Snowdrops and Ice

Whew. It’s January, isn’t it? Feels pretty cold here. The blog I had planned to write was about snowdrops coming up through the icy ground and maybe there’s still something there, but to be honest, I’m not really in the mood to talk or think about gardening right now.

As cold as it is, it feels like the world is on fire. I write and read enough about history to have some context for this moment. The world often feels like it’s burning down. Whether it’s war or pandemic or weather, this is an uncertain place we live it. But up til now, in my lifetime at least, it hasn’t felt like there’s this much brinksmanship.

I was talking to a friend this morning and she said something that stuck with me: when two opposing forces meet, neither one will back down and each will just increase the pressure, until…

Neither of us know what the until is. And I don’t see how the pressure can decrease. On the one side, there’s a bunch of army rejects who have been raised to believe that northern cityfolk are traitors and are enjoying the idea of putting them in their place. On the other side, there are residents who are committed to protecting their neighborhood from violence and chaos, as much as that is possible.

But the images are enough to break your heart. That little boy in the blue hat.

When my children were in early elementary, one of the first volunteer gigs I had was to sit with kids while they practiced their reading. For two hours a week, I would go in and listen to them sound out words. Sometimes they would cry. It broke my heart but it was okay. Learning to do hard things is hard and frustration is normal. Usually we’d work through it and finish the book. Sometimes we’d set it aside for another day.

When they got older, I volunteered to help with math facts. Addition and subtraction memorization, mostly. In order to move up a level, they had to get thirty problems right in a minute. Some kids really struggled, especially with the timer. Sometimes they would cry. That’s okay. Performing under pressure is stressful. Usually, I would tell them just to practice and I wouldn’t time them. But secretly I did, and they almost always passed without the pressure of the timer. But sometimes we’d have to set it aside for another day.

The world is hard for children without us making it any harder. And we are making this world harder for them. I know that there’s nothing that will convince ICE agents that what they’re doing is wrong. It’s pretty clear they like treating those children like that. All I can say is that I agree with Gov. Arnold Schwartzenegger on this when he said that hate “eventually consumes whatever vessel it fuels.” I really hope so.

But for the rest of the people who see this and say “We need more context.” or “Isn’t there nuance?”, or “They shouldn’t have broken the law!” – we all need to be honest with ourselves. Facing that our country can do these things is terrifying. It’s hideous. And once we face it, we have to deal with it and that means doing something and then we’re faced with our own powerlessness. And that’s almost impossible to tolerate.

The truth is almost unbearable:

We live in a world where bad men can steal innocent children and there’s not much we can do about it. We must stare this fact in the face with all the courage we can muster.

And then we need to focus on the most important two words in that sentence. “Not much.” Because not much ain’t nothing. And a lot of us have been doing a lot for a long time. God, aren’t you so damn tired? Me too.

But then I remember those kindergarteners who used to read to me, those third graders who struggled over times tables. That little boy could have been one of them. And it doesn’t really seem to matter how tired I am. There’s work to be done.

I’m sorry I couldn’t find it in me to write a treatise on snowdrops this month, like I had planned. May you and your neighbors stay safe in these dark, dark times.

Expectations and Unexpected Joy

I think I’ve probably watched two dozen Hallmark movies in the last three weeks. Most of the time, my kids will wander in after homework is over, invite me to snuggle and probably reflexively turn on one of the many, many options on offer. They’re teenagers now, so I’m not about to refuse to spend time with them, given how busy they are. Although, if I were being honest, I’d probably choose something else to watch. I’ve seen a lot of variations on the ‘falling in love at Christmas’ story. I enjoy them, I really do, but they always meet my expectations…exactly.

Authors and editors talk a fair amount about meeting genre expectations. That is to say, when a reader picks up a certain type of book, they bring with them certain preconceptions about how the story is going to go. If it’s a romance, they’re going to get together at the end. If it’s a mystery, the good guy will catch the bad guy. If it’s a coming of age novel, the main character will grow and face the world with new vigor and wisdom.

Sometimes genre expectations are subverted and, if it’s done well, that story becomes one that you think about for a long time afterwards. For example, in The Usual Suspects, it’s only in the last scene that you discover that the main character (and you) have been tricked. Sometimes, you think a book is in one genre only to realize midway through that it’s in another. Again, if it’s done well, this can be a thing of beauty, or at least fascination. La La Land is a controversial movie in our home, because half of us think of it as a romance (and are therefore disappointed in the ending) and half of us think of it as a coming of age movie (and therefore the bittersweet finale is just perfect).

And sometimes an author subverts expectations only to fulfill them again but in a richer, more meaningful way. In Saving Private Ryan, the men fight through hell (and their own disillusionment) to rescue Private Ryan, just for him to refuse to abandon his fellow soldiers. In the end, they complete their mission to keep him safe, but not for some PR stunt, but rather because, he, like them, shows the same devotion to his mates as they did.

Hallmark movies do none of this. And that’s ok. Neither do most of the movies we watch or books we read. And on a cold Thursday night, it’s nice to sit with a cup of tea and a story that ties everything up in a bow. Goodness knows it’s nice to watch a happy ending.

But the unexpected can also bring such surprising joy with it. I’m sitting by the window as I write this and no less than fifteen birds just came to sit in our lilac bush. I don’t know what kind they were; they didn’t stay long enough. They descended as a flock and left as a flock, a small bit of unexpected joy to lighten up a grey afternoon.

This is a time of year when festivity is expected. It’s anticipated, and traditions anchor us to both the past and the future. To some extent, the same foods, same songs, and same decorations are the Hallmark movies of life. They bring us warmth and good memories, and a sense of home and comfort.

But I would wager that the best moments of this holiday season might also be the least expected. The gift you’d forgotten you wanted. The quiet moment of connection that couldn’t possibly have been planned. The unexpected Christmas card that reminds us that we are more loved than we know.

May we all embrace the beauty of this time of year, both that which we lovingly craft and that which surprises us with its abundance.

