I'm in the middle of this life that I could never have even imagined two years ago and so much of it is because I just showed up and kept showing up. Like it's a million things, but it was also showing up.
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I stood in the kitchen, barefoot on the warm wooden floor, and watched hail bounce off the roof next door and felt glad to be warm and dry.
I'm still sick and the rain is making ice slashes on the windowpanes and the garden is just sticks and noon is a bluish wintery half-light and the hearth is cold but I'm tucked up on the couch under a quilt with fancy chocolates and a good meal inside me and the kitchen is clean and I've made some space to rest and it's the gentlest and most peaceful tiny quiet space you can even imagine.
It's been such a whirlwind getting here, so much of everything, fear and hope and joy and anxiety and worry and comfort and work and love and exhaustion, and now it's late and everyone except me, this tiny piece of chosen family that I belong in, is asleep and the house is silent and the hearth is dark and still warm and I feel like I'm back in my bubble of warmth, my old room that I loved so much even though I outgrew it, but this bubble, the new bubble, is more red than yellow, hearthfire instead of candleflame, richer and deeper and bigger and wider and more complicated and so much more beautiful, so so beautiful, and I feel so grateful and so home.
We don't have any trees in our tiny back yard, but our neighbors' yards are full of Douglas firs and the bitter wind shushes through them, like waves at the ocean, and in the summer we will sit on the back porch and listen to them swaying in the warm night breeze.
The yard at our new house is full of winter plants and I get to watch them grow and I am so happy.
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AuthorBitter Water
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License. Archives
June 2019
Categories© Francie Nevill and Every Sweet Thing, 2017.
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