And just like that, Michael is two.

He was showered with love at church on his birthday, and got many hugs and well wishes. I snuck a photo of him going up to get a blessing with my mother and another parishioner, who both celebrate their patron saints’ name day that week (St Ita!).

Michael’s birthday gift to us was a nap: he actually slept for a few hours in the afternoon while I made his birthday cake (a chocolate sheet cake, inspired by Little Bear’s love of chocolate cake).

That evening, we had a small family dinner for him. We opened presents and watched happy birthday videos and FaceTimed his aunts and uncles who couldn’t be with us.

I am extremely grateful that we can connect with those family members who live far away. I love that he recognizes their voices and faces and says their names, even though we can’t visit often.

We also had a small birthday party for him with some of our friends from church! One of his favorite books right now is Where the Wild Things Are, so I leaned into that for the “theme”.

It was small and sweet. He got to run around outside with his friends (thankfully there was a break from rain!), and color and open presents and sing happy birthday — so he was quite happy.

Over the last few weeks, it seems like Michael has been talking more and more: we chat about our day together and he asks me “what doing?” whenever I’m working around the house. We often narrate our daily adventures together. Whenever he bonks his head or has a small injury, he makes sure to offer it to us for kisses to make it all better. If we happen to also get an injury or say “ouch”, he runs over to kiss it for us.

He loves helping: almost daily, we make the bed together (he puts the pillows on the bed), and empty the dishwasher (he hands me plates and silverware) and fill it (he puts silverware and plates in). He’s still working on putting up laundry with me: he thinks all laundry belongs in the dirty clothes hamper, so I’ve had to fish some folded socks and shirts out of the hamper.

He loves the outdoors with a passion: he plays for hours in the dirt and grass and still doesn’t want to come inside, even if it’s raining. My grandparents — his Gigi and Papaw — got him a fantastic outdoor climbing gym for his birthday, and he absolutely adores it.

We’ve been going to our local park a bit more often to help satiate his desire for the outdoors: he really enjoys watching the ducks and geese, and climbing on all the play structures. He’s still not sure about the slides.

The current favorites for books right now are Where the Wild Things Are, as I mentioned above, and Green Eggs and Ham. He has large sections of both of them memorized, and often recites them as we read to him.

To nobody’s surprise, Grandpa remains his best friend. Even if he’s in the worst of moods, my dad can somehow make him smile.

I know they’re nicknamed the terrible twos, but I’ve loved this explosion of communication and curiosity. Sleep may still be a struggle, and he may have quite a strong will which needs to be taught and redirected (often), but he’s such a sweet boy, with a fiery soul and a tender heart. I’m so grateful to walk alongside him as he explores the world, and I’m so blessed to be his mother.

Thankfully, the sinus infection that’s been raging through our household seems to have missed me. Michael is still sniffly but his energy and personality (and dislike of sleep) are back. Poor Jake is down for the count, as are both of my parents.

January 7th, the day after Epiphany (also called Theophany) is traditionally called Distaff Day, the day when spinners returned to their wheels and spindles after the Christmas festivities ended. A distaff is a tool used by spinners to hold their fiber as they worked on their spindles or spinning wheels. Heather Sleightholm (one of my favorite artists) illustrates it here beautifully.

The first Monday after Epiphany is called Plow Monday: marking when farmers returned to the fields. While researching a bit more on Distaff Day, I found this poem by the Anglican poet Robert Herrick. It’s quite delightful. It also details some of the medieval traditions around the day, including men and women playing pranks on each other.

Give S. Distaff all the right,
Then bid Christmas sport good-night;
And next morrow everyone
To his own vocation.

Saint Distaff’s Day, Or The Morrow After Twelfth Day, by Robert Herrick

I love the idea of Distaff Day: after a beautiful time of Christmas celebration, a day for communal returning to our duties. After the busyness of Christmas and illness, I (and our house) definitely needed a focused return to vocation.

The liminal time around Christmas always wreaks havoc on routine so I’ve been slowly setting the house in order, starting with the kitchen. I took inventory of my fridge and freezer and realized we had leftovers to use up or throw away, and a large grocery list of important staples.

I’ve started doing the “artisan bread in five minutes a day” method for bread baking again: I’m ready to keep a sourdough starter alive (yet) and the price of bread is crazy (like everything else). It’s been nice having fresh bread with our stews and soups.

