Sometimes I wonder how I’ll remember this time of my life.
The months of slow days, mostly by myself.
The months of morning yoga, and reading, and writing three drafts of a novel—only to discover it might not be the novel I want.
The year I stopped defining myself by my career, and saw that my path in life could go anywhere, and it was not always in my control.
The year I neglected our first backyard garden, and it bore fruit anyway.
The year we got our first pets, two fish that I thought I wouldn’t like, by grew fond of.
The summer my kids ran up and down the stairs in capes and firefighter hats, saving their stuffed animals from certain peril.
The year I started doing yoga and meditating every day, and learned more about the spirals of my mind than I ever have.
The summer my son narrated a book while I listened, and wrote, and marveled at his imagination.
The summer a squirrel bit through my kitchen screen to grab one of the banana muffins I’d made on a cool summer morning.
The summer the most exquisite butterflies visited our butterfly bush, and stuck around long enough for us to take pictures of them.
The days I wondered, How did I get here? How do I deserve all this beauty?
The year my children became little incarnations of Henri Matisse and Jackson Pollock.
The July my husband and I decided to start a magazine, and had no idea where it would go, only that the mere idea of it nourished us.
The June we found a robin’s nest under our deck, and learned again that life sprouts everywhere…
There is just no stopping it.