Meat and Gravy

I’m trying to put some thoughts on paper here today, but my cat disagrees. The laptop is taking up valuable lap space she feels entitled to, and my compromise of putting the computer on top of her is apparently not acceptable. I don’t blame her. It’s a rainy day and there’s nothing better than a good couch nap on a rainy day. Unless it’s a couch nap with a cat by your side.

Work has been going unusually well for me lately. Generally, the writing portions of my job are a bit a rollercoaster. Euphoria at intriguing ideas often falls to frustration when they don’t pan out. Some moments the words flow so fast I remind myself to enroll in a typing class to brush up on my skills. Other moments, I start ten sentences in a row with the same word and can’t remember a single synonym to save my life. It’s the meat of the job, though, and so it is both filling and occasionally gristly.

The editing is the kale and broccoli. Good for me, essential even, but far from my favorite Without it, though, the meal is too heavy and all tastes like just the one thing. Editing brings variety and brevity. It encourages me to get out of familiar ruts and figure out how to make even the most mundane of sentences into something worth eating…um, I mean, reading.

This asks the question then, what is the dessert in this meal? The part I long to savor, that I think about after I’m done for the day. For me, it’s the plotting and planning. The research and brainstorming. The weeks before the writing begins where anything can happen and I don’t know yet what will slam up against the unpleasant reality of sentence structure and narrative flow.

Luckily for me, I’m required to eat my dessert first. Every book starts with research. With reading lots of nonfiction, listening to podcasts on history and botany and culture. Poring over old images from museum websites, trying to figure out how to fit this story into that setting. It’s fun. More than fun. It’s joyful work.

But like dessert, it’s not the bulk of it. When you begin to write books, lots of people come out of the woodwork to tell you that they have an idea for a book, and they plan to write one. Every time, I think the same thing, and sometimes say it.

“You should do that.”

And I mean it. Not only because I think more creativity is almost always a good thing, but because the writing of a book is a transformative experience. The idea is important, but it’s just the first step. Like most hard things, it’s when I’m knee deep in a plot that won’t work, which characters who have become caricatures, and a premise that wasn’t quite robust enough – that’s when I need to dig in and do the real work.

And to finish my Thanksgiving analogy, that’s when gravy really helps to get the turkey down. The gravy for me? That’s the support of the people I love. Who won’t ask me to talk about work unless I want them to. Who will then listen for an hour and then offer a suggestion that I reject immediately, but which leads me onto a different, better, path. Who, in the end, show me cat videos to lift my spirits when I emerge from my work tired and frustrated.

During this Thanksgiving month, I’m reminded that it isn’t just what other do for us that matters; it’s also what others help to do for ourselves. How the people who believe in us hold that torch shining so when we’re discouraged, we have something to guide us back into believing in ourselves. For that, on this day, I give thanks.

Alpine Strawberries

Last spring, Forrest completed the long and arduous task of clearing out an overgrown forsythia bush. When we first moved into our house nearly sixteen years ago, the property along the road was filled with a beautiful and healthy forsythia. One of my first memories as a new mother was telling people to turn at the house with the wall of yellow flowers alongside it. Over the next decade, the forsythia held out against an onslaught of ivy and invasive blackberries. It would still bloom, but I struggled against the thorny vines. We would do what we could, but with a swiftly growing family, time was limited.

It's not so limited any more, so Forrest set to work. He pulled out piles of vines and chopped them into pieces for our own little hügelkultur experiment. The forsythia got most of the land, but off to the side, we buried the composting vines under a covering of cardboard and a heap of topsoil. On top of that, we began to place rocks.

Our yard has never been short of rocks, and eventually, we’d gathered enough to build a rockery. One afternoon, Forrest and I sat outside and placed them all in our aspiring rock garden. All that was left was to plant something in it.

I got to work researching what would grow in a spot we were unlikely to water or fertilize. What plants like living in dry, poor soil, out in the sun with little space to expand? The answer was resounding: alpine species. The ground cover that dots the hills of Austria and Switzerland. These species are often extremely hardy, drought tolerant, and good at finding a niche.

So, in March, we started some alpine strawberries and creeping thyme in a tray in our kitchen. Usually plans are ready to go out in less than a month. Eight weeks later, spring had fully sprung and it was time for them to go out, whether or not they wanted to. I had fifty plants, each the size of a quarter. Forrest and I set them out on a sunny May morning, gave them a good watering, and promptly forgot about them.

It wasn’t until August that I remembered to check on them. You’ll imagine my surprise when not only did those little plants survive, but in fact held a dozen of the tiniest, most delicious berries you could ever taste! And they haven’t stopped. Not through our smoky September or rainy October. They’re still producing to this day.

Even with fifty plants, I never get more than a handful of berries. They’re small, fingertip sized, and picking them has none of the satisfaction of harvesting baskets of tomatoes or shovelfuls of potatoes. And certainly nothing beats the productivity of zucchini. These strawberries are for snacking. For picking a few when I’m out for a walk. A nice treat when we arrive home after a long day.

And it’s that, in particular, that makes those little alpine berries so special. They pack all the flavor into a small punch, leaving you always wanting more. And more will always come. Just not today. I have to wait until tomorrow, until the next walk, and hope that this isn’t yet the end of the season.

And when the season does end, which it inevitably will, I will have nothing but gratitude for the plants that grow where nothing but weeds would, and turned what was once a thorny mess into one of the best moments of my day.

Autumn Cleaning and Lights in the Dark

Autumn has fallen upon us and I’m feeling far more melancholy about it than I usually do. Most Octobers, I am excited. Excited for the return to cozy evenings and delicious foods. Excited to see friends after adventurous summers and hectic Septembers. Excited to dive back into work, all the transitions and travels behind us.

But this year, I wanted summer to go on. I wasn’t ready to start up the routines again. Something about this year was too adventurous, with all of us going in separate directions. There weren’t enough lazy days. Not enough afternoons at the lake, not enough mornings spent lingering over breakfast. And now, we’re all praying for rain to end smoke season.

The changing of the seasons has always been a place of grounding for me. Even as I child, I would take stock of what I had done and what I wanted for the season laid out before me. And so, I suppose, despite my desire for summer to continue, I need to figure out what autumn has to offer me this year, at this stage of my life.