I needed to make some room in our freezer, so I pulled out some of my frozen ingredients to finally use: veggie scraps and chicken carcasses for broth, and frozen beef chuck for canned beef stew. This time, I won the battle against the pressure canner: I now have twelve quarts of stock and stew. They’ll be very useful in my postpartum stage when everything is topsy-turvy.

Now that it’s the new year, it was time to restock my vanilla. Making vanilla extract is one of the simplest and tastiest things to do, and it makes great gifts. I like to use a combination of bourbon and vodka and put in as many vanilla beans as I can into a jar to steep. Then I put it in a dark cupboard, forget about it for six months, and presto! Vanilla extract.

Inspired by one of my favorite blogs, A Wooden Nest, I also took the old vanilla beans from my last batch and dried them in the oven. Then I ground them up, sifted out the husks, and added the vanilla bean dust to sugar to make vanilla sugar. A spoonful is lovely in a cup of earl grey tea or in shortbread cookies.

I’ve been in a nesting mood, thanks to the third trimester. Our studio/guest room is completely transformed: I had an idea right before Thanksgiving on how to better arrange it, and in a whirlwind few days we put a full size bed in, purged unnecessary items, and moved things around. It’s not quite finished, but I’m much happier with this set up. It feels much more spacious, and is delightfully cozy.

I always laughed at the memes describing pregnant women cleaning baseboards from the nesting instinct, but now I’m one of them. With Michael’s pregnancy, I didn’t really have mental or physical space to nest. Now, nothing is safe from my organizing and cleaning. Our bathroom, closets, drawers and cabinets, fridge and freezer: all organized and purged and cleaned. And I still have more to do!

As January goes on, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about labor. Not just childbirth, though that’s been on my mind too. But mostly, I’ve been contemplating good work. Distaff Day especially brought these thoughts to the front of my mind, with the idea of a day marking a return to our vocations.

We often think of work as something to endure in order to live the life we want to live. There is indeed such a thing as bad work: not just work done poorly, but work that crushes the soul and goes against our human natures. I’m not here to argue what work is bad, but to draw our attention to the good labor we can easily overlook as a chore or inconvenience.

When I was young — about 5 years old — I proclaimed, “When I grow up, I’m not going to work: I’m going to be an artist” (and my family has never let me live down this story). But the older I get, the more I see the overlap between good work and art and prayer. They are intricately intertwined. Many times, folding laundry or doing dishes lead into prayer simply through presence, repetition, and offering up the work. Making dinner or mending a ripped blanket change from chore to a way to infuse beauty and color into daily life.

When I think of this overlap between work and art and prayer, I’m reminded of two quotes. The first is attributed to Martin Luther:

The Christian shoemaker does his duty not by putting little crosses on the shoes, but by making good shoes.

Martin Luther

And the second is by St Teresa of Calcutta:

Wash the plate not because it is dirty, nor because you are told to wash it, but because you love the person who will use it next.

St Teresa of Calcutta

If we properly orient our minds and our hearts, doing the dishes can become prayer. Making shoes (or dinner) can become art. The idea of this makes my heart sing: I have a long way to go, but I want to be a person whose labor is infused with beauty and with prayer, so much so that everyday tasks become art.

So with all this in mind, I guess I stand by my 5 year old self: I still want to be an artist when I grow up.

December flew by in a whirl of guests and gift wrap and gingerbread and carols. Our family tradition is to host a simple Christmas Eve dinner and then open gifts with immediate family. Our larger gathering and present exchange happen after Liturgy on Christmas Day.

I was happy to host this Christmas Eve, and even happier my grandfather was able to come, even though he was only a few days post surgery for his melanoma. We had a simple meal of soup and bread and salad, and my heart was so full I failed to get any photos at all. Looking at the people I love seated around my table, the people who fed me and hosted me throughout my life that I was now feeding and hosting, made my soul sing.

Michael loved Christmas: he had so much fun opening presents, but refused to open more than two at a time because he was so excited to play with what he had. So we spread out some of his gifts through a few days (good thing there are twelve days of Christmas!), and saved some for his birthday.

It was so much fun having my siblings home again. Their visit home for Thanksgiving was very brief, but this time we got to spend a week together and it was wonderful. We had many good meals, played games, and watched Christmas movies. Michael especially adored playing chase with Uncle Jon and Aunt Boo.

