I haven’t written in a while.
Not just here. I haven’t written much at all.

Recipes, sure. My prayer journal, yes. But the creative flow of poetry and storytelling all but dried up in the last season. It happens that way sometimes. I used to panic when the flow of words stopped, when the creativity ran dry. Then I realized, nature is seasonal that way. The mushrooms flush after the rain but do not grow without it. In very hot summers, the creeks that roar through winter dwindle to nothing. I stopped panicking and rested in the knowledge; words always come back to me.
It is January. For years, I lamented the grey days of this month. You could even say I loathed it. It’s different now. In the morning, a white blanket of frost blankets the farm. The garden sleeps, but the high tunnel is turning out lovely heads of broccoli and copious roots. The goats’ bellies are swelling with the growth of spring kids, and their udders are beginning to fill. Helen the cow still gives us steaming milk every morning. We warm our freezing hands on the jars of fresh milk as we carry them into the house.

The kitchen is alive, more so than anything else on the January farm. Sourdough rises and every morning, golden-yolked eggs sizzle in ghee in a cast iron pan. Sure, I have to scrub more mud off the eggshells before cracking them, but they do make a pretty picture all the same.
My soup pot is full. I am replenishing my stores of canned broths and meats, converting dry beans to shelf stable, ready-to-use jars to save my sanity once garden season returns. I find myself regularly taking inventory in the cool pantry. I didn’t put up enough onions. I should have dried more peppers. I make a million pledges for the coming growing season.

We started homeschooling a couple of weeks ago. The new year brought a southern snowstorm, which means it wasn’t much of a storm, but it was cold and slightly icy and the world shut down for a couple of days. And in the grey and dreary throes of January, we have been found at our kitchen table, sipping hot tea to recover from chores and practicing prime factorization. On Fridays we have skills day. The books stay in their bins and instead, we get our hands dirty. Ben and Ezra enjoy baking. Toby wants to learn to use tools so he can build things. We are all eager to plant the garden.
Once upon a time, my greatest dream was for a small and simple life. I could hardly hope to afford it, but I gave my very best to make it a reality. Then something incredible happened. It came true. But along with it came a world of opportunity and endless possibility. I do not regret a single decision we have made. We have grown, we have tried, and in times, we have been found wanting. In the process, I have come to know my own heart in a way I never quite could before.

I have come to know that my own ambitions, when not tamed could become very farm reaching. But with a bit of direction, the can grow very deep, like the anchoring oaks of a mighty oak tree.
I am made for small and simple. I am made for everyday beauty. I am made to sit at the kitchen table, typing lovely words with misty eyes while my sons break in to ask me questions about grammar.
I have come home, and there, I found words had been there waiting all along.