In every year, autumn promises to gently move us into darkness and hopefully contemplation. It ends with festivals of light and, almost immediately, a new year with new promise. It is an outward representation of the reality that we must let go of old things before the new can come.

At this stage of life, I find myself letting go of a lot of old things. We recently cleaned out our garage and ruthlessly got rid of a decade of toys, booster seats, kid-sized life jackets and kayaks, and a million little socks and coats and rain boots. It was time. My kids are nearly full-grown now, with feet larger than mine. We need room for the new things – the hobbies that Forrest and I now have time to pursue. As I tossed yet another box of stuffed animals into the charity bin, I felt a pang. There was a moment in time when these seemed like the most important items in the world. And now? They’re off to be sold for a few dollars.

It makes me wonder. What are the things that seem so important to me right now, that in a decade, I will discard with a mere moment’s thought? Not just possessions, but routines, relationships, aspirations. The tasks between here and there seem so large: launching our children into the world, navigating emerging health issues, and figuring out what to do with the rest of my life.

But the tasks ten years ago seemed pretty big, too. And I had no way then to know how we would manage. You could say I was in the dark. But there were little lights along the way, guides that came in the form of friends and books, and even the occasional Instagram post.

Yesterday, I ran into an acquaintance I hadn’t seen in a few years. She’s a few steps further along on this path. I mentioned I’d be reaching out to her in a few years, when I’m ready to pick her brain on how to help my medically complicated children in their transition to college. So there’s another little light, I suppose, waiting to help me when I need it.

I’ll admit it. I miss summer. The seasons changed too fast for me. I miss slow days and going with the flow. But I wouldn’t stay there for the world. There’s too much up ahead. Even if I can’t quite see what it is yet.

Dog Days and Slowing down

Whew. We’re in the middle of the dog days of summer here, and I have to say, I’m certainly feeling the heat. At the beginning of school vacation, my kids and I had all sorts of plans. Over the last few days though, things have begun to slow down. Mornings start later, big adventures are scrapped in favor of picnics at the beach, and we’ve definitely had a few nights of pasta with jarred sauce when it’s just too hot to cook.

The garden is the same. There’s always plenty to do, but during some of these sunny afternoons, all I’m up to is picking the many, many zucchini and making sure the watering system is still running. It’s not even that hot! I’m just worn out.

I suppose there’s good reason. We got through the gauntlet of the end of the school year, just to jump into travels and visits, and then into getting ready for summer camp. And now it’s over and there are a few weeks of nothing. We were on a treadmill that all of a sudden is standing still.

But even as I’m standing still, I’ve realized how pleasant it can be. In a house with three teens, there are a lot fewer parenting requirements. Which leaves room for moving slower. For taking the time to try the tik-tok famous Watermelon Smoothie. For hosting campfires with a million friends at the drop of a hat. For running to the thrift store just because.

Last week, at ten p.m., my eldest asked Forrest and I if we wanted to go for a walk. To be honest, I’d been in my pajamas since 8:30 and had already brushed my teeth. But when a fifteen-year-old asks to spend time with me, I try not to say no. I remember a few years ago when the gravity in our relationship seemed to shift from parent to child. I remember realizing that if I didn’t make her a priority, she wasn’t going to make me one either.

So I slipped on my crocs and went outside, pajamas and all. The sun was just setting behind the trees (yes, at 10:00 pm. Seattle is weird). The bugs were out in full force, but other than that, our suburban streets were deserted. And we didn’t talk about anything important at all. But we talked. And we took a few extra turns to extend the walk a little longer.

And when we got back, we each went to do our own things. But now, looking back, I realize that by doing less, what we’re actually doing is choosing to leave space. Space for connection. Space for rest. Space for conversation.

My only hope is that I can remember that I’ve got the rest of the year to get things done. Right now, right here, my job is simple: to slow down enough to enjoy each day as it comes. Maybe not the easiest thing in the world, but I’ve worked harder to do much less pleasant jobs. So, if you’re looking for me, I’ll be outside laying in the hammock.

Fuchsia

The girls and I went to a plant nursery yesterday. We had planned to go in and get exactly one plant. We left with ten. I want to be angry about it, but I was just as excited as they were, and there is something charming about a bunch of teenagers making jokes about not having enough “thyme” at home.

We’re replacing a butterfly bush that died in the heat wave a few years ago. I say died, but it held on for a few more months, before giving up the ghost over the next winter. Eventually, we cut down the dried husk, and even more eventually, Forrest and the twins yanked the stump out of the ground. (I was away from home with our eldest and called home to check in. They mentioned that they’d recreated the Bluey episode “Stumpfest” without elaborating. I spent the rest of the weekend wondering which stump they’d been talking about and if there would now be one less tree than I remembered. Such is life with those three.)

Shortly after we removed the dead plant, we traveled to the U.K. and took a long walk through Kew Gardens. There, my kids saw a hardy fuchsia and fell in love. They were determined to have one. Unfortunately, our local nursery went out of business and I haven’t been able to find one at the grocery store. So their persistent requests have gone unanswered.

Still, yesterday was a muggy, cloudy summer day and everyone was in a bad mood, so I thrust all of us into the car to go find a new nursery. Within fifteen minutes, we’d gotten out of town and into the rural area north of us, where my kids began pointing out “alpacas!” and “cows!” We pulled into our destination and the grumpiest of the three said, “I want to live here.” Me too, kid, me too.

We walked to the first table of plants, where I immediately saw a hardy fuchsia. Bish bash bosh, job done. We could have gone straight to the checkout, job done. Of course, we didn’t. The four of us wandered and dreamed and looked at tags and eventually left with way more than we anticipated. Some hydrangeas for a neglected back corner, a few beardstongue for my cottage garden (since the coneflowers aren’t cooperating), and yes, some creeping thyme for ground cover around the fuchia.

I would like to tell you that everyone was in an excellent mood for the rest of the day. But I have three teenagers and not even a trip to a quaint and well-supplied nursery will banish all complaints. Still, once we got home, everyone went their separate ways for a while, eager to plant and, maybe, to have a bit of solitude.