Because of my grandfather’s surgery, we had Christmas Day at my parents’ this year. It was a smaller, simpler meal than we usual do given all that was going on, but it was delicious all the same. We went to Liturgy (Christ is born! Glorify Him!), and when we got home I foraged greenery for the table and interspersed some dried orange slices with my thrifted candle holders.

We opened presents with the extended family, and set up for dinner as more guests arrived. Bacon-wrapped and rosemary glazed pork loin, green beans with bacon and shallots, crusty homemade bread, spiced wine cranberry sauce: it was a feast. After dinner, we sang carols while cleaning up the dishes and watched the football game and played cards. The busyness of the week was too much for Michael; for the first time in months he fell asleep without a fight, laying on me surrounded by bustle and noise.

Family friends came to stay with us for a few days after Christmas, extending our festivities. More games, more laughter; more delicious food. They left shortly before New Year’s Eve, and Jake and I had a delightfully introverted NYE, ending with us in bed by 9 pm. I still didn’t miss midnight: the neighbors’ fireworks and gunshots made sure of that (welcome to living in the country).

And now, it’s 2024. It’s been a quiet beginning to the year. Michael developed a nasty cold as soon as the holiday busyness was over, so been a rough week: his cough and stuffed sinuses have made sleep difficult for everyone, and there’s not much sadder than a sick baby crying to be “all better”. We’re hunkering down in our cozy cottage, eating soup and tea and hoping no one else gets sick.

In full honesty, I’ve started and stopped, written and erased this post several times, trying to find a way to traditionally recap 2023 in a way that feels genuine. And words just aren’t coming.

December and January always bring waves of memories: nostalgic childhood memories, family traditions, smells or sounds that evoke long forgotten bits of youth, memories of community and people who are both with us and not with us, separated by physical space or by death.

Instead of reflecting on the memories of the past year, I find myself instead thinking about memory itself.

On December 26th, our dear Khouria Sally (my mother’s godmother and the wife of our prior parish priest) passed away. For me, her death looms larger than the past year, and I feel her absence more keenly than the memories of 2023.

She was one of the kindest, strongest, and fiercest women I have ever met. We bonded over a love of music and hymns, specifically Western ones, and after our move to our communal living situation, she always went out of her way to make me feel welcome through the growing pains of attending a new church.

Her funeral was January 2nd, and burial the 3rd. I’m so grateful Michael and I were able to attend the funeral before he got sick. We say and sing memory eternal many times throughout the funeral service, and every time we pray for the departed. At the funeral, they offered a beautiful explanation to those who might not be familiar with why we use this phrase. It harkens back to the words spoken by the thief on the cross: “Lord, remember me when you come into your Kingdom”. To be remembered by God is to have eternal life — to be among the blessed.

Bishop John also offered more explanation in his short homily to the congregation: at the funeral service, we are helping the departed say their last prayers. We ask for mercy, and for forgiveness, and for rest in blessedness. The texts we use are ancient and poignant: below I’ve included an excerpt written by St John of Damascus.

After the service, we lined up to give Kh Sally the Last Kiss: pressing our lips to the lid of the coffin in veneration for the body that remains and will be resurrected one day. I was unable to attend the burial since Michael woke with a raging sinus infection, but I teared up hearing how the priest threw the first handful of dirt upon the coffin, proclaiming “this tomb is sealed until the Day of Resurrection”.

When I was trying to write a traditional recap, I stumbled across a photo of the shawl I made her at the beginning of 2023, shortly after her cancer diagnosis. Cleaning out our closet, I found the card she wrote for us at Michael’s baby shower and baptism the year prior. Memories both beautiful and bittersweet, much like the funeral service itself.

2023 held so much for us, both good and difficult. Michael’s first birthday, our second child’s first kicks and flutters, settling into our cottage, a Fenton family reunion, my siblings’ graduation from college, and our fourth wedding anniversary, along with extreme power outages, debilitating pregnancy nausea and weight loss, my grandfather’s diagnosis of melanoma, health issues, friends’ deaths, and the decline and death of Kh Sally.

Going into 2024, I find myself thinking about both the previous and the upcoming year more somberly than I usually do. I don’t have any resolutions, just the words spoken at the funeral running through my soul.

