A six year old houseguest of ours walked into the kitchen clutching her newly built lego dragon that slept alongside her last night.  I knelt down to say hello only to learn that her night hung thick with the dark cloud of a nightmare.  A fear filled awe filled the space in between us, as she explained her dreams with big, wide eyes and not a hint of a smile.

I listened to the play-by-play, which honestly, was kinda boring the way other people’s dreams usually are.  While I nodded in understanding, I pondered the juxtaposition of her fear with my experience of her very passionate relay.  From my seat, there was obviously nothing to truly fear.  It was a dream, one.  And two, it was actually kinda funny when you hear it in the morning.  But, not to her.  To her, it was very, very real, and I felt for her.  And, I understood that trap.

Inspiration struck, and once she finished with the flourish of the monster locking her friend in the bathroom, I asked her what she would do if she could return to her dream right now.  She immediately said she’d punch the monster.  I saw her eyes perk up, so I kept going.  Then what would you do?  She’d run out the side door into the town and tell everyone.  Great idea!  Then what?  I’d go back with the police and find my friend, then we’d all throw a party!  Hooray!

With that, she was over it.  She and her lego dragon bounced out of the room and into the rest of her day.

Surprisingly, I have learned as much about myself these past nine months of raising Beauden, as I have about my rapidly growing son.  More than anything, I learned that I have pockets of emotion that I wasn’t willing to experience before having a kid.  They didn’t seem to be a problem, which is almost unbelievable to me now.  Looking back, there they were, and I can clearly see how hard, much, much too hard I worked to avoid them, deny them and sadly, even punish myself because they simply existed.  But, I wasn’t even aware that I could simply feel that thing that felt like a neck ache, a bad mood or a problem with someone else.  It still amazes me a little bit.  There is literally a way out of those traps, and it isn’t simply pretending that they don’t exist.  The catch is, the gateway out is blocked by an enormous, seemingly immobile bodyguard named Fear.  But the secret is, Fear is actually extremely insecure and often even childlike, when you are willing to look squarely in its deformed, terrifying face.  The process of turning towards Fear can feel like you are going crazy, outside your body, buzzing with a strange, unnamable energy or sick – a mere second from throwing up or dying of an unnamed disease.

The beginning of the baby was filled with Fear’s presence for me.  A Fear that I had never quite known, because I couldn’t escape it, push it aside and pretend it didn’t exist because I was never, ever going to stop loving the thing that was triggering the fear – my beautiful baby boy.  And, to tame Fear, I had to begin looking in all those pockets of emotion just beyond Fear’s doorway that I was unable to witness up until my 36th year of life, which seems so horribly old to begin facing this process.  Grief, sadness, insecurity, creativity, joy – they felt larger than life.  Thoughts like, “I can’t do this,” went through my head.  I couldn’t sleep.  The only thing that felt better was holding my baby and learning about my emotions.  So, I did those two things, every day.  For months.

I had no idea when I was picking out colors for my son’s nursery that I was actually creating a sanctuary for this process.  He plopped in this world as a teacher before he could even talk.  He wasn’t teaching me with his words, he was teaching me with his unflappable presence that provided a mirror into my soul and a light into the dark cavities of my spirit.  I wanted the process to stop immediately and to never, ever stop.  And now, as I sit here 9 months in, I am certain.  This is the only way.  It’s not easy, but I grow softer and stronger through the process.  And for that, all I can say is, thank you.

In March of this year, things were beginning to sprout up on the farm, and I started growing a person.  So many things have happened since – the peak season has come and gone, family and friends have visited and departed, all while this little boy has been diligently working in solitude, and now, with the days turned inward and our Christmas tree casting an inviting light on the den, we await his arrival, our grandest present.

Can you see the pure mixture of fear and intense concentration in those eyes?  Our dog Todd looks like this every minute of every day that both John and I are not within a 25-foot radius of him.  His dog world has one rule.  We never, ever leave him. . . ever.  And in return, he will be the best dog on the planet.   Certain Saturdays, we do leave him.  We buckle down the house – twice – because he’s been known to jump through screens and open doors.  

Every late May, the Agapanthus arrive. Like soft, little firecrackers, their purple petals light up the farm, doing their part to create beauty and happiness. And every year late May, my Dad somehow remembers to ask me if the Agapanthus are  blooming. He knows and loves the farm so much that he remembers these small details. However when you spend any extended time here, you realize that this detail isn’t really all that small.

Joe, our landscaper, stopped me while I was heading up the blackberry path for lunch, and offered us a cat.  We needed a new rat catcher for the barn, so I encouraged him to run it by my husband.

As the sun snuck below the sky on a crisp Monday evening, I arrived early to my dance studio on High Street and received horrible news – the studio was closing.  I sat right down and stuck my nose in a book to avoid openly crying.

Late last fall, Firefly the Scottish Highland Cow (shown above) gave birth to a beautiful bull calf.  After a heated vote at a staff lunch, he was named Hank.  Hugh was a close second, but after getting to know him, he’s totally a Hank.

I purchased a square-shaped, spiral notebook when I was 14, maybe 15. It’s about 7 inches on each side, 1” thick with a faded navy cover that has designs on it similar to the ones created by an old toy I used to have that held a pen still while a paper turned below it on a little wonky, Lazy-Susan.

Amid an August full moon night, I lay alone on the couch, eyes fixed wide to the ceiling in fear. Sleep wasn’t interested. My hand bounced, powered by the unwelcomed adrenalin that coursed through my veins. We’d just sold the book, and now, we had to finish. Finish. Finish. Just finish. I’ve finished things in my life – college, culinary school, relationships, leases, jobs, projects . . . why was this so raw and different? Why did I feel that it might literally kill me?