As for me? I enjoyed a cup of tea with the spare time (and thyme).

Book News! (ish)

Hi!

I know I’ve been MIA of late. I’ve been deep in book writing, and as always, it takes longer than I want it to. It’s frankly annoying how long it takes. And writing the book takes precedence over writing the blog most days. But summer is coming and oddly, with that there is less overall time and more writing time, since I have fewer obligations (read: chauffeur duties). I hope to be blogging more.

But to keep myself accountable to some schedule, and to keep people updated, I’m introducing the gold standard of author marketing staples: an email newsletter. It’ll only come out once a quarter and will include book updates, a quick blog post, and some bonus content from either the Mud Witch universe or the Hellebore Society universe.

If you’re interested, you can sign up at the bottom of this page or on the homepage of my website. I promise not to spam you or sell your data. The only other thing I may use this list for is to send out purchasing details in the week before I release a book (so, one additional email a year). I usually run price promotions then and I don’t want you to pay full price if the book’s going to be discounted the next day anyway!

This will be the best place to hear book news from me, although I will do my very best to keep Instagram and Facebook updated. As always, I am delighted and so grateful to everyone who reads my books and supports my work. Thank you for being such a wonderful community of thoughtful people!

Controlled Chaos and Experimental Parenting

Our family has been watching some of the coverage of the Chelsea Flower Show because, although I have three teenagers in the house, I’ve successfully indoctrinated them to be 13 going on 57. Like our own little version of Househunters, we’ve enjoyed critiquing the gardens, imagining what we’d present there, and, most importantly, coming up with ideas for things we could implement at home.

Our house, and by extension, our yard, has always been a laboratory for everyone in our family to try out their ideas. We live in an area that is rapidly urbanizing which means that our little cottagey rambler will someday be torn down to build two McMansions in its place. As sad as that may seem, it’s actually been quite liberating: there is no resale value in the house – the land is far more than the structure. So we can paint our walls how we want, install the tile we want in the bathroom, and build and unbuild whatever backyard landscaping we desire.

This devil-may-care attitude gets combined with a commitment to giving our kids as much agency as we can. My youngest was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes early on and with that came many, many impositions on her. I spent many years downplaying them, but that’s a lie. It is much more onerous and burdensome than you can imagine.

So, because of all of those responsibilities, Forrest and I have done our very best to give our kids as much control as we can over literally everything else. They wear what they want (yes, always, and yes, that did mean that my daughter wore a bathrobe to school every day for five years). Their rooms look how they want (often messy but much more tasteful than I would have imagined). And we let them have a lot of leeway over what deciding what our backyard looks like.

I keep telling them that this is all an experiment and that we, as their parents, might be screwing it all up. But as they age, what I’ve realized is that with that power comes not responsibility, but consideration. They think deeply about what and how they want to use that space. Forrest is always on hand to help but he’s as bad as the rest of them: I left for a four day trip once and came home to a nearly-finished treehouse as well as a small catio.

I’m consistently impressed, but now I wonder why? Human beings, when given the freedom and resources to make their own choices, often make impulsive and extravagant choices at first (ask my kids about the giant hole they dug in the yard – twice). But eventually, the consequences of those choices become clear, and sanity reigns. They realize that as much fun as it is to play in the mud, it’s nicer to play in the grass. And while an elevated slide with a four foot drop onto the ground might seem like a blast, eventually someone gets hurt. (Yes, this did happen, and no, it did not require a visit to the ER).

The key, I think, is to let those consequences have time to become clear. This has been the hardest thing for me. It really is a bit like playing a game of chicken. One time, the twins decided that they wanted wash our deck. Seems good, yes? Except, knowing them, it involved pouring the better part of a bottle of dish soap on the deck, scrubbing for a while, and then getting bored and leaving soapy residue everywhere. It took maybe an hour in the hot sun to make it sticky and terrible, but I just walked right over it to make a cup of tea. It took two hours before they realized that it was sticky and terrible. It took three hours before they realized I was not going to clean it up for them. And, in their own way, with more scrubbing and a hose on full blast and, oh, so many wet towels, the deck got clean. Cleaner than it had been in years.

For some reason, that particular adventure has never been repeated. But my kids did clean the deck for me this spring, while I was in the front yard planting seeds. And this time, they used brooms like a normal person.

People have said that our family is “controlled chaos” before and I think they’re right. But slowly, over time, the control has moved from my hands into theirs. And while this is a grand experiment, I can’t think of any better result than that.

Yarrow

It’s the time of year when I decide what new plants I’m going to try next spring. And this year, among others, I’m experimenting with yarrow. Unlike many of our other experiments, I’m not in any doubt about whether or not it will work. Yarrow seems tailor made for our dry summers - it likes full sun, long days, and near drought conditions.

It also likes poor soil, which I think is a funny term, since a lot of the plants that we like best prefer it. I know that it just means nutrient-poor, but since lavender, rosemary and daylilies all like it, I’ve always smirked a little. In fact, we had a hard time growing lavender for a while, I believe because our soil was too well nourished.

That shouldn’t be a problem for the yarrow. It’s going on the side of our house in an area that can’t really be cultivated for much. Forrest spent the summer and fall ripping out ivy and some kind of thorny vine that had been taken over, and then building some basic beds to contain the plant matter in a hugelkultur set up. He laid half-rotting logs, covered them with pruned branches, then finally, some topsoil. The hope is that over time those logs and branches will break down, but in the meantime, the location of the beds means whatever goes there pretty much has to fend for itself.

So, yarrow it is. I’m interested to see just how little time I can devote to it, given that the rest of the garden will be full of much greedier plants. There is something special about those plants that can look after themselves, like a cat that is happy enough to sit in the sun without constantly needing attention. We give so much adoration to the beautiful but difficult plants, don’t we? The roses that need to be perfectly pruned, the melons that must have gallons of water and hours of sun, the orchids that need special, well, everything. But I delight in the species that find a way. At the lettuce that will grow in the earliest, coldest months. At the garlic that will overwinter, ignoring frosts and rain alike. At the mint, which will take over the whole yard if we’re not careful.