I am an image of Thy glory ineffable Though I bear the brands of transgressions: Show Thy compassion upon Thy creature, O Master, and purify me by Thy loving kindness; and grant unto me the home-country of my heart’s desire, making me again a citizen of Paradise.

Maybe at some point, I’ll write a more formal recap of 2023. But right now, I can’t do justice to it. The deep goodness and the growing pains and the struggles. My memory is mortal and fallible.

But God’s isn’t.

Well, Michael has forsworn naps. It’s been a week of continuous nap-strike despite all our efforts, and he’s still waking 1+ times a night. Jake and I are resigned to our new normal, but please offer up prayers for our resilience and sleep schedules!

At least he’s really, really cute.

As much as I loved Michael’s first Christmas, I’m enjoying his second even more. He now understands the traditions we’re building, and they’re magical to him. He now calls his blue shoes his “St Nicholas shoes”, and asks to read or watch How the Grinch Stole Christmas at least twice a day. He loves Christmas trees and points them out every time we see them in stores or pictures.

He also inherited my love of chilly weather and rain. Recently, we woke up to a rainstorm and decided to go splash outside. We couldn’t find his rain jacket, so he wore mine for a little before it fell off.

Then we warmed up inside with his first taste of hot cocoa and marshmallows.

I’ve been able to sneak in small bits of making during in-between times: knitting during TV snuggles on the couch, spindle spinning while he’s playing independently, sewing late at night after Michael’s in bed.

I finished my first pair of shorty socks in the hand-dyed colorway A Long Expected Party by tinyhumanknits. I used the book Sock Knitter’s Bible to fit a basic pattern to my feet and style, and they only took me about three days to complete. They’re so comfortable, and I plan to make many more for everyday use.

I’m now working on a more complicated sock pattern called My Favorite Sweater Socks. They’re a mix of seed stitch, ribbing, and cables, and while they’re slower knitting, I’m enjoying the process.

I’m still working on several gift knits, so much of my current making must remain a secret for at least another week. But some gift knitting I can share! I made these small toys a while ago for my dear friend’s children: two birds and a small rabbit. I finally got them in the mail to her (I’m the worst at mailing packages).

I also finished and sent off my classic baby knit gift, the Beloved bonnet, in a lavender shade for a new niece of mine, and another for a dear friend’s son in a forest green. I also sent off a onesie for another precious niece.

I finished Michael’s Christmas sweater, using Jessica McDonald’s pattern Little Treeline. It fits him well in the body, though I should’ve added another inch to the sleeves. It’s hard to get a good photo of an active toddler modeling a sweater, but I did manage to snap one at church while he cuddled on Grandpa, and one while he ran around our living room.

I’ve also finished a few sewing projects! I’m proudest of my Hinterland Dress (pattern by SewLiberated). It was my first time doing a placket and buttonholes, and it turned out splendidly, though there was a learning curve.

I used a linen-rayon blend fabric, and it’s deliciously soft and drapey. I plan on making at least two more of these dresses in slightly different styles. They fit my body well, and are pregnancy and breastfeeding friendly.

I’ve had to learn to make time for my making, in the same way that I make time for prayers and my son and my husband. Now that Michael’s no longer napping it’s become more difficult — but I’ve also become more intentional about finding those precious minutes. Sometimes, that means knitting a few rows before the dishes are done or the laundry is folded. Sometimes, it means knitting while he snuggles on my lap watching Little Bear. It fills my cup, and I’m a happier mom and wife when I’ve taken time to do something that brings me joy.

It’s been important to continue my making as I embrace my changing pregnant body. As clothes begin to feel awkward around my 28 week bump and maternity clothes don’t quite fit right (and they never really do), it’s easy to feel…insecure.

At a young age I internalized the cultural narrative that a larger body is merely from a lack of self-discipline, and therefore ugly. It’s taken a lot of growth to realize that my changing sizes don’t indicate laziness or failure or lack of virtue. In fact, in the case of pregnancy it’s the opposite: my larger size is an outward sign of the work my body is doing to grow our little girl, and the obedience and self-sacrifice pregnancy requires. Clothing my body in garments I make intentionally for my own measurements, from fabrics and colors I love, is my way of embracing these changes, and my way of giving thanks for these changes as well.

