In that time and space between here and there and somewhere else, there is this.

A slow gentle unfurling. Of the breath, of your heart, of all the crazy busy things we all have to do and should have done yesterday but really, you know, can wait.

A time to smell the roses, quite literally in this case, in the garden, as blooms begin their annual renaissance and the grande display for nose and eyes begins one petal at a time.

In the days before we leave here and head there, there is time to lay back in the lush grass of the garden and revel in the roses just coming on, heavy and bending and fragrant and bright.

Just enough time.

There has to be.

What matters more?

One more milled board, mowed lawn, window washed, garden bed weeded, or top of cupboard cleaned?

Well, maybe.

But no. Take time. Make time. There is time.

Would my life go on if I missed a weed? What about if I missed this moment?

I’m trying to remain present. Here and now. Be her now, you know how it goes.

Love where I am which is not hard to do as there is so much to love.

Vibrant green meadows, glossy new full leaves on these ancient sprawling oaks, baby chicks hidden in the jungle that the grass is growing into, swelling fruit on peach trees. Geese and ravens, redwing and quail, and the phoebe that has nested in the eve above the picnic table every year since we’ve been here. Horses fat and sassy needing to be escorted into the barn at night because really, leaving that lush meadow is not what they choose to do. The new dog running circles around the old dog (funny since the old dog was the young one just a few years ago).

And yes, those roses.

I sit out on the steps at night under the light of the waxing moon, tired sore and sunburned from a full day which for so many of us is an integral part of spring, and a calm sense of anticipation washes over me, soft and silver as the light in the cloudless night sky.

A heavy letting go.

I have left and returned before.

The calm before the chaos. Twenty days before we load the horses and chickens and last of the lumber we milled and make our way across Highway 50, heading to the high country of Colorado to break ground.

Leaving our little bit of paradise behind is not new for me. Remember, two years ago how I up and left this time of year with a few horses and a four month challenge to make it Colorado?

This time we’re driving.

A different adventure awaits.

After a journey of seeking, which the Long Quiet Ride was, I thought I found the answers. My excitement to be “home” was overwhelming, coming over me soft and bright like a gentle swell ready to embrace me. So close I could taste it. Only rather than receiving the loving arms of this land, I was punched in the gut. I returned to the greatest trauma of the whole trip, which kind of broke the whole thing up. And left me wondering (among other things): Where?

That was then.

Now, it’s a different adventure, different journey.

I’m not saying my inability to sit still is a good thing. But it is a thing.

It’s not just itchy feet. It’s a longing. That longing to belong. Harmonizing with curiosity.

Stepping outside the box is easier when you don’t have a box to begin with.

So we’re setting out to build another box.

And holding onto this one, just in case.

Alas, it’s just a box. Something to define and confine.

And at the same time, hold you tight.

Here’s little ditty for Mother’s Day.

As the garden grows and the seasons change, so do we.

I don’t have a bucket list. If I really want to do something, chances are I’ll do it.

I have few regrets, few things I didn’t do that I wish I had.

I hope you feel the same.

Not that I did them all well. That’s not the point.

The point is, I tried. And failure is part of the path. The yin to the yang. You know.

Still…

There are times I wish I knew more before I dove in to certain things.

Mothering tops that list.

As in: if I knew then what I know now…

But it takes living and learning to know.

I am somewhat in awe of the few mothers I know who feel they did it all right. I was not one of them. Few mothers are.

For it takes failing, falling and fucking up. Really. I’m afraid it does. If you don’t do all those things, you haven’t tried. And if you’re not trying, you’re not learning and growing and really living. You’re stuck like a stick in the mud, right? Like all living things, we cannot remain stagnant for long.

Okay, so I failed, fell and fucked up maybe more than most, I dunno. But no one ever accused me of not trying.

That’s how mothering was for me.

The things I wish I knew… Why don’t they teach that stuff in school? I don’t mean changing diapers and dealing with leaking boobs; I mean the important stuff like understanding emotions, communicating clearly, listening. Tools to remain calm and patient and kind when you’re sleep deprived, financially strapped, frustrated, confused, and feeling alone. Seriously, that stuff is way more important than Roman History and Algebra, right?

Seems like there is a trend and current expectation that mothers are now meant to be perfect, and parent perfectly. That’s not only wrong, it’s not possible. Besides, if perfect was possible, by whose standards of perfection would we judge?

Sheltering children, coddling their wisdom, padding their world and giving them all the answers rather than allowing them the time and space to figure it out themselves? How will they learn to learn? Sometimes you gotta skin your knees.

