The future feels like a lasso around my shoulders… tugging, tugging…

My farming friends are putting fall crops in the ground. We’ve been harvesting these Sahara Rudbeckia, which feel like autumn in a bucket. Stocking the woodpile is on Mark’s already long list of house to-do’s. It might be 90° and humid as bathwater, but the next season is well on its way.

My big belly won’t let me forget it. There’s going to be someone joining our family in about 6 weeks. 🤯

Baby will come, and then the dahlias, and then the cold. I can’t stop it. I wouldn’t want to, even though I’m unsure and afraid (and I don’t share that needing reassurance—it’s just what’s true).

The thing about the future is that it’s always unknown and it’s always coming. There are plenty of things that can’t be prepared for, a lot of them good.

We’re doing our best juggling lots of tasks and lots of hopes and our share of fears—maybe you, too. Wishing you shade to sit in and things like buckets of color to slow time down, even if just for a minute. 🌼

I like to match the flowers. 🌸

Pregnancy is one of the longest, most drawn out transitions I’ve ever experienced.

I’m fascinated with transition, that in-between place we all go through in tiny and enormous ways all the time for all our lives.

Every day, every year, every season of who we are ends, and there’s a period of limbo before what’s next is here and known.

And that can be terrifying. It is for me. It’s uncontrollable. It happens whether I’d like it to or not.

Transition is a sideline: a place I get to sit and watch life play out, hands off.

It’s an unbecoming and a becoming, the unknown in process.

And I think that’s freaking cool, even when it feels like jumping off a high dive in the dark.