Autumn at the ocean

September is the beginning of our favorite time to visit the Oregon coast. Saltwater and sunshine and sandy feet combine in an alchemy of pure joy. The winds are slow and so is time.

This particular September we are choosing rest. Is this possible in the midst of ballet, tap, jazz, modern, Guys and Dolls, piano, voice, sewing... farm work... and schoolwork? I submit that it is possible. At least it's worth trying.

Dear Mr. Suite and I talk a lot about finding balance. He runs an engineering business and serves as a planning commissioner for our county government. He fences (and re-fences) and hauls hay and fixes the farmhouse. I teach school to five students of hugely varied learning styles and giftedness and I keep the house (mostly) and garden (sadly small this year but still) and meals and carpool schedule. I also write grants for a few non-profits and squeeze in the occasional writing and photography that fills my heart. So there's that.

Our teens are intensely involved in community and children's and public school theaters. They dance at two different studios that are 25 miles apart. One is dedicated to ballet and one loves modern and tap. One is training horses and dogs and one is showing rabbits. Our younger children have pets and piano lessons and passions of their own. The Lego budget. The book budget. The gas budget. 

And the time and energy budget. I'm just saying.

We used to have an unofficial family motto, spoken somewhat in jest: "Work hard, play hard." Most famously, my exceedingly hardworking husband once declared in a time of exhaustion, before a 9-hour-drive to see a baseball game: "We. Will. Recreate."

In a slight divergence from that I propose: "We. Will. Rest."

We will rest in the moments between tap and rehearsal. We will rest in the knowledge that a great thirst for knowledge and discovery is a much better educator than is a proficient lecturer. We will rest and realize that sometimes good enough is truly enough, that perfectionism is a pit that separates us from joy and from others. We will rest knowing that the waves come in, the waves go out. The wind calms in autumn.

And there is a season for rest.

How do you find rest? Is it a principle or a practice? Or both?

Playing catch (up)

How was your summer vacation?

I'm taking it as a sign of a good summer that I am, once again, not ready. Last week at the swimming hole I sat with a friend watching the children splash about picking blackberries from the overhanging vines. Feet in the cool water, with pebbles massaging our toes and the laughter of eight or nine swimmers entertaining our ears, we watched the first of the turning leaves float to the water's surface and skim downstream. Our shady spot will be exposed to the autumn sky in a month or two.

But we'll be inside with books and tablets and schedules to make the gas gauge sigh.

How not to make a two-month catch-up letter a series of "been there, done that?' How to capture the feeling of summer? We took some drives. We splashed in the creek and swam in our "secret" swimming hole. We went to a big family wedding in the redwoods and we went to the movies with friends.

Madeleine stretched her musical theatre skills with singing/dancing/acting camps and Sarah attended a ballet intensive and a melodrama performance camp. The big girls were in our local heritage parade too, on the Storybook Theatre float. Sarah was the blue fairy from Pinocchio, reprising her role from last spring's performance. Maddy was Tiger Lily and Grace was a mermaid, both from Peter Pan. I broke three sewing machine needles on Grace's costume but she glittered like an undersea princess. Salvador and Laura caught a lot of candy and waved at all the floats. I ran after the Storybook float with my camera and Mr. Suite was impressed with my speed in pursuit of the photo.

Then! Grace worked on a new quilt top and on her model horse barn. Mr. Suite bought her a miter saw and she uses it with more confidence than do I. Grace and Laura won ribbons at the fair. Grace exhibited a blue-ribbon bookhouse and her handmade puppet collection, also a blue ribbon winner. Laura showed a Lego coffee delivery boat of her own design (blue!) and her pony collection (red).

The whole family plus some friends hung out at the fair and watched the steam engine demonstrations. We ate caramel corn and drank lemonade and I regretted that but not in the baking hot moment.

Mr. Suite and I had a few date nights. We celebrated our anniversary -- 22 years -- with a Tom Petty concert where almost every song made me feel younger. We hiked the mountain above our house a few times and took photos at the river bar where he grew up and learned to drive. We drove over a floating bridge and visited farm stands and old haunts and longtime friends.

On the pet front, Laura has two guinea pigs. I am informed they are not rodents. Charlie the Spaniel took a brief vacation with another family whose mama works at the self-sustainability workshop on our road. He went camping by the lake and then came home and we were very, very glad. Murphy the Bernese went up the mountain with Maddy and Mr. Suite on a hike and came back down in the Suburban. I understand the hip joint pain.

Maddy and Sam cut new trails in the woods above our pasture. We made hay in record amounts and two teen boys with more energy and bigger appetites than imaginable helped get all eight tons in the loft before it rained. We picked blackberries and visited friends. We hosted a mini craft and swimming day camp for friends. We took some more drives. I am gathering rose hips for wreaths and tea. I am gathering the school books and calendars and my wits for another year of sharp pencils and sharper minds.

