Lantern Notes

Vegas with family, Friday night football and a seven-year-old cheerleader, a farm festival, another bleacher for a tiny cheerleader, daughter flying home, and a trip to Texas—-all on top of the most intense work season in a while. This fall feels less like a whirlwind and more like a hurricane. Here's how I'm learning to S.T.A.Y. in the middle of it, and why I wouldn't change one windy part.

A week that held grief, pride, comfort, laughter, and a relationship none of us can explain the loss of. Anchoring doesn't mean feeling one clean thing.

You’ve probably seen the post by now. The one going around about the kind of grandmother a woman intends to be someday. Dinner on the table after a hard day. Baths and bedtime covered. Bring those babies over and go get some rest. No, you don’t have to explain yourself. My feed has been filled with it this past couple of weeks. Women I love shared it, and I understood exactly why. It names something many of us carry-- I don’t want my children to ever feel alone. I read it twi

The house hasn't changed. The rail is the same rail. The light comes up over the same trees. I'm the one who changed. Some places aren't scenery — they're fixed points, and standing in one again shows you exactly how far the water has carried you.

Two weeks ago, I was at a county fair with my grandbabies. This week, I was at a very different kind of fair in Wisconsin—thinking about AI, healthcare and how quickly “eventually” can become “November.” Somewhere along the midway, I found myself coming back to one question: What if?

Almost every August, I find my way back to the Gallia County Jr. Fair. The sheep barn, the midway, the show ring--they've changed a little over the years. So have I. But some experiences have a way of reminding us exactly who we are and where we are from.

Some places change your itinerary. Alaska changes what I carried home. A reflection on slowing down, paying attention, and bringing wonder back into everyday life.