Also, making has become a time of contemplation. As I knit, or spin, or sew, I form blog or Substack posts or stories in my head, or I pray. My making time and my prayer time often weave into each other. It’s an overlap of prayer and work: ora et labora. I found that the steps of the knit stitch fit seamlessly into the Jesus prayer.

Lord Jesus Christ,

Son of God,

Have mercy on me

A sinner.

This time of life is a difficult one, even though the pictures and words here may make it look idyllic. One of our dear friends, my mother’s godmother, is on hospice. My grandfather was recently diagnosed with melanoma, and has surgery and appointments over the next few weeks to get us more information on the severity. At work, busy season approaches for Jake, which means longer hours and later nights. Stress, anxiety, and exhaustion run rampant.

It’s easy to get overwhelmed and rundown (especially with a nap-striking toddler). The TV has been on much more than I would care to admit, and we’ve spent many hours snuggling and watching Little Bear, and fewer hours playing outside. The mom guilt is real.

But, in the midst of all the grief and heaviness that comes with living in a broken world, there is wonder and delight and magic. I think that’s especially clear at Christmas, in the eyes of a toddler hanging ornaments or trying hot cocoa for the first time after splashing in puddles. And I see this magic more clearly when I pick up my needles and knit for a few quiet moments, and repeat softly, Lord Jesus Christ, Son of God, have mercy on me, a sinner.

As December rolled in, Jake and I had a weekend getaway in Mendocino County just the two of us, leaving Michael with my parents. It was delightfully rejuvenating and cozy: perfect for us introverts.

We watched good movies, ate good food, soaked in the beautiful scenery, and had a glorious time. Jake had gone on a work trip the week after Thanksgiving, so it was wonderful to spend intentional time together and relax after the busyness of the past few weeks. It was a perfect little vacation before our baby girl arrives.

Now we’re back home, the Christmas spirit has come to our little cottage. I’ve had Christmas on my mind ever since the Nativity Fast began in November. The Nativity Fast, or Advent as it’s known in the West, is one of my favorite liturgical seasons. The Nativity Fast starts 40 days before Christmas, but Advent traditionally begins approximately four Sundays before Christmas.

The beauty of this season is in the waiting. The joyful preparation, mingled with the sorrow of the world. The tension of already, but not yet. The music, the candlelight, the brimming anticipation as we await redemption while in a broken world: it’s all so beautiful. So poignant.

As we enter into the four weeks before Christmas, I very intentionally integrate my beloved Western practices into our daily lives. While I currently attend an Eastern Rite Orthodox Church, I grew up in Western culture and became Orthodox in a Western Rite parish. Both East and West are integral to who I am, and both traditions have shaped my life. So I embrace both and weave them into our family.

Saint Nicholas’s feast day marks the beginning of Christmas decorating in our house. For those of you who might not be familiar with St. Nicholas, he’s one of my favorite saints, and the original Santa Claus. There are many beautiful traditions from all over the world to celebrate St Nicholas: this sweet article from the Farmer’s Almanac gives good historical context.

We set out our shoes on the evening of December 5th, putting carrots in them for St Nicholas’s reindeer. In the morning, Michael found oranges and chocolate coins and some small toys in place of the carrots. He was very excited, especially because he got to have a piece of chocolate before breakfast.

If you want to integrate some Saint Nicholas traditions into your own family, Kh. Destinie from Ascetic Life of Motherhood has some wonderful resources here.

In the evening we decorated our tree, drank mulled cider, and watched How The Grinch Stole Christmas. Michael loved putting ornaments on the tree, and taking them off, and putting them on, and so on.

Jake and I have chosen to get a live, potted tree each Christmas we’ve celebrated as a married couple. We’ve planted them once January rolls around. Michael’s first Christmas tree is a hearty little cedar that’s still growing in our backyard, and this spruce will hopefully grace our front yard for years to come.

Michael and I also dried orange slices to make a citrus garden, and made “gingerbread” salt dough ornaments. I used my mom’s Springerle cookie molds: she has the 12 Days of Christmas and they are breathtakingly beautiful. The salt dough held the designs well, and I plan on painting and sealing them with resin once they fully dry. This picture was taken before they dried completely: now they’ve got more of a white shine from the salt. I still can’t wait to see them on our tree.