They’re not the stars of the show, that’s for sure. No one is talking about their prize yarrow plants. Still, the sturdiness, resilience and sheer stubbornness of these plants is worth taking a second look at. I’m looking forward to spending a summer doing just that.

Wildfires and Paradoxes

I just read another sad news story in a litany of sad news stories. The wildfires in Los Angeles are still fresh in my mind. Even though we live in one of the wettest areas of the US, our summers are so dry that we also fear the wildfires. So far, the snowpack in the Cascades melts off slowly enough to keep the fire from our doors, but climate change brings the inevitable fear that we, too, will one day run from our house, subjects of an evacuation order.

There’s still time though, and from what I can see, the state government is doing a good job of preparing. Part of that preparation, paradoxically, is controlled burns of the undergrowth throughout the state. For the better part of a century, those in charge believed that any fire should be put out and as a result, our forests are full of fallen trees just waiting to burn. And burn they should, but hopefully not all at once and not when there is wind and drought conditions that will drag them out of control.

This policy is deeply controversial. Every time I read about it in the news, I think of how many of the most important goals in life require us to tolerate those paradoxes. Whenever my girls are struggling with homework, I remind them that in order to become knowledgeable, we must first learn to tolerate feeling dumb. No one ever learned anything by sticking to the easy stuff.

Saying that and doing it are two different things. Tolerating feeling dumb is a hard thing to do, especially in a world where people feel empowered to say the most awful things. And it’s not just learning. How intimidating is it to go to the gym for the first time – out of shape and uncomfortable, walking around and seeing people who look like they were born in a weight room? But there is no other way to fitness than to start when we’re not yet fit.

But if we are willing to tolerate the paradox – the discomfort of “not yet but perhaps soon” – we open up a world of possibilities. It seems to me that one of the keys to life happiness is the willingness to seem dumb, or unfit, or even a bit ridiculous. One foot in the adult recognition of  “not yet” and another in the childlike hope of “perhaps soon.”

I’m not sure what’s bringing up these thoughts today except that when it comes to the state of the world, I, too, am in a place of “not yet but perhaps soon.” We do not yet have a handle on climate change, but perhaps soon we will find the will to make the adjustments we have to. We do not yet have a world that values my daughters as much as it values your sons, but perhaps soon they will all learn that both men and women are better off when the hierarchies are destroyed. We do not yet have a world where the most vulnerable among us are protected, but perhaps soon we will agree that none of us are safe until all of us are safe.

Until that day, though, I’m going to sit in the middle of my paradoxes – studying new knowledge, attempting new skills, making new memories – and remembering my own words: No one ever learned anything by sticking to the easy stuff.

Rhododendrons

We decided to name our house a few summers ago. You know, like Green Gables or Tara or Wuthering Heights. The girls were all in favor of naming it Kitten Manor or something, but in the end, I got my way, and we live in Rhododendron Cottage. I’m still looking for the perfect sign to announce it to our suburban neighborhood. I’m sure people will be confused, or worse, sigh over yet another Dillaway oddity.

I chose Rhododendron Cottage because directly in front of our house is a very large red rhododendron. When it blooms in May (late because it’s on the shady north side), our entire living room basks in the pink reflected light. You can barely see the greenery. When it’s in bloom, the rhododendron also makes noise. Ok, it doesn’t make noise. But it is so covered in bees that you hear the buzzing from a dozen feet away. My children are terrified of being stung, but I am delighted every year. So many pollinators! And they’re so happy!

If it sounds like I’m bragging, I’m not. First, I have done nothing to cause our rhododendron to be so large and productive, except perhaps ignoring it. We barely prune it. We let the fallen leaves rot on the ground. We don’t use fertilizer. Second, here in western Washington it’s not exactly hard to grow rhododendrons. They’re the state flower and they grow nearly everywhere. Just down the road from us is a park that has a huge collection of them. I once saw one towering over a two-story house. It feels like everyone has a rhododendron.

But to us, it’s our rhododendron that’s special. Because it blooms later than most. It blooms only when spring has actually come to our house, to our yard. And it blooms so spectacularly that even the interior of our house is transformed. We can’t ignore it. Whether we’re coming or going, that rhododendron is right there, shouting, “Spring is here!” I love its brashness. There’s nothing delicate or fragile about it.

Maybe that’s why we settled on Rhododendron Cottage in the end. Because our home is all of those things. Brash, sturdy, and probably a little indelicate. Just the way we like it.

Clarity

Now that The Hellebore Society has been out for a week (you can get your copy here if you haven’t yet!) it’s time for me to dive back into the sequel to Mud Witch! I’ve been working on it for a while, but between finalizing The Hel and all the end of year holidays, I honestly can’t wait for some quiet mornings to just…write.

My kids leave early for school these days, which means that if I’m at all diligent, I can be sitting at my table by seven and done with my writing by lunchtime. There is a real beauty in those morning hours and an even more wonderful feeling of accomplishment when I stand up, stretch out, and have time to get outside.

It’s easy for me to forget the importance of the last part. Now that I work primarily from my kitchen table, I can go a whole day without getting outside if I’m not careful. And while that is extremely appealing when I’m warm and comfortable, it’s also extremely bad for me. There’s a tunnel vision that can set in, where the project becomes the only important thing and nothing else really matters. While that is productive, it’s also not very conducive to creativity.

Tunnel vision is what keeps me writing a plot that is no longer working. Tunnel vision is what keeps me banging my head against the desk, trying to make up for the wrong direction by writing prettier words. Tunnel vision is what eventually paralyzes me with self-doubt.

It’s only by stepping away that I gain the clarity to actually do my job. For a long time, I was a work hard, work hard kind of person. Even when I wasn’t working, I would think about work. Perhaps that’s because I’m not always so good at the playing part. It’s easier to do things that feel important and bring a sense of accomplishment. It’s harder, somehow, to choose not to forgo those feelings.

I’m not talking about simply slumping into the couch at the end of the day. That’s easy. I’m talking about stepping away from work and stepping into play. Putting precious commodities, time and energy, into activities that are anything but useful. It feels risky somehow. What if I go to all that effort and it’s not restorative? What if it’s not even fun? What if I make that choice and come back to my desk and I’m no more creative or productive that I was before?

