Nurturing a Worn Life
On elevating what we see, hear, and believe
I am sitting at my desk, a repurposed old wooden kitchen island that at times pulls my sweater with its rough edges. It is worn, but I am worn, too. Amidst the scattered papers (to read, to fill out, to file, to burn) are dried poppy seed heads and lavender, pretty rocks, miniature homemade books wrapped with twine, a tiny driftwood doll with a knitted dress and felted hat, and photographs of my two beloved grandmothers. Above me on the cedar wall are photos of my babies and butcher block shelves lined with books on botany and herbal medicine. A copper patina candle flickers its scent of orange spice, wafting and blending with the logs burning in the wood stoves nearby.
This is where I come to bleed words onto a page, to embrace the pilgrimage into this liminal space between exhaustion and contentment, hoping that my offering will somehow reveal land ahead. As a full time mother and homemaker, however, hardly a dozen words come to the page befor…