In our society, Christmas often is marketed as a shopping binge colored with garish lights and repetitive tinny music. It’s easy to become cynical and just see the glorified waste and greed: I admit I get tired of the Christmasy ads that bombard me as soon as Thanksgiving is over. All year we’re inundated with the pressure for the newest, the best, the shiniest and most updated stuff, and it increases exponentially in December.

But inside our homes, traditions can hold the consumerism at bay. Some are newer; some are centuries old: Saint Nicholas Day, homemade decorations, Advent wreaths, Christmas carols, cookie decorating, gingerbread houses; baked goods with recipes from battered cards and handwritten notes. Traditions, both liturgical and familial, reorient us towards what really matters.

What are some of your traditions? How does your home welcome in the Advent season?

We had such a wonderful Thanksgiving. It was absolutely full to the brim with loved ones, good food, good conversation, laughter, and joy.

Our festivities began on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, when my sister flew in to spend her break with us. Michael played an entire morning and afternoon with Aunt Boo while I prepared the house for guests. Unfortunately, I have no pictures of their games of chase or fort building. Sunday, dear family friends came into town.

Monday, my in-laws arrived: Michael loved spending time with Oma and Opa and Uncle James (even if it took him a little bit to get warmed up at first).

Tuesday was my grandfather’s 80th birthday, and after the busyness of the day we all wandered up to the Grand House and sang happy birthday to him in harmony.

Wednesday, more family friends arrived and my brother flew in as well. Michael loved reading books and playing organ and piano with Uncle Jon.

My dad’s Thanksgiving turkey is renowned among our family and friends for being tender and flavorful: he’s got his cooking method down to a science. Michael was thrilled to help with the brining process, and helped with both turkeys (we needed two for the crowd we expected on Thanksgiving!)

Thanksgiving morning my sister-in-law was able to fly in from Utah and join us! As always, where Fentons congregate, music follows. Our piano got more use this week than it’s seen in a while, and it was lovely to hear many renditions of Heart and Soul and different improvisations ringing through our cottage.

Cooking preparation was split between houses, and our house took care of the pumpkin and apple pies, rolls, and cranberry sauce. My mother-in-law’s apple pies are incredible, and she helped me make pie crust for my pumpkin pies. I used a new recipe this time, and it turned out excellently (if I do say so myself). Jake is the expert bread baker in this household, so he made his rolls (a family friend’s recipe). He made them the first Thanksgiving he joined our family, and now it’s an indelible tradition.

Looking at the food spread out for Thanksgiving dinner, I felt as though I had fallen into a Redwall feast. If you, too, grew up reading Brian Jacques’ Redwall series, you know he was famed for his delicious descriptions of food. We had spiced red wine cranberry sauce, bacon wrapped green beans with rosemary, two huge and fragrant turkeys, mashed potatoes with pools of golden butter, pastry wrapped baked Brie with pomegranate jam, pumpkin and custard and walnut and apple pies, homemade whipped cream — and so much more.

All in all, there were 34 people around our tables on Thanksgiving Day. And it was a glorious, beautiful sight. I have hardly any photos from the actual day, because we were so busy prepping and eating and spending time with our loved ones. We have a tradition of taking photos every Thanksgiving with my mother’s good camera: we haven’t had the chance to download them yet, so I have no photos of the entire group. Here’s a snap of the chaotic group photo taking process!

The day after Thanksgiving is possibly my favorite day of all. The majority of us are introverts (including extended family and friends). As much as we love the joy of Thanksgiving, the day after is a day to rest and rejuvenate. We sat outside by the fire pit for almost the entire day, and read or talked or sat in silence.

Cornhole games were played, archery was practiced. I spun on my Turkish spindle. It was a very good, very peaceful day.

Every single bed, couch, air mattress, and spare room on our property was full. And it was glorious. It was a moment where everything we’ve worked for on this strange little homestead of ours felt right.

Some people don’t understand what we are doing here: I’ve gotten my share of snide comments about “still living with my parents” (despite having our own home, parcel of the property, and mortgage). But whenever I begin to wonder if I’m crazy for doing this, weeks like this happen. I’m so grateful we live in community so we can pool all our resources and be a “third place”: a place for gathering and sanctuary and community; a place for prayer and rest and rejuvenation.

However, living in community isn’t idyllic, despite what blog posts and pictures may seem.

