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.

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.

Some people have known us for fifty years. Others arrived exactly when we needed them. Time isn’t what makes someone your person. It’s being seen — without the résumé, the explanation, or the highlight reel. Sunday on Buckeye Lake reminded me what a gift it is to be with the people who already know your voice.

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.