Those questions show the flaw in my thinking, don’t they? The idea that fun, the rest, is only there in order to feed the work. That if I return from my break still mired in tunnel vision then there was no point in taking it at all. What if I looked at things a different way?

What if I do all that productive work to make my fun more satisfying? It sounds bizarre to me, but then I think of working in my garden on hot summer days and sitting down afterwards to drink the best glass of water I’ve ever had. I think of cleaning my house and cooking dinner for friends, just to be able to enjoy sitting with them, knowing that everything is done. Or getting to a Friday night, tired and spent, but ready to sit down with a good book I’ve been wanting to read all week.

Maybe the fun is the point. Maybe if I start thinking about it differently, I’ll remember that I write not just to have the words on the page, but to experience that first, glorious stretch after I stand up and look at a job well done.

Craftsmanship and Consistency

It’s book release day! I’m so excited to share The Hellebore Society with you all and also, to be honest, pretty nervous. It’s a vulnerable thing to put something you made out into the world, isn’t it? Forrest and I have talking about craftsmanship a lot lately. About how strange it is that many of our favorite people in the world just happen to have hobbies that require that combination of skill, artistry, and perseverance. Of course, I doubt they “just happen” to do anything. I think something changes within us when we commit ourselves, however lightly, to the practice of consistent small improvements over time.

I don’t want to wax too poetically about it, but there is a beautiful cycle of creating a concept, then a plan, which moves into production, and then to revision or alterations, and then to an end product, which no craftsperson can help but analyze for tips and tricks for the next time around. That cycle breeds humility and patience, all the more so if it is done for no other reason that love of the craft itself.

Let me be clear, writing books isn’t the quiet place where I learn most of these lessons. Gardening is. People comment positively about our gardens, but we would do it even if no one ever saw them. In fact, I might like it better if they were truly secret, since I would feel more comfortable during the ugly winter months when it really is best to leave last year’s detritus on the ground to rot. I take the lessons I learn there and use them in my books.

Things like working hard and trusting that the work will create its own magic. Or realizing that each season has its own jobs - trying to edit while you’re brainstorming is just as foolish as trying to prune while you’re planting. Or learning that sometimes things don’t work the way I wanted them to, but if I open my eyes, there’re usually something that’s growing more abundantly than I could have imagined.

I’ve watched the woodworkers and painters and crafters in my life learn these same things, but differently. Forrest can tell you that measure twice, cut once is actually measure eight times, cut once, but also that if push comes to shove, you can usually find a way around flaws and mistakes. Most of all, though, I see a steadiness in them. There have been many imperfect projects, yes. But there will be many more chances to perfect, to branch out, and to learn.

In that learning lies the beauty of craftsmanship. I’m releasing the best version of this book that I could. And still, I promise you, if I return in a year or two, I could probably make it better. Gosh, I hope so. I hope I keep getting better at this. So yes, it’s a vulnerable thing, to put my creation out into the world. But it’s a beautiful thing, too. Perhaps the most human thing I know how to do.

Whatever it is, I’m grateful to all the people who helped me get here, and all the people who will take the time to read it. That’s no small gift from you to me – that gift of your time and attention. So to you I say, thanks for reading my words – whether they’re in this blog or in my book. It means the world to me.

Rosebushes

I want to chop down my rosebushes. I’m told I have to wait until midwinter to do it. I’m not sure exactly why but I think it has to do with them going into a less active, more hibernatory stage, and therefore being harmed less by being pruned. To be honest, I don’t really care.

I like roses, in their place. And to me, in their place means in someone else’s carefully cultivated garden. Like grapes, roses seem to require such meticulous cultivation. Painstaking pruning, constant vigilance, and work-intensive trellising. Unlike grapes, roses will stab you.

I did not plant these roses. They came with the house and every year, they take over. We cut them back and they take over again. Why not get rid of them, you ask? Probably for the same reason I do a lot of things: my children. My kids love them. They love eating rose petals in the summer. They love making bouquets of the flowers. They love the way the look and smell and even the way they seem to grow six feet every year.

It’s funny, the things we put up with for the people we love. Forrest and I were watching some old videos last night and we both remarked on how messy our house was. It was ridiculous. He and I have never been the most organized of people, but add in three kids in two years along with all the toys and clothes that entails, and every single surface of our house was covered. I used to feel bad about it. People would comment, remark on it, tell me they couldn’t imagine living in such a small house with so many kids. It hurt then, but now? It was a product of that time. Life was full. Full of work, full of fun, full of stuff. So we put up with it.

And as the kids aged, the stuff disappeared. The art supplies moved out to the garage, where secondhand tables make artists’ workspaces. The toys were traded for laptops and board games, which are both conveniently storable. And while the occasional pile of laundry does build up, there are no more diapers and extra onesies stashed around the house for easy changes. (You forget how you really can’t leave them alone in a room, even if their sibling needs a change. So you learn to stash diapers everywhere, I guess.)

Those roses have been there since the beginning. And even though my kids have had their run-ins with the thorns, every time I talk about pulling them out, they protest. “How could you even think about getting rid of them?” Those roses have been used in a hundred mud pies and secret potions and flower crowns. How could I even think about getting rid of them?

And so, the roses stay. We’ll be cutting them down, of course, pruning them brutally, but roses, contrary plants that they are, like that sort of thing. They’ll grow back again and again and I wonder if, even after my kids are grown and flown, I’ll keep those rosebushes. Just in case they’re home and want to make another bouquet for my kitchen table.

Stories and Second Acts

I’m not sure if you’re truly bored of hearing it yet, but it’s only one week until The Hellebore Society comes out! It’s been a weird few weeks of Christmas festivities interspersed with last minute tasks and then the occasional eye popping remembering of how close that date is! I’ve written a bit about it, but since the release date is soon, I’ve been musing on how this book came to be.