Pictures of a (legendary?) fall

I bought a little secondhand espresso machine over the weekend.

I'm going to save money. It's been bad for the budget, Dutch Bros. moving to town, and the girls' dance classes six days a week and the lack of sleep and all.

I grit my teeth and choose contentment, sticking fingers in ears to deny a negative word. La la la I can't hear you. Because I'm mature like that.

Not long after, not so very much later, forced smiles relax into reality. I see the beauty directly in front of me.

 Oh, Jane. Your portrait does not do you justice.

 The man whose sign proclaims irrigation automation. His name is Greene. And that makes me smile bigger.

We stomp down the leaves after they've fallen. Our grass is so green here! Even in a drought year we didn't use the irrigation system in the front lawn at all. (Apologies to Mr. Greene.) Then the leaves head for the compost mountain.

 Sal and Laura and I get a lot of time to appreciate the bajillion of covered bridges around here while the big girls are at dance. I (used to) carry a Dutch Bros. mocha while we played. Covered Bridge Capitol they say. There's a plaque and a sign and everything.

The hens don't venture out until the mist leaves the hillside. See that little, itty bitty hop vine there? So much for covering the henhouse in one season. I also planted lavender. But Jane thinks lavender and geraniums are for her. Breakfast lunch and dinner. Baaaaad sheep.

Shades of grey. Rated G.

 (Have not read those books. I just think I'm funny. Don't mind me; acting ridiculous cheers me up when I have to make my own mochas.)

 I have a soft spot for pumpkins on ladders. Funnily enough some of my ladders I pulled out of burn piles and trash heaps. Repeatedly. A-hem. Then the cucumbers climb them all summer before the autumn squash take up residence. We also use old dry-rotted wooden ladders for roosting rungs in the chicken yard and henhouse. I have seen some clever people make rustic - shabby? farmchic? steampunk? what is this steampunk? - bookcases. I can never. never. never have enough bookcases. But I also like to stay married so the wooden ladders stay outside.

 We are building a library, which will decidedly NOT have rustic ladder shelving, up in the attic. Got a little sidetracked by plumbing disasters between the pump and the house. And again between the pump and the barn. Then most recently by some cottage-style built-in beds for the teen girls. Oh and we can't forget the stair rail, the upstairs bath reno, the tiny back yard studio remodel. Multitasking makes for a lot of projects nearly there. And the library is the furthest from "there."

 We never have enough photos of Madeleine and Sarah anymore.

And I thought I might bore you with sunflower pictures this summer -- I took hundreds! We cut down dozens and dozens to dry but left a few for the birds, who flit around and weigh the blossoms down while they have an October snack. I walk as quietly as I can but they don't stay for a portrait. Sort of like my teenagers.

Can you tell I'm overcaffeinated? The unintended side effect of frugality, my friends.

Filters

 Things these weeks have seemed a little fuzzy and out of focus.

But then I decided my "forgettyhead" self (5-year-old Laura's word for me, thankyouverymuch), otherwise known as scatterbrained and/or distracted easily by the light through a forgotten red chard plant, can also be described as creative and spontaneous.

 Madeleine went to her first school dance and looked ah-mazing. Her group of friends is a blessing and I know this word is somewhat overused but I really, truly mean it: each of those girls and guys makes me giddy with gratitude that we get to know them and watch them move through their own teen years. Because really, it's healing to know that friendship and loyalty survive the texting-crazed generation.

I rewrote a bit of my own biography in my head, watching my daughter walk confidently in heels and a little black dress. Where do they get these pieces of themselves so apparently foreign to nature or nurture? The confidence, I'm telling you, it kills me.

 You know what else slays me?

Foggy October mornings. Six dentist appointments in one week. Being out of loose tea. Sudden urges to tear up carpet during history class at the home school table.

You know, the unexamined life would probably benefit me a little.

 Is that out of focus or just dreamy? Still deciding. Which reminds me, this week brings three doctor appointments and a new optometrist appointment in addition to the twelve dance classes, two singing lessons (rescheduled and I can't remember why), one flute and one piano lesson. Last week was the dentist. I'm pretty sure. You can't overestimate my forgettyhead.



In theory I love this time of year.

The true New Year of academics, this autumn time. Also not the time to be out of soothing herbal tea.

Backup. No, back up.

