Personal Growth

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 wagon ride at Lynd Fruit Farm with my kids and grandkids took me back to my grandparents' farm. For a moment I was both the grandchild and the Gramma, and I found myself thinking about what it means to move forward without treating the past as a mistake or a bad thing.

Some weeks hold everything

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.

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.

For months there were two laptops at our kitchen table. His book came out this week. Mine’s out there too. What I’ll keep isn’t either book — it’s the two of us at that table, each convinced the other one’s work was worth the early alarm.

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.