A friend recently pointed out that the population of Connecticut moves to rhythms rather than to routine. As a native Okie gal, I found this observation intriguing; my soul took a deep breath and smiled. Of course! Of course Connecticutians (or Connecticutters, or whatever they may be) adhere more to rhythm than routine. And of course this would be another reason God meets me in New England in the places I’d least expect.

So my soul sways to rhythms, taking a cue from the weather (which, today, is deliciously foggy but warmer than it’s been in months). There are three possible responses to this fact: I can struggle against it, be dominated by it, or embrace it. There’s really no point in fighting rhythm, so the first one’s out. Being dominated by it doesn’t sound like much fun either. How, then, shall I make the most of this tail-end of winter?

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Onward to Autumn

“But you think perhaps you can smell caramel wafting through the evening breeze, beneath the crisp scent of the autumn leaves. A subtle sweetness at the edges of the cold.”

(Erin Morgenstern)

The windy shift from swimsuits to scarves is a happy one around here, and I don’t want to miss a single sensation. The music in my house has lilted away from turquoise and turned toward golden, the blankets from pastels to deep plum. Fall tastes like cloves, smells like wool, feels like being understood, sounds like a campfire, and looks like home. I’d love to offer a few practical bits of housekeeping (literal and otherwise) to ease the transition for us all. Let’s prepare our hearts for a gentle season of echoing the trees in the letting go of dead things.

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The Threshing

There once was a foolish farmer who loved his wheat field so much that he refused to harvest it. Months after carefully planting, watering, tending, and praying, his wheat was golden, ready to bring into the barns and be put to good use. The farmer walked his field, discussing the upcoming harvest. “After I gather you, I must thresh you.” The field gasped. “Does threshing hurt?” After a moment of hesitation, the farmer answered, “To loosen the grain involves beating and crushing and stomping on your stalks. I admit it doesn’t sound pleasant.” The field cried out sharply, wind rippling terror through the waving stems. It begged the farmer to relent, clutching at the ragged edges of his humanity. “Please no! That sounds unbearable!” Sobs and whimpers turned to stillness. “But the threshing is necessary,” the farmer replied. “If I can’t harvest you, you’ll be no good—just a lovely but wasted field. This process of harvesting is what you were created for. The pain will give way to joy, I promise.” The wheat implored him desperately until he finally decided that a lovely but wasted field was not the end of the world.

Three months later, the field froze to death under four feet of snow.

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Girly Photo Scavenger Hunt (Winter)

“See the beauty and the magic that surround you, no matter where you are.”

(Christen Olivarez)

Welcome to the long duration of cold between Christmas trees and Easter eggs. It’s a stark season, winter, but there’s beauty here if you know where (and how) to look. Seeing seems easier with a camera in front of my face. If you’ve endured just about enough cabin fever, grab a coat, a friend, and a great filter. It’s time for an adventure.

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Where Death and Christmas Meet

“Death is the hardest thing about living so far away from our families,” Riley murmured as I fought back collapsing into tears again.

“No,” I replied through gritted teeth, “death is the hardest thing about living, period.”

Because it doesn’t matter if we are in the same room with a loved one or on the other side of the world from them. Death comes, and we are powerless over it.

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