I woke up one night two years ago with a book title in my head. “The Middle-Aged Heroes of the Magpie Society.” It came to nothing, as so many late-night thoughts do, but it niggled at me. In stories, heroes are at their most mighty when they’re young and energetic. But, as important as they were, my twenties were anything but mighty. They were marked by nose to the grindstone work, figuring out a million life skills (like how to get insurance and how to fix a toilet), and then, at the end, the exhaustion of early parenting. I did not feel like a hero. I felt like a sponge, absorbing a lifetime’s worth of skills in between trying to save up for a house and learning how to cook.

It’s only now that I believe I have the resilience to manage most situations with competence. This is a small example, but just last night, I was fixing dinner for the family. Forrest walked in to find me cooking, measuring food, doing calculations (for my kids’ insulin dosing), setting the table and also holding a conversation with my teenager. He remarked that he was both impressed and a bit scared to get in my way (as well he should have been - our kitchen is not large).

Over the past few years, I have watched my friends start new businesses, take up new hobbies, get degrees, rebuild after divorce, and navigate health diagnoses. They’ve all come out stronger, if a bit battle scarred. I’ve been constantly impressed by their strength. More than that though, I’ve been impressed by their tenderness. They’re not brittle or resentful. They are able to bring a lifetime’s worth of compassion and kindness to their new endeavors.

That’s not to say that I don’t know people who took a more linear trajectory. Who had a dream and set their minds to it and moved forward, step by step, until they reached it. That type of determination is admirable. I know many of those people too. Heck, I’m married to one. Forrest seems to have been born with the ability to figure out most situations. More importantly, he’s pretty sure if he doesn’t know how to figure it out immediately, he can try a few things and the solution will appear. Most of the time, he’s right.

But for the rest of us, those of us who spent a decade blindly building skills for a life we would one day have. Who collected knowledge and experiences as though they were spare napkins, not sure when or how they’d come in useful. Who found, one day, that they had become - that the mishmash of life had coalesced and the wondering and worry had melted away.

This book is for us. The flowers that bloom in December. The Hellebores.

Margins and Motivation

Yesterday I stopped by the pharmacy to pick up some prescriptions, and while I was there, I grabbed some scotch tape, blank Christmas cards, and a spare pair of scissors. (Where do all of those scissors end up, anyway? Probably with the spare socks and my chapsticks.) As she was checking me out, the cashier said, “Oh, I see you’ve made it to Phase 2 of Christmas shopping!”

I’ve never felt so seen. Because it’s true isn’t it? Christmas shopping isn’t just that is it? It’s the selecting, the shopping, the wrapping, and finally the giving. And while I really do take true joy from each of those parts, if I forget about them, they tend to eat up time that I usually had planned to spend somewhere else.

The end stages of publishing a book are a lot like that. You think, whew, it’s all finalized and edited and proofed…and then you have to dive into the world of fonts and margins and page number placement. If I’m being honest with you all, I really don’t care about page number placement. I’m sure some of you do and I admire that attention to detail. All I care about is that they exist and are in the right order.

But all this self-publishing business means that I have to. So I force myself to for as many hours a day as I can and then I escape. Back into the world of plotting and writing, poring over maps from a hundred years ago and figuring out whether the word “spook” is historically accurate term for an undercover agent in the early 1900s. (It’s not, in case you were wondering - the first recorded use I can find is from 1942.) And while that might not seem so fun to most of you, please remember that some people like thinking about book margins for fun, so I guess it takes all kinds.

I’ve spent the better part of a year trying to spend as much of my time doing the work I like and as little as possible doing the work I hate. Which might sound childish or even lazy. Of course you don’t want to do work you don’t like! Who does?

But I’m using the word “like” here very specifically. I don’t mean work that is easy, comfortable or simple. I mean work that is meaningful, consequential, and productive. Kneeling in the rain planting bluebells is work I like. Trying a dozen different words to find the right one is work I like. Cutting out a hundred paper snowflakes to help decorate my daughter’s classroom is work I like.

So when I spend all of this extra time I didn’t expect working on margins and fonts, I have to remind myself that it is meaningful. This is the culmination of a year of work. It is consequential. Believe me, if the margins are off, it will annoy you and maybe you won’t know why, but it will. And, if I give the task the necessary time and focus, it might just be productive.

I probably still won’t like it, though. Oh well. It’ll be worth it.

Plot Puzzles

I’m an avid puzzle doer. No jigsaw puzzles, although I’m happy to sit down with a tv show in the background and try to fit some pieces together. No - word puzzles. The kind you get at the drug store in a flimsy newsprint book, usually labeled something like “Variety Puzzles” or “Puzzles 4 Less Super Pak”. During Covid, you would rarely find me without one of them, and my kids learned which kinds they enjoyed as well.

My favorite part of doing puzzles is the moment when it all turns. I often do the Sunday crossword and it always starts the same way. First, you fill in the ones you know without a doubt - the actor’s names or book titles or acronyms. Then you go square by square, figuring out the ones you think you know, then checking and double checking your guesses against the other clues.

But there’s always the trick clues. Most Sunday crosswords have a twist. Sometimes it’s a play on words. Sometimes it’s a funky way of writing out the answers where they turn up or down halfway through. Sometimes, when the creator is being really devilish, they have a square that contains more than one letter or a symbol or something. And so I hack and hack at the conventional clues and eventually figure out the trick but still, it’s hard going.

Until, one moment, a moment I can’t quantify, when the whole puzzle turns. It all gets easier. The answers that I had only guessed at are now confirmed. I’ve gotten the hang of the trick. And even those actors’ names or book titles I don’t know are easy to figure out.

I love it. It’s like riding downhill on a bike.

This is the feeling I love about writing a book, too. One of the hardest parts about writing a book is figuring out how all the pieces go together. How this plot and that character arc need to intertwine. How this hanging thread will weave into a final scene. How the theme I started with will play out across the storyline. To me, it feels like one big puzzle.

A lot of people think that writing is about making works sound pretty, about making pictures in people’s imaginations. And those words are important, but only insofar as they work to earn their place. Those words are the tools you use to tell the story, to show the characters, to communicate the theme. And they had better work for you, not against you.