 I don't write here very often or very regularly but every once in a while I remember the days -- do any of you? -- when I wrote many times a week. When my teens were small and I made a lot of doll clothes and organic purees. Thanks to the "you may also enjoy" feature that I somehow managed to add to the blog I sometimes see a baby picture of a toothless Laura, who is now 5 years old and reading, writing, running (our lives) or a paragraph or two about how Grace, now 9 and a pianist, seamstress and outdoor enthusiast, loved to play "finger family" and had named all of her digits and assigned them specific personalities and habits. Being the middle child in a family of five must make for a creative kid.

 When I blogreminisce like that I get a little frisson of panic, you know? Not just the passing of the years but the sheer volume of digital/electronic/interwebby family history I document here and notsomuch in a physical scrapbook.

For instance, Salvador,turning 3 this week, was photographed in the palm of his daddy's hand just days home from the hospital. Now he is a member of the hay crew. Well, with crayons and a hot dog in the tow vehicle. But still. (B)logged here.

 Our relationships with dear neighbors at the church-home of my heart, blogged here. Our ups and downs with barrel racing, horses, free range children, penned-up chickens, lonely ewe lambs and dearly departed Golden Retrievers. Blogged here.

 Might I take a side road, just a minor detour, to introduce to you Harold and Linda, our neighbors at the new FarmSuite homestead? He is 86 and still making hay. She is "in her 70s" and still riding along. (Blogworthy.)

My girls' theatrical and dance escapades, all chronicled in photos and a minimum of whining about the price of gas and the late hours of rehearsal.

                                      
When considering the massive volume of valuable-to-me farmy and not-so-farmy Suite family history I today undertook the BLOG BACKUP. Dun-dun-dunnnnnn.

It was a three-click procedure that didn't preserve the photos within the posts. But still. Have you backed up your blog lately? I bet your children and your vegetables and your life -- all growing. And if any of y'all or your tech-savvy friends know how to back up the blog without losing the photos, would you be so kind as to share that information with me?

Because I blogged here about backing up a horse trailer and I might need to refer to that one day.

In non-technical news, the garden is ENORMOUS. We are eating salads every day, twice a day, and watching the corn and beans grow before our eyes. I am excited about the coming tomato harvest (almost afraid to say it, just a little superstitious) and have set up a canning kitchen on the back patio since our new cooktop is glass. The hay is in and it was a somewhat disappointing bale count compared to last year. We are very grateful to be able to make our own hay but it does look like we'll be buying some to supplement this year as a springtime drought kept the grass from growing.

Feels like being a farmer.

Madeleine and Sarah are halfway through a three-week break from ballet and they walk around the house on demi-pointe all day to keep their, what, feet flexible? balance intact? I dunno. We are looking forward to a drama camp and some dance camps and a lot of swimming in the river this summer. Also a lot of garden produce.

I hope your June is blessed and, backing up a bit, that you make time to back up your blog.

In the weeds, 2013 edition

So this year my vegetable garden is enormous. Sixty feet of green beans, thirty feet of carrots. Cabbages and tomatoes and corn oh my. Basil for year-round pesto, if I get my way.

In my heart I think I am a raised-bed-square-foot gardener but as of last year we became (spectacularly badly) farmers. With gorgeous, enormous beds-o-weeds. Because chemicals, not so much. (And don't get me started on genetically modified anything. We cannot afford that rant.)

So anywhat this year my father-in-law has very diplomatically put himself in charge of weed control. And because of that there is probably some hope for our row crops.
Let's just say that after last year, the expression "hard row to hoe" means a lot to me. I am demoted to the care of my gorgeous raised beds, which I filled with the herbs and tomatoes and peppers after I shoveled on the compost. Mah-self.
Oh and I am also responsible for the two-hundred-square-foot (or so) perennial garden which is packed with heirloom peonies, daylilies, roses and irises and of course weeds. On that front my history is repeating itself to the extent that a neighbor girl stopped and offered to weed it for me.

I think she might've wanted to be paid.

And since my own teenagers and pre-teens are much cheaper labor (they work for popsicles) I thanked her kindly but declined, whereupon she proceeded to join my children on the redneck slip-n-slide they made out of a tarp on the hill behind the house. While I went in to put some more juice and yogurt in the popsicle molds just in time for them to freeze for the end of the sprinkler festival.

So I still have weeds.

Which brings me to the metaphorical point of this post.

When a girl, say someone I know well, takes on too much (dance lesson delivery six days a week for four girls; the care and toilet training of one toddler boy; voice, flute, sewing and piano one per customer per week; equestrian and farm animal insanity daily; academics at the table and on the run; "side jobs" of a onetime, long-neglected, true love: writing and editing; occassional clerical and administrative details of her husband's engineering business) and won't admit it that it is too much, or can't edit it down to manageable levels of crazy, when this happens to the extent that she doesn't even care about massive overuse of the comma, well, then, this girl may have cause to understand the phrase "in the weeds."

