center of the boat, hand raised in rebuke of the wind (personified by the figure at the top left). I am reminded of His absolute power against these things which threaten to destroy us. The demons flee before Him; the winds and waves obey Him.
The disciples also draw my attention. They are looking in different directions, pulling at ropes and adjusting sails. Some aren’t even facing Christ. They are trying to control the boat, to weather the storm themselves. At times, I see myself in that disciple with his back to Christ, frantically trying to control the boat. This icon reminds me to not cling to my own plans or ideas of the future, and to trust in Christ’s power over all that threatens us. His rebuke of the wind and the waves could also be a rebuke towards me: peace, be still.
If you are in the midst of storms and demons, I hope this icon brings you peace as it did to me. May you feel His presence with you twofold. May He be the calm in the center of the chaos, and may you turn your eyes towards Him.
Jake and I are holding the homestead ourselves this week. The rest of the family is on a vacation they’d had booked for two years. They almost cancelled it after my uncle’s death, but we encouraged them to go —all of the funeral prep had already been taken care of and we could handle anything else that came up. Plus, it gives all of them time to rest and connect and grieve with each other, and spend quality time with my siblings before they head back to college.
Early morning views
I always forget just how many living things we take care of until we hold the homestead by ourselves. Between the dogs, cats, chickens, garden, and baby we’re kept pretty busy. I’m always impressed by homesteaders who also keep goats or cows or horses — the labor is not for the faint of heart. Maybe someday we will graduate to owning goats, but for now, we’re quite happy with our little menagerie.
Our little menagerie
My cousin Kelsey joined us for a few days this week. She stayed with us in January and February while she completed her rotations for PA school and spent a lot of time with Michael as a newborn. Now he’s twice the size and ten times as active, and he still adores his “Aunt Kelsey”. We’ve had a lot of fun knitting together and watching crime shows with a glass of wine (or two) once Michael is asleep.
The garden is continuing to thrive in its unkempt, beautiful way. We have some empty pots and space in the raised beds and are pondering how best to fill them. Our first frost date is estimated at December 15th, so we’ve still got a little time to plant seeds or starters. In the meantime, we’re enjoying the ripening tomatoes, basil, zucchini, flowers, and fruit trees.
In exciting news regarding our little cottage, the floors are in! It’s incredible how different the place looks now that it has actual floors instead of temporary sub flooring. Now Michael can crawl around on the floor safely while we finish different tasks around the house.
As the floors go in and the walls are painted, it looks more and more like the home we’ve had in our dreams for the past year. The water is connected and running smoothly, and our gas and electric hookups are ready and waiting for PG&E. We’re hoping to lay the tile in the bathrooms and finish the last little bit of painting this weekend.
It’s almost harder to be patient the closer we get to moving in. For the first time, our to-do list is shorter than the already-done list. We’re tired, but excited.
View from our porch at golden hour
In a way, since we left our previous house, it’s been like we’re wandering in the desert awaiting the Promised Land. It’s been an extended time of transition. I won’t deny it’s been challenging in many ways, but I’m grateful for the growth that’s accompanied the challenge. God draws near to us in times of pain and death and transition, and it has been helpful to look for His goodness, truth, and beauty in the midst of it all. The temporary nature of our current living situation is a reminder that even our “permanent” home will pass away, helping us keep our eyes fixed on the eternal. While mourning the death of family members, we remember Christ conquered death and cling to the hope that gives us.
In the midst of all of it, He is there, if I look for Him.
One of the things we’ve experienced over and over again throughout this entire homesteading process is the blessing of community. Whether it’s consulting with friends about trenching or asking our farmer friends for advice on irrigation, each accomplishment has been a product of community.
One of our dear friends drove up from the LA area to help with some of the manual labor. Since both the gas and electrical trench passed inspection (praise God!) we are now working on filling them back in, and on leveling the driveway.
Usually we would use our tractor for both of these tasks…but a bird built her nest in one of the tractor roof pipes and now it’s home to three baby birds. So we’re sowing some more sweat into the ground instead of using the machinery. My sister even joined in for some of the shoveling, to “save the baby birds”. The mama bird watches us work from her perch on top of the tractor. As my mother says, this is part of their vision for the property: a sanctuary for man and animal.
