reconstructing childhood–the lightning bugs have arrived!

The lightning bugs are back. They fly low to the ground as the lawn dissolves from green to black in the dusk. Seeing them, I can reconstruct a childhood: a hot night under tall trees; the Good Humor man, in his square white truck, the freezer smoky when he reaches inside for an ice cream. . .I relive the magic of the yellow light without the bright white of hindsight. The little flares in the darkness, a distillation of the kind of life we think we had, we wish we had, we want again.

~Anna Quindlen

It’s here–I don’t care what anyone says–Summer crept into the farm quietly then yelled, “Surprise!” last night.  As I perused the gardens, I noticed summer seedlings starting to take shape–squash, watermelon, and cucumbers

watermelon seedling

peeking through the earth and smiling as if to say, “Aaaahhh, Summer.”

I sat down in the mulch to talk with the Sisters about it.  “Summer’s here,” I noted, “and with her, she brings suitcases filled with hot sun and warm nights, long days and bugs, glorious bugs.”  Oreo turned and squawked as if to say, “Well, tell her to hurry up and unpack the warm nights.  For goodness sakes, it gets chilly when the sun goes down.”  As I giggled at her honesty, I caught something out of the corner of my eye.

There it was–Summer’s first lightning bug!  Of any gift she brings with her, Summer delights me most with fireflies.   I wanted to lie down in the mulch and let Summer’s celestial light wash over me.  The anticipation of vacation days at the beach, quiet nights on my front porch, and busy evenings in the garden warmed my insides.

science. howstuffworks.com

Even more importantly, lightning bugs remind me of a childhood filled with magic, curiosity, and joy.  Fireflies mean staying up late, running barefoot through cool grass, and excitement that makes a child’s body shudder.  Lightning bugs meant safety from things that went bump in the night–what creature couldn’t be tamed by the ethereal glow.

And so, while I dread the growing numbers of mosquitoes nipping at my skin and humidity soaking my clothing, I will graciously thank Summer for the gift of lightning bugs–not just because they mark a new season, but also because they remind me of a simpler, more innocent time.  Every adult spirit needs a bit of that now and again.

And so, should you stop by the farm this summer, I’ll be the one, jar in hand, running barefoot in the moonlight.  Now, gotta go!   A Mason jar needs some holes poked in the lid. . .

wilting on the vine

Last week, my dear friend extended an impromptu invitation to dinner on Friday night.  It was kind and thoughtful, and  normally, with two hours of child-free time, I would have jumped at the chance.  But Friday night, I found myself saying to her, “I am wilting on the vine–I’ve got to get outside.”

Wilting on the vine–what an image.  Leave it to a gardener or farmer to describe herself using nature metaphors, but it accurately describes how I feel when I work inside for several days in a row and don’t get my hands in the dirt.  My body and spirit just seem to crave sunlight and fresh air and green, lots and lots of green.

my spirit when it is full of what I need

I realize that not all of you who read this blog may have the same spiritual connection to nature and creation as I do, but I imagine you have passions and dreams that are more than “hobbies”–they are vital to your being.  When we don’t integrate those activities into our daily lives, it’s like withholding sun or rain from a plant.  Yes, we are still alive, but we are not full of life, physically or spiritually.

And so what do we do to keep from wilting on the vine?  We make time for what fills our heart.  We reorganize priorities.  We step out of the routine.  We think outside the box.

And as for me?  I get outside.  Even after a long day filled with work and an evening meeting, I throw on my favorite t-shirt, let the Sisters out for a stroll, and take inventory of my gardens as the moonlight kisses their leaves.  It’s not my wished-for sunny day outside, but it fills my spirit and carries me through.

a prayer of the heart

The prayer of the heart is the source

of all good,

refreshing the soul as if it were a garden.

hands praying with Creation

~St. Gregory of Sinai (d.1360), Egypt

On this rainy Spring morning, I am grateful to hear chicks chattering about sweet bugs.  I give thanks for drops of rain washing away the haze of pollen coating the earth.  I ask for patience as I travel on my journey like a child learning her way.  I thank the Creator for all that is here in this moment–the blessings, the challenges, and the grace of a new day.  Amen

martha stewart doesn’t live here, a simple homesteader does (a letter to martha stewart)

Dear Ms. Stewart,

So true

Before you read this letter, please let me say how much I appreciate all you have done to advance the fields of crafting, baking, decorating, gardening, cooking, organizing, etc.  Clearly, you have added a unique sense of finesse to what the rest of us strive to do on a daily basis without assistants, stylists, producers, etc.  AND you’ve managed to garner a mad number of advertising sponsors!  Wow!

In all this, I honor you.

But when someone referred to me as “Martha Stewart” after I posted photographs of my suburban farm and blogged about living a simple life [note:  not "Simple" as a magazine title] and tweeted about empowering girls through homesteading, that’s where I drew the line.

Thank you for trailblazing the way by spinning traditional chores and responsibilities into a multi-million dollar empire.  Certainly, you have raised the glass ceiling for crafters, gardeners, caterers, and designers everywhere.

But as for me, I am comfortable in my shabby overalls (and no, not as in “shabby chic”) as I dig in the dirt sans gloves and feel God’s creation running through my fingers.  My home isn’t perfect, and I certainly am not photogenic at the end of a long afternoon of hauling mulch, turning compost, and planting seeds.  Truth be told, I don’t want assistants, producers and photographers hanging around–they might find out the truth about my farm–that my life is spent tending to organic food and a happy child, not to decorated walls and neat closets.

So, respectfully, Ms. Stewart, what you have accomplished is amazing, but I’d like to suggest that what I have accomplished, while very different, is just as spectacular.  I’m no Martha Stewart, but I am proud to call myself a suburban farmer, a simple homesteader, and an invested mother.

Ms. Stewart–are you as divalicious as Rosie?

And as for those “someones” who compare the two of us, they may never understand the joy, peace and grace I find in this place I call “home,” but if it gives them pleasure to compare me to you, then so be it.  Your name clearly stands for something that many people revere.  If you ever want to step behind the scenes, however, and let your hair down and get your fingernails dirty, then know you can do that here at Growing Grace Farm.  (But be aware, Rosie, our lead chick, is pretty much a diva and will be stiff competition for photo opps.)

Sincerely,

Cameron~homesteader, farmer, and simple living advocate