Some days I can't see the flowers of my life for the weeds. I'm just sayin'. At those times I know I must sharpen my focus and choose to see only the beauty amongst the chaos. Because the need for a floor-length black gown for a vocal recital shouldn't reduce one to tears. And showing up on the wrong day for a doctor appointment shouldn't cause a panic attack.

So. Focus on the beauty and let the rest recede into blurry background. Easier said than done, you say? And you'd be correct.

I started researching panic disorders and adrenal failure and in general regretted having access to the internet before I remembered that when cleaning out a flowerbed, just as in cleaning out a closet, or a schedule, it is best to start with what you want to keep.

What brings me joy, what can I not do without, what is worthy of my time and the space in my life? These are the questions I have asked myself periodically to regain a sense of margin and peace about our schedules and our lives. NOT "who expects me to continue this" and "what will happen if I don't do that."

Then, after identifying the keepers, the perennials that bloom, attack it with a sharp hoe. And mulch it all around so the weeds can't creep back in too quickly. Don't forget to ask for help if you need it. Don't let it go for so long that the taproots of busy-ness are impossible to dig.

Notes to myself on gardening and life.

If I were a gardener

 If I were a gardener I'd probably wait until the last frost date to plant those tomatoes.

 But two weeks of 80 degree days and 50 degree nights and I. just. could. not. wait.

The garden is bigger this year than last. We (the famous "royal we")
tore out the fence between the Hill at Bag End (anyone?)

and the garden in order to expand into the sunniest areas.

For reference, the fence used to be on the left side of this photo.

The fence you still see separates the horse paddock from the garden.

At least until some equine with a long neck and
a lot of determination needs a snack of corn.

There is really no way to move our garden to another area on the property
(at least without a good deal of expense and
also shuffling the chicken yard or children's play yard)
but we could and did capture a little more sunny footage for the corn and beans.

A new fence may or may not go up on the west end. I kind of like that open feeling. The deer may like it too.

 The original homesteaders here cleared (read: clear cut) the steep hillside to the back of the garden and horse paddocks. They operated a sawmill on our creek and some of the stumps are so huge (and ugly) that they have not rotted in all those decades. We are slowly replanting that hillside on the "back yard/garden" side but we have not decided what to do about the hill on the "horse" side.

Stay tuned because a good idea is bound to emerge.

Between other projects. And dance lessons. A-hem.

Composted manure enriches our raised beds and traditional tilled gardens. Amazing stuff, and free. Last year we had to purchase soil to fill the newly built raised beds because we weren't ready to use the previous owner's compost. I would not like to have to pay money again for what seemed to be mostly wood fiber.

 A very old grapevine that we discovered in the mown lawn is flourishing on its one-year-old arbor. Last year we even harvested grapes! That was a blessing to me because I was loathe to leave behind our gorgeous grape arbor at the old farmhouse. Similarly here we uncovered a 40-foot row of raspberries that were choked with grass just beyond the beautiful existing strawberry bed.

It is a happy report that the raspberries are looking great this spring as are three young blueberry plants that the sweet sellers planted not too long before we moved in.
To that berry garden we added three additional blueberry plants,
a gift from friends with a nursery, and two currant bushes.

My lavender at the front door is huge! Last year it was root-bound in a four-inch pot; this year it is competing with the already-in-residence purple columbines. Soon both will fade and be replaced by the squeal-worthy peony show.
A girl's gotta have flowers. And the odd Grecian statuette.

Are you gardening this year?

Taking root

 A few of the leotards I cut and serged (sort of -- still learning my new serger) for the Spring Show.

 The bucket goes up.

 Hummingbirds love columbines. Who knew?

 Catching the bees on their way back home on a cool evening.

 Exploring the countryside near our new farm.

 With some requisite goofing around.

 Our creek is so thoughtful as to have kicked up a huge hollow log for reclining.

 All the men in their coveralls.

That's what a new tractor transmission looks like before it gets dirty in the garden.

I'm still a writer.

I'm just not acting like it at the moment.

It occurs to me that I have at the minimum big(gish) family to feed and clothe and transport and teach, a small farm to weed and water, a (home)school to administer and a self to nurture. And most of the time I forget that these beautiful responsibilities and privileges are time-consuming. I still think I can do it all. This list, the good and the great, is filling and overflowing my cup as of late. And then I realize "of late," this season, has lasted a while. Possibly I need to readjust my expectations. I don't have time to reflect or to notice whether I'm having relocation issues, transition stress, whathaveyou. So if I use this site as a place to throw it all on the proverbial chalkboard for future reflection and dissection, would that be all right with you?



How has life's busy-ness been treating you?