A Running Collection

We've wanted bees for ages. It seemed like a difficult task. Something we didn't really want to get into. I don't know why in the world I thought bees would be a challenge, especially after raising sheep and chickens and pigs. Bees are one of the more intelligent species on this planet and don't need humans to do much of anything except give them a safe environment.  Our sweet friend Bobby was born into bees. For over 100 years, his family has been keeping bees. His story is a bee story. He knows bees like we know chickens and running and banjos. He brought us the sweetest gift. A hive full of bees. We can just sit and watch them. They are a busy community. Guarding, collecting, dancing, even creating chains by holding hands across combs. I've never seen anything like it. We will have honey soon. The children and I started studying bees today so that we know exactly what is happening, exactly what we are watching. We knew we would have to move them to a lar

Because For me, Boston is more than a thought or a dream. Because I've run that route and crossed that line Twice. Because Boston is power and pain coursing through  My body, ripping through my legs -- just from the run. Because I believed and accomplished A hard to reach goal and finished. Because I want to do it again -- 8 years later. I'm angry. Someone created horrible pain and ripped apart The power and the beauty and the glory and the dream. I'm angry that someone took away what they had  No right to remove.  They took away the finish line. The finish of the race, the finish of a dream. The finish of life and love and family.  I'm angry. Because I have boys.  Because I know that boys are curious and intense and powerful. Because boys need to cuddle and love and kiss and hug. Because boys love adventure and danger and events. They love to know they are needed and wanted. Boys want good food and someone that expe

Tonight we had the first fruits. Pesto from fresh basil and crisp lettuce and collard green salad. Oh my goodness! Incredible. It was Amelia's first batch of solo pesto.  Amelia has her own patch this year. Corn, okra, pumpkins, and peas and dill. She tends it so carefully. She spends hours out in the garden making sure the new sprouts are happy and the ones getting their fourth and sixth set of leaves have been accounted for.  George Wilder loves to hoe and watch and report. William knows what not to pull and what not to step on but he can't quite figure out what his job is, so he just talks and walks and keeps us company. If we are not in the garden, he wants us to put his shoes on so he can be in the garden. The beans have reached their spiraled fingers nearly five feet up the line. One tomato plant has at least 15 blooms on it. The herbs are stretching and growing up and out.  Mint. Dill. Thyme. Parsley. Cilantro. Basil. Garlic. Rosemary. Oregano. I lov

There isn’t really a place to begin or end. There is constant motion. It only changes form or pace.   If a pause, it is to heal from a wound or recharge from one adventure in preparation for another. Still becomes difficult. It feels unnatural and forced. Unreal. Impossible. Figit, twist, and stretch. Wiggle. Up. Down. Move here, grab that, water, salt and pepper, a wipe, grab that before it goes in his mouth, falling pencil, rolling ball, running toes towards asphalt, keys for a motorcycle, shoes, a feed bucket, phone charger or snack. That load will sour if I don’t move it now! In the constant motion a good bit happens in the middle of it all. It is hard to remember what we are in the middle of doing, but it is in the middle of the motion that our greatest moments occur. In the middle of making dinner, William takes my hand and walks me over to the tower he has made and we build for a long time. Dinner waits.  In the middle of church, William dumps out the