A balance between the two, between being handed life to you in a silver spoon or on a silver platter – and the school of hard core hard knocks, would of course be ideal. But I’ve yet to see a truly ideal life. Reality is unique, not ideal. There’s always ups and down, good and bad, so accepting and learning to live with that reality is one of those things we don’t want but we do need.

I’ve been a mama for 32 years. I don’t write about him much because (1) he probably doesn’t appreciate it, and (2) he’s is Colorado, not California. (Suddenly that choice to build in Colorado makes some sense, yes?)

Nothing has ever mattered more to me, or defined my choices more, than being a mom.

So many say the same. As we stare off softly, upward, maybe inward, a gentle smile upon our lips, and you know what we are thinking about.

Our children.

Our pride and joy. Not the pride for having, say, built a cabin or put in a gorgeous garden. It’s different. It’s not ours. It’s for them. I can’t explain that kind of pride well. Can you?

Have I told you how proud I am of mine? Not for making the most of what I gave him, but for making so much on his own. From his adaptability to his authenticity, from his self-earned college education to his successful career. From his empathy in dealing with dear old mom and dad, to his badass ways behind the wheel or at the shooting range.

I’d like to take credit for teaching him. I used to say I homeschooled him. Truth is, he self-schooled. I’m a pretty crappy teacher, and the two of us, well, we butt heads. He figured it out himself. Pretty damn well, I dare say.

I am guilty all too often of giving unsolicited advice. But the best advice I think I gave him, showing, not telling, thus teaching by example, was this: you gotta figure it out yourself. That is how we learn. And you can. If you want to. You can make mistakes, and change direction, and drop out and divorce, fall apart and get back up, and with all of that, we learn, we grow, we live, our own beautiful, unique, magical, mysterious, authentic life.

It’s like the old Zen teacher telling her student:

I can point to the moon. But you have to find your own way there.

And if you’re stubborn, like my son is (can’t imagine where he learned that) then chances are, you also gotta find your own moon.

So what do I know now that I wish I knew then?

Oh, so much! Let’s start with:

Cultivating curiosity and compassion.

Took me along time to learn this was okay. More than okay. That’s where the beauty of life is born.

Then propagate creativity and courage, which can come naturally with a solid foundation and safe place to “try.”

Get comfortable making mistakes, and learn how to learn from each one.

For sure, the Old Man’s Three C’s: care, connect and contribute.

Belong. To the land. To the people. To your dreams.

And finally, love. Deeply, passionately, beautifully. Whatever, whoever you want to love. Love. Have the courage to love. Even when (not if) your heart gets broken, you lose someone or something, or you change your mind. Find the courage to open your heart wide, more fully, more wholly, less discriminating. That’s the key to living fully, deeply, richly.

Connection, connecting from the heart, is the greatest reason to live.

Love.

Don’t be stingy with love. I promise: it will never run out.

Okay, finally, that thing about an invitation.

Ready?

Here it goes.

Yes, I ramble. But have you noticed? I’m rambling to you.

My writing is meant to be a conversation between us. At times it feels one sided. I do the sharing. You do the reading. But there’s no connection between us.

Why not?

I’ve said this before: This blog was started as a way of sharing our “out there” lifestyle. But instead of being a how-to or pretending to be an expert, more often than not it’s about “in there.” Usually it’s a combination of the two, and always, always, a good excuse for me to work on my craft, for the love of writing. However in addition to all that, it’s also a way for me to reach out, share, and connect.

That said, it matters to me to know people are out there, reading this regular random outpouring. When I check the numbers on this blog, folks are reading it. But only a small percentage, it appears, leave comments, “like” on Facebook, write me directly, sign up to subscribe or otherwise share the connection.

Speaking of sharing, this is a video shared by Cathy this week. It’s wonderful. If you’ve “listened to” some of the videos I shared in the past, you’ll see why she shared it, and why I love it:

So here’s the invitation.

Inviting you to share in kind.

I’m putting myself out there for you.

Will you please let me know you’re reading, that you’re with me, that somehow we are in this together?

To those who have been responding via the blog, leaving a note or like on Facebook, or writing me directly – I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

For those who are just passing by, seeing if you want to stay a while, I welcome you to return and see if what I say and how I say it is worthy of your time.

For those who DO return to read somewhat regularly, if you enjoy my work, please let me know.

BTW, WordPress, who hosts this blog, makes it real easy to subscribe (see the bottom of this page), and equally easy to unsubscribe. I do hope to share more often (maybe twice a week?) once the building project gets underway. Right now we’re just warming up, in the early, what would you call this milling madness: pre-fun stage? In kind, I will do my best to honor your time, not flood your inbox, sell my meager mailing list, or otherwise curse you with spam and bad karma.

Thank you. Said with a sincere bow.

Until next week,

With love, always love,

Gin