A shot of the nest: the babies are good at hiding
When it gets too hot in the direct sunlight, we move indoors. We’re hoping to have our flooring installed by the end of next week, if all goes according to plan, and we still have a few things to do before then. The college kids have been leveling and scraping the floor by hand, since we don’t have electricity to use a sander.
Our awesome friend Zinny helping level the floor
We also continue to work on connecting our plumbing. We’re so close — just patching a few leaks. Jake and my dad have been working tirelessly under the house connecting pipes, though sometimes it’s a little disconcerting to hear voices echoing up from under the floorboards.
As we work, the animals are never far off. The dogs sit in the shade of the house, or next to my dad. Our adopted feral cat, Orual, considers herself a dog as well, and has taken it upon herself to supervise.
I personally haven’t been able to help much with the manual labor due to Michael (aka Adorable Barnacle). But my mom took him for a while to give me time to finish painting one of the rooms. One of the best balms for heartache is physical labor, and I was surprised by how much the painting process soothed me.
Laundry room paint
As we still process the sudden loss of my uncle, community has rallied around us and held us in their embrace. We’ve received countless condolences and hugs. My grandmother’s prayer group sent dinner for us. Friends have been present with us in our grief. We’re overwhelmed with love and gratitude for every person who has reached out, and we’re so grateful for the prayers surrounding us.
Life and labor continue on, grounding us through grief. I am reminded me of the Benedictine motto: Ora et Labora. Pray and work.
Community, work, and prayer. That is what holds us together.
Since having a child, my experience of the passage of time has shifted. Hours have sped up; days have slowed down. Don’t ask me to accurately remember how long ago I ate breakfast: I’ll probably say an hour or so, when it’s really been four.
morning sunlight after summer rain
But what’s really struck me over the last year is the amount of time it takes to make something that’s worth making. I picked up knitting while pregnant, and continue to find solace making things with my hands in the small, in-between moments of life. I’ve made socks and sweaters and hats and shawls: and all of them took many hours to complete. I’ve also sewed a few garments, and each of those took many hours as well (It’s called “slow fashion” for a reason). Now, knowing a bit more of the process behind garment making, I pause when I see the clothes hanging at Target or H&M.
We buy items for a fraction of what it would cost to make them at a living wage. We have convenience at our fingertips: fast food, fast fashion, fast phones. We don’t think about the time that goes into the food on our table or the clothes on our bodies. And because of that, I believe we don’t think about where we’re investing our own limited, valuable time.
(I’m not going to argue that all of it’s bad and we should go back to the good ol’ Stone Age. But I do think we should pause.)
As a society, we’ve fallen out of touch with time and its value. I think social media is something that typifies this. I flinch when I see my screen time weekly usage notification. I don’t remember pouring hours into this device, and yet, those hours are gone. I can’t recall how many posts or ten-second videos I’ve scrolled through, and often I can’t remember anything I’ve read or seen when asked about it later. I’ve felt convicted to set social media aside — if not entirely, at least in part.
bees bearding on a hot day
The newest Instagram update was the nail in the coffin for me. I’ve been a steadfast lover of Instagram since 2012. But now, gone is the slow scroll and quiet images posted by friends, almost reminiscent of a personal art gallery. Now it’s frenetic, text and image and music and movement jammed in ten to twenty seconds.
As knitting and sewing (and pregnancy) have taught me, it takes time to make things that are worth making. It takes me two seconds to post on Instagram. It takes more deliberate time to craft a blog post and curate the photos I’ll put in it. So for the month of August, I’m giving up social media. At the end of the month, I’ll determine whether I’ll go back. I won’t delete my account, and I’ll pop on every now and again to check out what’s happening in the lives of my dear ones. But for now, I look forward to the slow updates and meditations I plan to post here.
a knit hat for my mother
If making my own clothes is “slow fashion”, and growing my own garden is “sustainable living”, then I’m calling this blogging endeavor of mine slow and sustainable social media. I won’t fall for the instant gratification dopamine trap of likes and endless scrolling that my brain is so prone to. Instead, I’ll hone my writing abilities while sharing the ways I encounter goodness, truth, and beauty in my quiet life.
I’m not 100% sure what that will look like on a consistent basis, but expect to see recaps of quiet weeks on the homestead, and photos of baby milestones. I also plan to post many photos of things I find beautiful, and updates on my house, projects, garden, and life in general.
If you want to join me, please send me your info: I would love to read your words and delight in what delights you.
five acres four generations 