We’ve all read a book where the author is a little too in love with the sound of their own voice. I think we all have different tolerances for poetic language, but I think even the most metaphor-loving amongst us can fed up when we don’t feel like that poetry is doing anything for the story. Intricate descriptions of settings that are only used for scene. Long, winding characterizations that are immediately betrayed by a character’s actions. Extensive pontification by an author who has a message to share and is not going to let you get away without hearing it.

We’ve all been there. I’m sure there are still parts of my books like that, no matter how hard I try to restrain myself. Just like my crosswords, success only comes when you get the right answers in the right words. It’s not enough to know a synonym for “smart” - you’ve got to know a six-letter word ending in “R”. And if you’re not “clever” enough - in writing or in puzzling, the pieces will never fit together properly

Pruning

Although I think about (and write about) gardening a lot, I hope I’ve made it clear that I am by no means an expert gardener. In fact, I often plant something, entirely forget about it, and then find myself delightfully surprised by an unexpected harvest! It’s one of the things I like most about outdoor gardening, how most plants can pretty much keep themselves alive as long as you make sure the soil has enough nourishment.

My other main failing as a gardener is that I tend to lose enthusiasm and fail to finish out the season. By the time October or November come around, I’ve spent so much time weeding, harvesting, and then figuring out what to do with all that harvest that I don’t have much motivation to do things like pruning. Or pulling out the dead plants. Or keeping my garden from looking like an overgrown graveyard of last summer’s hopes and dreams.

It doesn’t help that in my area of the world, the line between still growing and “no, really, that brown thing is dead” is a bit blurry. I still have flowers on some of my plants. The apples are still happily hanging on the tree branches. And our snap peas are still green! So when it comes to things like pruning back raspberries, which all the books say I should be doing right now, it’s a little hard, because two weeks ago my kids were still eating them. Are they really dormant? Or should I let it go a few more weeks?

But in a few more weeks it’ll be really cold and miserable here, perfect for curling up by the fire with a book and less perfect for crouching on the ground with some garden shears. Suffice it to say that my end of season gardening game could use a little work.

But this year, unlike years past, I’m finding myself gravitating towards my autumn garden more. There’s something about stepping away from my screens, my books - even the thoughts inside my head - stepping away from all of that is appealing to me. It feels a little like pulling up the drawbridge on my life. Like not inviting in the voices that mean to manipulate, enrage, or hurt me. Like creating my own little echo chamber where all I can hear are the birds, the occasional car passing by, and the snip snip of my clippers.

It’s hard to prune away those branches that gave such good fruit last year. It’s sad to cut the browning perennials now to the ground. But if I don’t, those root systems will keep feeding dead branches. The plant’s grown will be stunted, it will flower poorly and fruit even worse. There’s a wisdom in getting rid of old growth so that we can let our resources go to where possibility awaits. As the year comes to an end, it’s only right that we gratefully let go of what served us in the past, and start redirecting our energy towards what will serve us in the future.

Relentlessness and Gratitude

Author’s Note: I wrote this last week but waited to post because Black Friday is our Christmas Tree decorating day but I still wanted to have something up…all of that to say, if the weather timeline is funky that’s why! And I hope you had a good Thanksgiving!

I’m sitting in a coffee shop writing this after one heck of a week. For those of you not in the know, the PNW had a giant windstorm earlier this week, and pretty much the whole county lost power. It’s three days later and there are still a hundred thousand or so people in the dark. And there’s another, smaller storm coming this afternoon, so as soon as I’m done with this, I’m heading out to a probably half-stocked grocery story to buy lunch meat and cereal so we can have food for tomorrow if we lose power again.

It all feels a little relentless right now.

And also I feel like I should be grateful. We were among the first to get out power back, just 24 hours later. I suppose that’s the benefit of being on the same road as four schools and a fire station. And my kids went back to school today when so many around us have a third day off because the buses can’t get around safely and the schools are cold and dark.

I feel like I live with the constant combination of relentlessness and gratitude. The crap keeps coming and coming and yet there is so much goodness in my world. And it’s not that I’m tired or out of gas or depressed. It’s that I have whiplash.

Two days ago, my little family was all huddled together in one room, where two of us played a board game, two of us read quietly and one of us fell asleep on the couch (hint: the sleeping one was me, and yes, the tweens did take photos of me drooling.) My kids are older and so willing to just read and relax all day. But I had a cold; all I wanted was a cup of tea and some warm soup. Still, the weather broke and power came back in time for our food to be saved and dinner to get made. But I got to spend the next four hours frantically getting laundry and dishes done in case something happened and the power went out again.

This is life, I understand that. But I think it’s also the season. My kids are growing up fast and I’m having the same feelings of relentlessness and gratitude. This weekend, instead of doing small gifts from every famliy member to every other family member, we decided to do a secret santa within our family, so that each person can get one larger gift that they really want. Since then, I’ve received no less than three carefully hidden notes, each asking me what I want, and each with a piece of candy. I’m doing very little and they’re creating this magical little tradition all by themselves. I’m so thankful.

And also, this morning, one of the twins said something like, “Oh, when I go to college…” and I’m not really sure what the rest of the sentence was because I am not even joking when I say my eye started twitching at those words. It is too damn early for her to be talking like that. Except it’s not. She’s old enough to start envisioning a future for herself. I want her to dream and work towards those dreams.

So how do I live in this world where I feel like I’m playing whack-a-mole? My daughter jokingly said, when I mentioned my twitching eye, that I should try to enjoy the moments while they’re here and not borrow trouble for the future. Then we both laughed hysterically. Because while that might be all right for some, that’s not how I’m built. Nor is it how I want to be built.

I think, instead, the key is in leaning into the relentlessness. I’m not totally sure if this is true, but I’m told when piloting a boat, it’s easier to navigate waves if you turn to face them perpendicularly. Being hit side-on is dangerous and disorienting, but if the prow is facing the wave, it can do its job and cut through the water.

Whatever is coming is going to come, whether or not I want it to. But when I see those first signs of trouble - when the lights flicker or our child says, “Yeah, I want to go to college far away…” - I can steer into them. Into the fear, into the discomfort, into the cold and yes, into the dark. And then, eventually, into the gratitude of a storm safely weathered.