There is difficulty and pain and brokenness, and stress and short tempers and tears. The broken edges of our sin snag on the people around us, and their edges snag on us, and bit by bit, through reflection and prayers and the grace of God, we begin to sand down these broken edges and become who were are made to be. Here, our brokenness is seen most clearly and cuts the deepest, but here it also can be made whole.

But weeks like this week are exactly why we endure the crucibles parts of this undertaking; why we choose to live as four generations on five acres.

It’s weeks like this that make me so, so grateful.

I see gratitude as an act of defiance against the darkness. If you’ve been reading along with our journey on this blog, you know that we’ve had our share of grief and pain. There has been much darkness. But this week was light: joyful and defiant and shining against the brokenness of the world around us.

Glory to God.

As the nights grow longer and darker, I’ve started embracing the dimmer lights. After dinner, most of the main lighting in the house is off and replaced by table and floor lamps and candles.

We’re leaning into the coziness, slowing down as the land around us begins to settle into late fall. Yet even in the slow coziness, much has been happening.

My great uncle and aunt from Arizona visited! It was so lovely to see them again. There was a lot of laughter and amazing food (courtesy of my grandmother!) My uncle helped my grandfather spread more gravel on their driveway, and Michael was thrilled by the machinery he got to watch and climb on.

Michael is soaking up whatever time outside he can get before the sun sets. My mother got sidewalk chalk and bubbling color tablets, and the two of them had a grand time over the weekend.

Despite the slowing of the world around them, our pomegranate trees are producing like crazy. We picked as many as we could, and they’re waiting in the garage for when we have time to seed and juice them. Homemade pomegranate jelly is one of the most delicious things I’ve ever eaten: we’re running low and I hope I can get a few half pints put away before the end of the year.

As an aside, we accidentally grew a pumpkin. I tossed our old pumpkins out in the weeds last year, thinking they’d decompose and be eaten by critters. Two of them did: apparently the third decided to take root. My dad found this green beauty growing happily among the star thistles about two weeks ago.

Michael also helped me make Jake’s birthday cake. He is determined to taste every step of the baking process no matter what the contents of the bowl are: flour and baking soda, raw eggs, vanilla extract…etc. It’s been an interesting learning curve. He’s also gotten quite adept at pouring and stirring. He loves the concept of cracking eggs…not so much the actual process.

I’ve been working away with my needles in my spare moments. Tis the season of gift knitting, so I won’t be posting most of what I’ve been working on to keep them surprises for their intended recipients. However, I did make this little hat for Michael to keep his head warm on his outdoor excursions. The contrasting color is my own hand-spun yarn. I even cast on a hat for myself that will match. It’s so satisfying to knit with yarn I’ve made myself, and I love these colors so much.

I’ve also been spinning more, both on my wheel and on my Turkish spindle. I told one of my dearest friends (the one who taught me to spin last January!) that I feel like this Turkish spindle is my magic wand: it’s almost like it chose me like the wand chooses the wizard. I love how it moves, I love how lightweight it is; I love the small bee motifs on the arms. It’s been an absolute delight to use.

I found a new fiber shop that I’m obsessed with: Inglenook Fibers. My Orthodox friends may know of Holy Nativity Convent in Massachusetts: I often buy candles and icons from them. They’re connected! Mother Macrina is one of the skillful artists behind these beautiful colors, and another sister helps her with the different processes of preparing the fiber. I’ll be supporting them every chance I get.

I love these chilly days, and I especially love these slow and cozy evenings. I’ve taken to having a cup of tea and sitting and knitting or spinning until bedtime. I usually listen to a podcast or an audiobook, or read, or sit and chat with my husband. Once Michael is asleep, once the dishes are done, once the day’s clutter has been put away, I sit and delight in the things that bring me joy and fill my cup.

It’s a cozy ritual I’ve come to cherish. Even on the worst days, I find comfort in the familiar scent of lemon balm tea and the quiet cadence of my spinning wheel or knitting needles.

I recently listened to a vlog by The Last Homely House on YouTube, where she mentioned an old adage her grandmother used to say: Get out of your head, and into your hands. I find that to be my remedy for many things: anxiety, fatigue, irritation; grumpiness. Once I get out of my head and into my hands, my body relaxes and my cup begins to fill again.

So if the cold and dark are encroaching on your cozy rituals, I encourage you to join me: get out of your head and into your hands.