letter home

hi friends,

thanks for being here, reading. the bustle and dream of spring pulls me away from this robot, but i'm glad to be here in this moment, writing to you. since i last wrote, a new, comforting space continues to settle into and around me. a subtle, pastel feeling of "okay-ness." tentatively look to the future, wondering where samwell and i are headed, how and when our nest will expand.

and then there is now--planting and weeding, cleaning and sorting, mending, helping. death is a slow process, over months, years. so is birth. they both can seem so finite, so flash done. but really, this living--which is, of course, also birthing and dying--is so, so slow. i plant the peas and a week later they are only white balls with slivers of green. someday near/far they will be crunch crunch deliciousness in my mouth. the time between seems like forever, or a moment, depending on what foot i stand.

i hope that whatever fills your spring days a-bustle, it includes something real--not newspaper real--soil real, dirty hands real, heart real. because that realness has been so soothing and grounding and hopeful for me, and so i wish it for you.

my love,

kate.